The two letters sat on our kitchen table for three days.
Neither of us touched them. We'd both agreed (without saying it out loud) that we had thirty days, and that thirty days was a very long time. On the fourth morning, Noctavia put a jar of pickles on top of them, like a paperweight, and said, "There. Problem solved."
I decided that if the problem was going to wait, we should spend the time doing something normal.
"Let's plant tomatoes," I said.
Noctavia looked up from her tea. "Why?"
"Because we have a garden. And a garden should have things growing in it."
"It has things growing in it. It has weeds."
"Weeds don't count."
"They're alive, aren't they?" She frowned at me. "Fine. But I'm not wearing an apron."
Twenty minutes later, my wife stood in our garden wearing a brown apron with a small yellow duck sewn on the front. I hadn't said a word. She had put it on herself, then looked at me as if daring me to speak.
I did not speak. I'm not stupid.
The first lesson was simple: dig a small hole, put in a seed, cover it with soil, and add water. I showed her once. Noctavia nodded, very serious, then crouched down and stared at her seed as if it were a tiny enemy soldier.
"How long until it grows?" she asked.
"A few months."
"Months?"
"That's how plants work."
"That's unacceptable." She held her hand over the soil, and I felt the air change. "I can fix that."
"Noctavia, wait—"
The ground shook.
A green shoot burst out of the soil, then another, and then a whole thick vine rose out of the ground like a snake waking up. It grew taller than my head, then taller than the cabin. Leaves the size of dinner plates unfolded in every direction. In about three seconds, we were standing under a tomato plant the size of a small tree.
It had exactly one tomato on it.
The tomato was the size of a pumpkin. It was glowing faintly purple.
We both stared at it.
"...That's not normal," I said.
"It's ahead of schedule," said Noctavia, but her tail had curled up nervously.
"It's pulsing."
"It's healthy."
The tomato made a soft, wet noise, like a sigh, and the entire plant leaned slowly toward us.
I picked up my axe. Noctavia sighed, snapped her fingers, and the whole plant turned to gray dust, which blew away in the wind. Only the apron stayed behind, covered in tiny dirt specks.
"I'm sorry," she said, in a very small voice.
I had expected her to say something proud, like It was a failed experiment or It was your fault for giving me a bad seed. But she was looking at the empty ground, and her shoulders were low.
"I don't know how to do this," she said. "Ordinary things."
I put down the axe.
"I've never waited for something to grow," she went on. "When I want something, I make it happen. When something is in my way, I destroy it. That's all I know. That's how I ruled for three hundred years." She pulled at her apron. "I don't know how to just... sit here, and wait."
I knelt down beside her and picked up another seed.
"Neither did I," I said.
"You?"
"I was a Hero. All I did was fight. I went from one battle to the next, and I never stayed anywhere longer than a week." I held the seed out on my palm. "When I came here, I didn't know what to do either. I sat on the porch for two days and just... stared at the grass."
"...You did?"
"It was terrifying," I admitted. "But then I realized something. It's not about waiting. It's about being here, while it happens. Look."
I dug a small hole, and this time I put the seed in her hand.
"Put it in the ground. Slowly. No magic."
She breathed in, and carefully pressed the seed into the soil. Her small fingers were gentle, almost afraid, and she pushed the dirt over it as if she were tucking in a baby. Then I handed her the watering can, and she poured the water in a thin, careful stream.
When she was finished, we both stood there, staring at the little brown patch of dirt.
Nothing happened.
"This is boring," Noctavia said.
"Yes."
"I hate it."
"I know."
"...I think I like it a little."
I smiled, and I didn't say anything, because she hates it when I notice.
We stayed there for a while. The wind moved through the grass. Down the road, I could hear a cart and a distant dog. Beside me, my wife stood perfectly still, her tail swaying slowly, her eyes on a patch of dirt, and I realized this was the first time I'd ever seen her at peace.
"Elise."
"Yes?"
"What's the room upstairs for?"
I froze.
"The empty one," she said, and she was still looking at the dirt. "I've seen you look at it. You always stop outside the door."
I thought about lying, or changing the subject, and then I decided that she deserved the truth.
"I thought," I said carefully, "that maybe, someday, if we wanted to... it could be for a child."
For a long time, she didn't say anything.
Then, very quietly: "I don't know how to be a mother."
"You didn't know how to garden, either."
"That's different."
"Is it?" I asked gently. "You'd have to learn slowly. You'd probably make mistakes. Some of them might be... glowing."
A tiny, shaky laugh escaped her, and she covered her mouth with her hand, furious at herself. Her ears were bright red.
"...Not now," she said. "But... maybe. Someday."
I felt my heart do something painful and wonderful at the same time.
Please wait for me.
Always.
"Okay," I said.
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird."
"You're smiling weirdly."
"I'm just happy."
"Idiot," she said, and she leaned against my arm, only a little, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to.
That afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window and saw Noctavia in the garden again, alone. She was crouched next to the little patch of soil, watching it. She'd taken off the duck apron and folded it neatly on the fence post.
She stayed there for an hour, and she didn't use any magic.
On the sixth day, the first small green shoot came up. Noctavia refused to say anything about it. But that night, I found a note tucked into the dictionary on the kitchen table, written in her tiny, neat handwriting:
"Don't touch the tomato."
I translated it right away.
It's mine. I made it. I'm so proud.