Walking into the Ninety-Fifth Annual Ladies’ Mysticality Society Tea Party with her granddaughter at her side, Hyacinth Gartner had never felt prouder.

Her granddaughter had never looked more miserable.

“Why so nettled, Calanthe?” Hyacinth whispered.

“It’s Callie.” The thirteen-year-old scowled. “And I look like I’m wearing a salad on my head.”

“Poppycock.” Hyacinth surveyed the kettle brim hat decked with looping, broad-leafed vines. “It’s a fine representation of our art. Every Herbologist is wearing one.”

“And they all look like salads.”

Hyacinth refused to let Calanthe’s withering attitude soil her enjoyment of the event. She picked her way through the forest of feathered bonnets, clockwork bowlers, vanishing top hats, aura-illuminated pillbox hats, and all the other magic-laden head coverings, waving hello to friends and rivals alike. Calanthe trailed droopily behind.

The girl had been so acrid lately, so thorny about every attempt Hyacinth made to connect with her. They used to be peas in a pod; Calanthe had loved playing in her grandmother’s garden, admiring the flowers and marveling at Hyacinth’s ability to prod open a bud or weave a vine. As she grew, Hyacinth had tried to teach her the secrets of the art—secrets that Hyacinth, who’d only produced sons, had never had the joy of cultivating with a daughter of her own—but rather than blossoming into the skilled Herbologist Hyacinth knew she could be, Calanthe’s interest in anything botanical had inexplicably… gone to seed.

The Annual Tea Party, though, was just the thing to nurture their once-strong connection and nip this negativity in the bud. Who could possibly attend such an event—set in a breathtaking ornamental garden, with the most aromatic floral decor—and not come away with a more deeply-rooted appreciation for botanics as the loveliest and most fruitful—not to mention the fastest-growing—of all magical arts?

“This can’t possibly be little Calanthe!” Violet Weatherbee rose from the table and planted a kiss on Calanthe’s horrified face. Hyacinth cringed in sympathy as her old friend exclaimed, “Why, you’ve grown like a weed! Now, I was just telling Heather and Jasmine, you’ll never believe what I heard through the grapevine…”

As the ladies sipped their tea and Violet propagated her gossip to those around the table, Hyacinth tried to cultivate a whispered conversation with her granddaughter.

“Did you notice the garlands when we came in? Lovely, don’t you think?”

Calanthe nodded vaguely. “Grandma, what are those ladies doing?”

Hyacinth followed her gaze toward a group of ladies wearing fascinators shaped like teacups.

“Tea-Leaf Readers.” Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “It’s an offshoot of divination, but because we both use plants, they always stick their table beside ours.”

“A perennial thorn in our side,” Violet interjected.

As the party went on, one of the Leaf-Readers must have seen Calanthe staring, because next thing they knew, she’d sprung up behind them. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Hyacinth’s “NO!” was choked out by Calanthe’s enthusiastic “Yes, please!”

The Leaf-Reader picked up the teacup to the left of Calanthe’s plate and examined it. The silence dragged on, and Violet scoffed. “You’ve stumped her!”

“It’s just peculiar, for one so young.” The Leaf-Reader shrugged. “It says you have great gifts, strongly rooted in your past. But with such strength often comes inflexibility. A tree that will not bend in the wind will risk being snapped in pieces.”

Laughter rustled around the Herbologists’ table. The Leaf-Reader returned the cup to the edge of the table, offering Calanthe a smile. “You’re welcome to join us at our table to learn more, if it’s all right with your guardian.”

Calanthe nodded politely, but Hyacinth could see that her enthusiasm had been stunted by the perplexing reading. Yet how long had it been since Hyacinth had seen such a bright blossom of interest in her granddaughter’s face?

Moments later, cake arrived. Hyacinth thought the sculpted roses of buttercream might brighten Calanthe’s mood, but the girl only poked at the dessert, occasionally glancing over at the next table. Finding the Kitchen Magicians’ decorative rosettes too sweet, Hyacinth reached for the teacup on her left to cut the sweetness.

“That’s my cup, dear,” Violet said crisply before launching into another flowery speech on how the Mysticality Society ought to prune some of the more menial arts from their membership.

Hyacinth looked to the right, where another teacup—her teacup—sat on the table’s edge between herself and Calanthe. A seed of doubt germinated in her mind.

Perhaps it’s time to turn over a new leaf.

Hyacinth took the teacup between them and pointed Calanthe to the one on the opposite side of her plate. “Looks like your friend read the wrong cup. Why don’t you see what she has to say about yours?”

“Really, Grandma?” Calanthe’s eyes sparkled.

“Hyacinth!” Violet exclaimed. “Are you off your gourd?”

“Go on, Callie.” Hyacinth removed the vine-wrapped hat from her granddaughter’s head and winked. “I’m rooting for you.”

* * *

Ⓒ Wendy Nikel