Wild and Untended

The cucumber was obscene. There was simply no other word for it.

Iris held it out with both hands, and Orion stared at the vegetable as though she’d just handed him a weapon.

“That’s a cucumber?”

“Technically.”

He looked from the cucumber to her and back again. “Iris.”

“What?”

“People are going to talk.”

She sighed. “People talk regardless.”

He took it reluctantly. “How many?”

“Twenty-three.”

Orion closed his eyes. “Of course there are twenty-three.”

Behind her, the garden rustled in the morning breeze, its towering vines disappearing beneath walls of leaves and flowers. Somewhere inside it, her crow gave a single, judgmental caw.

Iris glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”

The crow cawed again.

“You aren’t helping.”

Orion looked between her and the bird. “Are you arguing with a crow?”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“We’re discussing the tomatoes.”

The crow cawed a third time.

Iris narrowed her eyes. “Fine. He’s being rude.”

Orion stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “You know, most people would simply sell their vegetables themselves.”

“Most people enjoy people.”

She reached for the basket of eggplants. “I don’t.”

Orion shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He gathered the rest of the baskets and hoisted the largest one against his hip. “Same time in two days?”

“Unless the tomatoes decide to revolt.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He started toward the gate, then slowed. For a moment, Iris thought he had forgotten something. Instead, he turned around.

“I’m making dinner tonight,” he said. “You could come by.”

Iris looked at him. The invitation was simple enough. Orion had made it before. But something in her expression must have changed because his smile faded slightly.

There had been a time when she would have said yes without thinking. A time when the two of them could spend an entire evening talking about nothing and everything. Back when they were in college, before people had slowly worn the edges off the person she’d been. Before she had learned how exhausting it was to care.

Orion seemed to see the memory pass across her face.

“Never mind,” he said lightly. “Another time.”

Iris gave him a small smile. “Another time.”

He nodded and turned back toward the gate. She watched him go, the basket of vegetables balanced against his side. Orion was one of the few people she actually enjoyed talking to. That was probably why she had to be careful with him.

She waited until the gate clicked shut behind him before turning back toward the garden. The quiet settled over her again.

Much better.

Iris picked up the watering can and started along the nearest path. Her garden stretched across nearly the entire property, enclosed by thick walls of greenery that had grown so tall and dense over the years that no one outside could see through them. It was large enough to swallow the house several times over, with winding paths disappearing between towering plants, fruit trees, vegetable beds, herbs, flowers, and vines.

It was too much for one person. At least, that was what people told her. Iris had never understood the problem. Plants needed tending. She tended them. That was all there was to it.

Her magic did most of the work these days. Seeds that should have taken weeks to sprout could push through the soil in days. Plants that should have taken an entire season to mature could be ready for harvest in a fraction of the time. And the results were always extraordinary. Large. Perfect. Flavorful enough that Orion’s customers would practically fight over them.

Iris simply considered it useful.

She watered the beds that needed it, checked the newest growth, trimmed a few vines, and paused beside the iris patch. Her gaze narrowed. Something still wasn’t right. She crouched and sifted the soil through her fingers. Perhaps the soil needed more drainage. Or less. She’d figure it out. She always did. Eventually.

By the time she finished, the sun had climbed higher into the sky. Iris set the watering can beside the back door and glanced down at herself. Dirt streaked one arm. There was a leaf tangled in her hair. She had somehow managed to get mud on the side of her neck.

She sighed. A bath, then.

Inside, she stripped off her garden clothes and headed toward the washroom, pausing when she caught her reflection in the tall mirror. For a moment, she simply stared.

Sometimes she looked at herself and saw her father sitting right there in her face. His nose. His dark hair. The shape of her mouth. The fae in her was unmistakable.

Then there were her mother’s eyes. Large and moss green, scattered with tiny flecks of gold that seemed to brighten whenever her magic stirred. Her mother had always said they were the first thing she noticed when Iris was born.

The faint, delicate markings that occasionally traced across her skin like tiny branches belonged to her mother’s dryad blood. So did her affinity for growing things. Her pointed ears came from her father. Her ability to speak with animals had never been quite as easy to explain. Perhaps that was a gift from one side or the other. Perhaps it was something entirely her own. Iris had never cared enough to find out.

Half fae. Half dryad. She’d always thought it sounded far more interesting than it actually was.

She brushed a strand of dark hair away from her face and noticed a tiny leaf caught near her ear. She plucked it free.

“Ridiculous.”

From somewhere outside, the crow cawed.

Iris looked toward the window. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Another caw.

She narrowed her eyes. “You have no room to judge me.”

The crow cawed again.

Iris sighed. “Fine. I’m going to take a bath.”

A pause. Then, very distinctly, the crow called back.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know. The irises are still dying.”

She glanced toward the garden. “They’ll grow eventually.”

The crow gave a sound that was suspiciously like a laugh.

Iris frowned. “Traitor.”

