The purse was still slung across her body.She pulled it around, reaching in again.So many seeds.The possibilities made her head spin.Focus.One thing at a time.
Food first.What did she know that grew food?Her mind went to normal things—tomatoes, carrots, potatoes.But those took time to grow, didn't they?Even with magic?
Then she remembered the tree.The treehouse had grown from apecan.And the roof was covered in them.She looked up at the wooden ceiling—could she get to the roof?Was there a way up?No.But she could go outside.
Wren cracked open the door.The rain was light now, misting.The sky was pale gray, brightening in the east.The grass around her treehouse was already looking greener than the rest of the field, she noticed.A perfect circle of healthy growth spreading out from where the tree's roots must be reaching.
She stepped out, blanket clutched around her shoulders, and looked up.
Pecans.Dozens of them, clustered in the branches within reach.
She picked one.It was warm in her palm, sun-warmed, even though there was no sun yet.Magic-warmed.When she cracked it open with a rock, the nut inside was perfect.She ate it immediately, and it wasgood.Rich, buttery, fresh.But she couldn't live on pecans alone.
Back inside.Back to the purse.Think.What else grows food?She sorted through seeds, reading their names with her fingers.Oak.Willow.Eggplant.
Eggplant.That was food, wasn't it?Though she'd never been much of a cook...
Milkweed.
Her fingers paused.Milkweed.The warmth felt...nourishing.Creamy.She pulled it out, planted it near the counter."Grow."
The plant rose up, thick-stemmed and sturdy.Broad leaves unfurled.And then, dangling from the stems like the world's strangest fruit, small glass bottles appeared.Each one capped with a lid, filled with white liquid.
Wren stared."You havegotto be kidding me."She reached out slowly and plucked one.The bottle was cool and smooth in her hand, real glass.She twisted off the cap—it came away with a soft pop—and sniffed.Milk.It smelled like fresh milk.She took a tentative sip.Rich, creamy, sweet.There was actual cream on top—she could taste it.Better than anything she'd bought from a store.
"Milkweed," she said aloud, and started laughing.Actually laughing, there in her treehouse at dawn, wrapped in a magic blanket, drinking milk from a plant."Milk.Weed.Of course!"The absurdity of it all hit her at once.The puns.Theterrible, wonderful puns.
The AI had actually said "pun seeds" and she'd been too panicked to process what that meant.She looked at the purse with new understanding."What else is in here?"she whispered.This time she was looking for it—the wordplay, the jokes hidden in plant names.Eggplant.Oh.Oh.
She planted it quickly, right next to the milkweed, eager to see if she was right.The plant grew tall and leafy, deep purple-green.And hanging from the stems, round and smooth and—
Eggs.Actual eggs, in shades of purple and lavender and deep violet.Not purple eggplants.Eggs.
She plucked one carefully.It was warm, perfectly egg-shaped, the shell a beautiful mottled purple."Eggplant," she said, grinning like an idiot."It grows eggs."
Her stomach growled again, louder this time.She looked at the egg, then at the oven, still glowing with heat from the sunflower.Could she cook it?Just...put it in there?Only one way to find out.
She opened the oven door carefully.Heat rushed out.The sunflower seeds were still glowing strong, radiating warmth.She set two purple eggs directly on the metal rack inside and closed the door.
There.Baking eggs.That was a thing, right?
The room was noticeably warmer now.Not cozy yet, but livable.She could almost stop shivering.
She took another drink of milk, savoring the richness, and looked around her kitchen area with new eyes.The counter.The sink.The beautiful burl wood island...with no plates.No bowls.No cups except the milk bottle in her hand.Not even a spoon.
"Right," she muttered."Can't eat baked eggs with my hands."Well.Maybe she could.But that seemed sad.She needed dishes.
Back to the purse.Her fingers sorted through the seeds, searching.
Gourd.The warmth was solid, practical.She pulled it out and turned the seed over in her palm, frowning.Gourds.She'd seen videos of people making things from gourds—birdhouses, bowls, decorative pieces.But the process looked tedious.Lots of drying, scraping, sanding.And the shapes were always weird—long-necked, bulbous, anything but a simple bowl.Still.The magic had surprised her so far.Milkweed made milk.Eggplant made eggs.Maybe gourd made...something useful?
What shewantedwas bowls.Nice, practical bowls she could eat from.And cups, ideally, but she'd settle for bowls that could double as cups if needed.
"Worth a shot," she muttered.She planted the seed near the island counter and stepped back."Grow."
The plant climbed upward, vining and vigorous.Broad leaves spread out.And then the gourds began to form.Not the lumpy, irregular shapes she'd expected, but perfect nested bowls.They grew in graduated sizes, hanging from the vine like a set of measuring cups.Smooth, round, beautifully shaped.The smallest was cup-sized.The largest could hold a proper serving of soup.
The finish was pale and smooth, almost ceramic-looking, but she could tell they were still plant material.Light, sturdy.She plucked the whole set free—they came away easily—and set them on the counter."Okay," she said, examining them with genuine delight."Okay, this is amazing!"
