The smallest one would work perfectly as a cup.She filled it from the sink with cold, clear water and took a drink.Good.Great, even!But cups with handles would be nice.And saucers, maybe.Something a little more civilized than drinking from a bowl.
She was already reaching for the purse again when the smell hit her.Burning.The eggs!
"No—" She spun toward the oven.Smoke was starting to seep from the gaps around the door.She yanked open the oven door.Smoke billowed out, acrid and thick.The eggs were charred black, cracked and oozing.And thesmell—
"Oh, that's foul!"She coughed, eyes watering.Sulfurous and thick, it filled the room instantly.
She grabbed one of the gourd bowls and used it to scrape the ruined eggs off the rack, nose wrinkled.Finally she got them into the bowl and rushed to the door, throwing it open.
A cold, damp wind hit her face.She tossed the burnt eggs as far as she could into the wet grass and stood there, breathing hard, letting the fresh air wash over her.
The smell lingered.She'd have to leave the door open for a while, let it air out.
"Great," she muttered, wrapping the blanket tighter as the wind cut through."Just perfect."
At least she'd learned something: baked eggs needed watching.Or she needed to figure out oven temperature.Or...something.
She looked down at herself—still wearing the soaking wet dress under the blanket, still barefoot, still shivering despite the oven's warmth now pouring out the open door.
Priorities.She needed dry clothes before she froze or got sick.And shoes.Her feet were filthy and scratched from running across the field.
Back to the purse.She sorted through seeds quickly now, learning the rhythm of it.
Shoe tree.
That had to be another pun.Please let it be another pun!She stepped outside—might as well, with the door open anyway—and planted it a short distance from the treehouse.
"Grow."
The tree rose up, branches spreading.And dangling from every branch were shoes.Pairs of them, hanging by their laces or straps like strange fruit.Boots, slippers, sandals, sneakers.All different styles, different sizes.
She laughed out loud, delighted despite the cold and the burnt egg smell and everything else."Shoe tree!Of course it's a shoe tree."She found a pair of fleece-lined slippers that looked about her size and pulled them down.They were soft, warm, and perfect.She slipped them on immediately.Soon her feet stopped aching.Just that simple comfort made everything feel more manageable.
Now, clothes.She needed something dry to wear while her dress dried by the fire.A nightgown, maybe?Something warm and comfortable.
Back inside—the sulfur smell was fading, thankfully—and to the purse again.Her fingers sorted through seeds.Cotton?Linen?She wasn't even sure what she was looking for.
Silk tree.
The warmth that came with it felt...luxurious.Smooth.She pulled it out.
It was getting dark again—clouds rolling back in, blocking what little weak light had broken through.She'd need to go back outside to plant this.She stepped out in her new slippers, picked a spot near the shoe tree, and set the seed down.
"Grow."
The tree shot up, graceful and tall.Branches spread wide...and then it bloomed.The flowers were stunning—like fuchsias, delicate and drooping.But as the pods formed and popped open, she saw what was really inside.Silk garments.They dangled from the branches like the world's fanciest laundry line.Nightgowns, chemises, stockings, undergarments—all in pale colors, decorated with delicate embroidered flowers.
She reached up and pulled down a nightgown.The silk was cool and slippery in her hands, impossibly fine.Way more decadent than anything she'd ever owned."This is ridiculous," she said, but she was grinning.She gathered up an armload—nightgown, underthings, stockings—and hurried back inside.
The room had aired out enough.She shut the door against the wind and cold, then peeled off the wet dress with shaking fingers.The silk nightgown slipped over her head like water.Cool at first, then warming against her skin.It fit perfectly—of course it did—and fell to her ankles in soft folds.She wrapped herself in a blanket again and sank into the rocking chair.
Warm, dry, fed...well, she'd had milk and pecans at least.The eggs had been a disaster but she'd figure it out.Her hands were still scraped and her calf still throbbed, but she wasalive.She had a house, magic and terrible, wonderful puns.
The oven glowed.The lantern plant cast gentle light.Rain pattered softly on the leafy roof, and it felt like hope.She sat there for a moment, letting the warmth seep into her bones.The rocking chair creaked softly as she moved, but she couldn't rest long.There was still so much to do.
Tea.The thought came suddenly, and with it, a deep longing.A proper cup of tea would make everything feel more civilized.More...manageable.
She looked at her gourd bowls on the counter.Functional, but not quite right for tea.Cups and saucers.That's what she needed.
