The squash wasn’t fruiting quickly enough. That was probably the biggest problem. Though the pumpkins were looking small as well. The radishes were doing quite well until last week. Then they started to wilt. As did the beetroot. The brussel stalks were the only things doing well but Harlow Taylor’s brussels were doing better. And the girl had peas and parsnips – favorites among the judges.

Fiona watched the girl, three patches away, bent over with a mister and a bucket hat. Miss Taylor Infuriated Fiona. She was kind, young, pretty. Everything Fiona hadn’t been for years. The girl was covered in freckles and smiles, her girlish braids poking out from underneath the rim of her hat. She was a delight.

More importantly, her garden was doing far better than Fiona’s. Her squash were plump, their stems twisting classically, and her pumpkins were already enormous. They girl had maintained a patch there for three years but had never caught Fiona’s attention because her garden hadn’t been particularly well groomed. This year something had changed. Her tomatoes had been the fattest and the juiciest this summer and everyone was stunned by her cauliflower.

What was more, the girl wasn’t even trying that hard. She spent a lot of time here, that was true, but she wasn’t a particularly hard worker. She wasn’t special. And she couldn’t beat Fiona, that was for sure. No, Fiona wouldn’t have it.

The old woman watched as Harlow stood with her hands on her hips, admiring her plants. She then watched as Harlow put her tools back in the communal shed and took off her hat. The sun had fallen behind clouds not long ago.

Fiona was under her tree, the tree on the patch of earth at the center of the community garden. The patch she had won honorary ownership of in last year’s gardening competition and every year before that. It was critical that this year would be no different. Miss Taylor was threatening that though.

The girl went in the back door of the library behind which the community garden lay. Fiona could see her through the window. She traced her hand along the spines of the books as she walked then disappeared around the corner of the aisle.

Fiona took up her tool bag and wrapped her shawl around herself. She had over watered her patch today and her shoes had gotten wet. They left marks on the sidewalk as she hobbled around the library and glanced in the front doors.

Harlow was Leaning against the counter, her narrow shoulders bouncing with laughter as she talked to the librarian, Briar. Her hand was on a book on the counter and she slid it off the side to rest against her little hip. Fiona couldn’t see the title but there were leaves on the front.

Harlow spoke to Briar for a bit longer, smiling charmingly and innocently as Briar blushed and bit her lip, nodding along. The librarian didn’t look at Fiona, but the matron gray woman knew she had been seen. Briar looked down. Then Harlow turned towards the door and Fiona looked away, continued walking.

The door opened with a chirp and Fiona could hear Harlow’s footsteps behind her. Soft yet purposeful. She felt it as Harlow brushed past her then she looked back and smiled.

“Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Well.” The girl lilted at her. And then she was getting into a truck, her attention on the driver. And she was gone.

When Harlow came to tend to her garden the next day, something was different. She was cheery as always, a skip in her step, but her face fell when she saw her patch. All her squash and half her pumpkins had rotted, and her parsnips and radishes had wilted. Her cauliflower had gone brown and her brussels were falling off the stalk prematurely.

She knelt down in the dirt, pulling dead things away, her face splotchy with disappointment. How had this happened over night? Had she done something wrong yesterday? Something she hadn’t noticed. She pulled up a radish only for it to go soft in her hand and ooze through her fingers.

The girl didn’t see Fiona, lingering by the tree again, a smile on her puckered face, tossing a small pouch up and down in her hand.

Harlow threw her disappointment in the compost and then went inside. The library was always cool and refreshing. The quiet her was crisp and it settled her a bit. She went to the gardening section and checked out three books. When Briar had tried to chat with her, she was nearly unresponsive. She rushed home, her books pulled to her chest, and then sat on her bed and poured over them.

For the next week she worked tirelessly to bring her garden back to life. She trimmed and pruned and misted like there as more tomorrow. She but coffee grounds around the base of the plants and salt around the edges of the plot to keep bugs away. She even sprinkled beer – her father’s - over the dirt to ward off snails.

When all that seemed to make no difference, she went to her neighbor who had chickens in his back yard and asked for some droppings. She tired wood ashes and seaweed.

Nothing was helping. She planted new squash, pumpkins, and cauliflower. She added more radishes, beets, and planted a new brussel stalk in case the other one was a lost cause. And in between everything she planted wildflowers to increase bee traffic.

After two weeks of struggling there was nothing left for it. That day she wasn’t into the library and checked out six more books, but not from the gardening section. When she had taken them to Briar, the impish librarian gave her an odd look and said nothing.

The next night Macen had received a call – more like an order – and met Harlow by the entrance to the wooded park, not knowing what he would be getting in to.