(hey did u kno tiphanie has SISTERS)
Finnea Mercer had a bad feeling in her chest before she even opened the door to her big sister’s room. Tiphanie had claimed the bedroom that had once been shared by their elder brothers before both men had moved out, and the little space just off the upstairs sitting room was stuffy at the best of times. Easy to heat, but stuffy. And she kept plants in there.
Plants that she, Finnea, had promised to keep alive while Tiphanie was on her diplomatic mission to newly-freed Ala Mhigo.
Did I water them yesterday? Or was that the day before? Fury, I can’t remember…
“Oooh, seven hells. Tiffy’s aspidistras!”
Mocianne was at her elbow, peering into the room beyond with an expression of dread in her huge yellow eyes. “She’s going to be so mad you didn’t water them.”
Finnea reflexively jabbed the youngest Mercer sibling in the ribs. “Weren’t you supposed to remind me?”
Those big yellow eyes narrowed, and Finnea had the unpleasant thought that they’d all inherited something from their mother. While she liked to flatter herself that she’d gotten her mother’s grace, it was an undisputed fact that Mocie had somehow wound up with the dragon’s share of the athletic prowess. She’d seen her little sister jump from a standing start to reach the highest shelf in the store. “I did. You were too busy thinking about walking out with Boiselont Fracillien to pay attention. You know he’s got a girlfriend?”
Finnea’s jaw and heart both dropped. “He what? How would you—how did he—“
“Mistress Silmontaix.” Mocianne said it like it left a bad taste in her mouth—as well it should, for she was a notorious social climber. “She came into the shop last night, just all over the moons how her daughter was being courted by your Boisie.” Her ears twitched thoughtfully as she added, “I already wrote to Tiffy. Don’t worry, she’ll break all his windows for you. I wanted to duel him, but Mama said no.”
She grimaced. Boiselont hadn’t been a great suitor anyway, but the nerve of him made him hope viciously that Tiffy would break more than his windows. “...Thanks. Anyway, plants?”
Mocianne held up a watering can. It sloshed. “Plants.”
Tiphanie’s room was dark at this time of day, shaded by the buildings outside, and so Finnea had to light candles to reveal the extent of the floral carnage. While she did, Mocianne poked cautiously at a wilted leaf. “I think it just…” It crumbled at her touch. “Oops.”
“Maybe it just needs...water…” Finnea bit her lip at the sight of the hanging plants in the windows. All of them drooped; the sensitive plant had collapsed dramatically, and the hen-and-chicks had turned brown. The tiny, carefully tended miniature tree on the nightstand hadn’t fared better, with a telltale ring of shed needles around its pot and very few clinging stubbornly to its branches. The aspidistras slumped in the corner like corpses.
The sisters glanced at each other. On one hand, it was Definitely Finnea’s Fault. On the other hand, Tiffy was ridiculously proud of her plants (“I didn’t even need to use magic!”) and the loss of everything she’d worked so hard to establish would crush her. On a third hand, if they pooled their respective savings together they could probably replace the collection before she came back.
“I’ll stitch you a new cloak.”
“I won’t say anything to Tiffy. Deal?”
