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services and solemn vigils, but none of these did anything to soothe the ache that sprouted and bloomed through me in those long weeks.
    Only one thing could. I did what came naturally, drawing out seeds I had long saved and nurtured for a garden of my own. These I planted and watered and watched for the first shoots from the earth. When they appeared, I watered and cared for them until the others in the town recognized what it was I had done.
    By then, it was far too late to stop it, and green vines and leaves spread throughout the town graveyard, strong and verdant, striving to escape the dark gravity of the earth. Soon, the graveyard bloomed with flowers and with thick fruit - cucumbers and tomatoes, peas, beans, and strawberries. All of these shone red on the vines, as most crops in our land did. The townsfolk gathered, and talked of rooting it, of pulling all the plants up or setting fire to them. But in the end, they left them. They feared disturbing the dead, their loved ones entangled, embraced by the reaching, yearning roots. So they left it there, a dark, red garden the likes of which no one had ever seen and none would again.
    Instead, they made me leave. And though I missed it, the garden I helped create, I knew that in some small way, a part of my parents lived again through it. I had done my part, the rest was up to the elements.
     
    When I saw Mr. P again, a towel wrapped around his head leaving only narrow gaps for his eyes and one for his mouth.
    “ Mr. P,” I said. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
    “ No,” he said. “I saw myself. I don’t know what I was doing when I carved this one. It looked fine to me. But I don’t want to abandon it just yet. So far it’s fine, and I don’t want to switch so quickly.”
    “ I understand,” I said, looking at my nails. “I’ll get back to work right away.”
    “ Linnaea,” he said, tugging on the lower end of towel.
    “ Yes, boss?” I said.
    His mismatched eyes bored into me.
    “ Never mind,” he said, and turned away. “Carry on.” He waved one gloved hand in the air.
    I returned to my work. Having ruled out the soil and infestation, I considered the pumpkins themselves. Most of Mr. P’s crop had come from seeds harvested from his earlier batches, which accounted for the yellowish, almost golden quality of the pumpkins. But I had brought some Quadling seeds with me as well, which now dotted the field with a darker, reddish orange than the original. All fell victim to the rot, with similar timelines. So the seeds were not to blame either.
    That meant the situation was more complex. Either a combination of factors, or something beyond the normal difficulties of farming.
    I considered magical causes. Mr. P was highly respected, a close companion of the queen. Afflicting him in this way would be dangerous, but at the same time, it could be a way to strike at Ozma.
    I walked over to Mr. P’s pumpkin-shaped house and knocked on the door.
    “ Come in,” he called.
    I entered. The boss was slumped over the table, the towel loosened around his head. In one of his hands he held a bottle of dark glass and he was pouring liquid, a little at a time, into his crooked mouth. He swiveled his head slightly so he could look at me out of one eye.
    “ Yes?”
    “ I just…I wanted to ask you a question,” I said.
    “ Okay.”
    “ Do you know of anyone who might be trying to harm you? Who might be doing this on purpose?”
    He poured some more of the liquid into his mouth and I caught a whiff of alcohol. I wondered where it went. The only thing I could think was that the small amount was absorbed into the flesh of his head.
    “ I can’t…I can’t think of anyone,” he said. “I have no enemies.”
    “ But Ozma…”
    “ There are other ways someone could reach her,” Mr. P said, now slurring his words.
    “ Why are you drinking?” I said.
    He looked at the bottle in his hand.
    “ I should be grateful for the life that I have,” he said. “And I am. But