The Seam Sorceress

Home, part 2.

For the most part, that was fine by Tilly—if Mama was right, the magic would come in time—but there was one pattern, near the back of the book, that she always came back to.

ᴀ ʀᴇsᴛᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ sᴛɪᴛᴄʜ, ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ɪʟʟɴᴇss ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀᴇʀ, the page read in Granny's tight cursive. The pattern called for thread made of silver and unicorn hair that was boiled with the peel of the first unblemished white apple of the harvest.

By itself, a spool of real silver thread was worth half of what the family made in a year, she'd read in one of the special-order catalogs on the counter of the general store. That aside, nobody carried unicorn hair, a beast once native to Southeast Grimland that had been pushed out by logging and land developers. And magic, well, it was mighty persnickety when it came down to brass tacks. Tilly was so scared of how the spell might backfire if she asked Booger to turn into one and used her hair instead that she didn't even dare try.

The hardest ingredient on that list, though, was the white apple.

In her day, Tilly had seen a great many apples; yellow was sweet and good for eating, green was fine for apple butter and fried pies, and red was, at least, nice to look at—but she had never once in her life encountered a white apple. It was such a vexing curiosity that Tilly had spent hours staring at that line in the pattern book wondering if it wasn't just a slip or smudge of the pen.

Whine apple.

Whitt apple.

Anything but white.

The spell was impossible, in so many words.

Downstairs, Mama coughed and coughed. Tilly's grip on the book tightened as she set it aside.

Somehow, she'd find a way. If they were lucky, the first step was outside, sitting in Sprout's pumpkin patch.

Next in the trunk was jumper dress made of denim, well-worn and much-abused, its hemline ratty in spots and creases yellowed with dirt. Folded alongside it was a work shirt that Tilly scrubbed the daylights out of come wash day but she swore always smelled of clean sweat regardless. They might not have been much to look at, but together, they were Tilly's most powerful magic.

Tilly undressed and wriggled her way into the work shirt, then stepped into the jumper. When hooking the last buckle into place on her chest, she took a shallow breath, briefly gobsmacked by the spell working its way through her.

She didn't look any different in the cracked dresser mirror. The fabric did not strain against any newly formed muscles and much to her relief, Tilly didn't grow any taller than she already was.

But she could feel the change immediately. Around her, the walls became brittle. The dresser and bed felt like toy furniture, small and hopelessly delicate, and Mama and Sprout were pretty little dolls.

The family might not have been able to afford a tractor like the tobacco barons that owned half the county, but the truth is, they didn't really need one.

"C'mon, Boogs." Tilly pulled her braid out of the back of the work shirt, then put on her boots. "Let's go load up the wagon."

It took real finesse not to rip the door from its hinges as Tilly opened it and tromped down the stairs. Mama was in the kitchen, cutting up a heap of rampion for a salad. Tilly gave her a peck on the cheek as she passed on her way to the backyard.

Their land had been little more than dry fields before Sprout was born. But from the moment Tilly's little sister gave her first cry, the plants had come to comfort her. Shade trees gathered around the home to shield her head from the beating sun. Rampion and wild strawberries cropped up in droves like pilgrims around a holy relic. If she wanted something to grow, there wasn't much more for Sprout to do other than plant a seed and ask nicely.

Some neighbors, the uppity, holier-than-thou ones, the bless-your-heart ones, with plows and machinery and time to care, whispered that they lived in unkempt squalor; a den for snakes and ticks, with tall grass and too much kudzu. But Tilly's family never went hungry and their garden always bloomed, even in the wintertime, so she wasn't rightfully sure who needed the pity.

"Tilly!" Sprout called. It was clear she'd been shouting for a while, her voice hoarse and tone irritated. "You coming or not?!"

"Hold your horses." Tilly followed a small path between rows of sunflower that bobbed just over her head. Booger, still a bird, lit on her shoulder with a chirp. "I had to help Mama."

"We're gonna run out of daylight," Sprout grouched.

They found her in the small, orange mountain range that the pumpkin patch had turned into over the summer. Her sister sat on a gourd roughly the size of a cow, so thoroughly overgrown that its bottom had flattened out under its weight, crossing and uncrossing her bare feet.

"Aw, c'mon, it ain't gonna take that long." Tilly circled the pumpkin once and let out a whistle. "She's a beaut, though, I gotta admit. Peter's gonna have a run for his money this time."

The smoked goggles Sprout wore outside made her smile all the more suspicious as she leaned forward with interest. "I heard it from Luke that Peter buried his last wife in the garden. That's why the pumpkins grow so big."

Tilly stopped her admiration of the pumpkin to give her a dark look. "You know it ain't nice to talk about people."

"May not be nice, but it sure is fun." Sprout kicked off the pumpkin and dusted off her hands. "Regardless—this ain't the pumpkin I'm taking to the fair."

"It's not?"

"Nope." Sprout started to trek towards the wood shed. "It's a little further on."

Bewildered, Tilly followed her. As they walked past the stump where Tilly split the firewood come winter time, she saw something orange peering just above the rusted corrugated iron of the shed's roof, like the sun rising on the horizon. "Great googly moogly."

The pumpkin was nearly as wide as the shed, and easily taller, so large that it had nearly lost all resemblance to its smaller, slighter brothers in the pumpkin patch proper. It looked more like a giant blob of raw biscuit dough, oozing across the ground in odd lumps and bumps.

Sprout hugged it affectionately. "Tilly, I'd like you to meet Mr. Tubbington the Third."