Pippa Spool
Knows what everything is worth, and says so.
Farm a patch the size of a saucer, under one enormous glass roof.
The big folk built the glasshouse, kept it a hundred years, then one winter stopped coming. The garden went on growing with nobody left to prune it.
The people who live there now stand about as tall as your thumb. Nobody remembers whether they arrived with the seed crates or were always behind the skirting, and nobody minds.
Everything they own belonged to somebody else first — a thimble for a rain butt, a matchbox for a cottage, a cotton reel for a fence post.
Six corners are the whole of it: the Thimble Plot, the Bristle Thicket, Ribbon Meadow, the Grit Bed, the Dewpond and Pedlar’s Table.
A day passes under the glass whether anyone is watching or not — and one patch, at the edge of the plot, has stood empty a while. It is yours, if you will have it.
Six of them stayed. Each keeps their own work, their own errands, and their own opinion of you.
Knows what everything is worth, and says so.
Reads the still water and every catch worth having.
Sifts the grit for pins, needles and glass beads.
Minds the thicket and teaches patient work.
Keeps the old hearth and the first lessons.
Reads the light, and gives odd gifts to those who listen.
Each was bred small and drawn a frame at a time. Sow in the morning, water before noon, and the bed will have something before dark.
A fan of fine stems carrying short gold ladders of grain.
A carved crown of leaves over a coral root with a cream tip.
A small bush hung with green, gold and coral bells.
Angular branches that open into three or four cream bolls.
A compact vine hung with small coral lanterns.
Silvery leaves, a honey cob and a pale thread of silk at the tip.
And many more.
Six dependable tools for soil, water, stems, grit, fishing, and building.

Till an empty patch of soil.

Water planted garden beds.

Chop trees and collect timber.

Break stone and uncover ore.

Cast from the shore of a lake.

Move or remove placed decor.
Yours is not the only holding under the glass. What you grow, mill and bake can go to the other tables — and what they pay for it is yours.
Put up whatever you have spare — out of the beds, out of the mill, out of the kitchen.
They pay the price you asked, in gold. No haggling, and no waiting on a keeper to open.
Gold from the market goes to your account, and what you do with it after that is settled quietly there.
The patch grows just as well for anyone who never visits the stall.
It is still there, at the edge of the plot: the gate open, the row pegged out in red thread, a spade left standing in the earth. Tansy Lace has kept seed for it since the spring.
runs in your browser
sow your first crop
season by season
Here the book stops. What happens in that bed you write yourself.