She turned away from the window and headed for the bath. Tomorrow, she’d adjust the soil again. She refused to let a flower named after her win.

The bath was one of the few luxuries Iris allowed herself to indulge in. The tub was deep enough to sink beneath the warm water, and the room filled quickly with the faint scent of lavender and crushed herbs. She leaned back against the smooth stone and closed her eyes, letting the heat ease the ache from her shoulders.

She scrubbed the last traces of soil from her arms, watching the water turn faintly brown before draining it away.

Orion’s invitation returned to her almost immediately.

Dinner.

She frowned.

There had been a time when she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. There had been a time when Orion had been nearly impossible to escape. Not that she’d wanted to.

They had been inseparable in college. They’d studied together, eaten together, spent entire afternoons arguing over nothing, and somehow always ended up at one another’s homes long after they had said goodnight. There had been weekends when she couldn’t remember which bed she’d actually slept in. It was never romantic, just deep friendship.

Back then, she hadn’t just had Orion. She’d had an entire group of friends. They’d been everywhere together. Too loud. Too busy. Too involved in one another’s lives.

Iris had loved it. At least, she thought she had.

She dipped a cloth beneath the water and ran it slowly along her arm.

When had that changed?

She knew the answer. There hadn’t been one moment. No dramatic betrayal. No single person who had shattered everything. It had been little things. People pretending to care when they didn’t. Promises that meant nothing. Friends who disappeared when they needed something. People who said one thing and did another. People who smiled at her while talking about her behind her back. One disappointment after another.

Eventually, being around people had begun to feel exhausting. So she stopped.

At first, she’d skipped a dinner. Then another. She stopped answering invitations. Stopped making plans. Stopped going places simply because someone else wanted her there. And slowly, without ever consciously deciding to do it, she had built a life that required almost no one.

It had been years since she’d had that kind of friendship. Years since she’d dated anyone. Years since she’d wanted to. And she was fine with that.

Iris slid lower into the water until only her face remained above the surface. She liked her quiet house. She liked her garden. She liked waking up without anyone expecting anything from her. She liked being able to spend an entire day without speaking to another person if she wanted to. She liked the fact that her animals never lied to her. The crow was rude, the rat was a thief, and the toad had the personality of a particularly judgmental stone. But they were honest. That mattered.

So why had Orion’s invitation bothered her?

Iris opened her eyes.

Because for one brief second, when he’d asked, she’d remembered exactly what it had been like to belong somewhere.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember.

There had been weddings she hadn’t attended. Not because she hadn’t been invited. She simply hadn’t wanted to go. The invitations would arrive, usually with some cheerful note asking her to come celebrate, and Iris would stare at them for a while before setting them aside.

She’d declined blind dates too. More than a few. Friends had tried to convince her that she was being ridiculous.

“Just dinner.”

“You don’t have to marry them.”

“You might actually like them.”

Maybe. But Iris had never been able to understand how people trusted strangers so easily.

She had dated both men and women over the years, though “dated” was perhaps a generous word for what little she’d actually allowed herself. She’d never even felt safe enough to kiss someone. Not really. Not when she’d spent so much of her life watching people pretend to be things they weren’t. Kind when they were cruel. Loyal when they were not. Honest when the truth was inconvenient. How was she supposed to let someone close enough to touch her when she couldn’t be certain who they would become once she did?

No. She didn’t need a mate. Fated or chosen. She didn’t need someone the goddess had selected for her, nor did she need to search for someone herself. She had her garden. She had her home. She had the animals who had wandered into her life and decided, for reasons she still didn’t understand, that they belonged together. That was enough. It had to be.

Iris finally climbed from the bath and wrapped herself in a thick towel. She dried herself, pulled on her favorite nightgown, and slipped a robe over it before twisting her damp hair up into another towel.

She glanced down at her feet. Bunny slippers. She smiled faintly. Dignified. Very dignified.

She padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on. A few minutes later, she carried a steaming cup of tea toward her bedroom, using a flicker of magic to dim the lights as she passed. One by one, the lamps softened until the house settled into its preferred evening glow.

Iris climbed into bed, pulled the blankets over her legs, and turned on the home improvement channel. She took a sip of tea. Someone was currently explaining why a perfectly good kitchen needed to be completely demolished.

Iris frowned at the screen. “Idiots.”

She took another sip. Perhaps tomorrow she would try adding more sand to the iris beds. Or less. Maybe the soil needed to be slightly more acidic. She’d test it. She’d try something. Because damn it, she could grow an entire orchard in weeks. She could coax vegetables from soil that should have produced nothing. She could make fruit so perfect that people fought over it. But apparently, growing an iris was too much to ask.

Iris settled deeper beneath the blankets, watching someone enthusiastically destroy a perfectly serviceable bathroom.

Tomorrow. She’d figure it out tomorrow. She paused. She would try to figure it out tomorrow.