The Greenhouse Keeper's Morning
A Short Tale from the Garden
The first hints of dawn light found Mrs. Wisteria already at work. As official Greenhouse Keeper, she believed in greeting each day before the residents themselves stirred. Her fur, once the rich purple of her namesake flower, had faded to a gentle lavender-gray that matched the morning mist perfectly. She wore her usual work attire: a practical apron with specially reinforced pockets for her tools, and a hat woven from dried sweetgrass that held her collection of pencil stubs for noting observations.
"Good morning, my dears," she murmured to the sleeping morning glories as she made her rounds. Their blossoms remained tightly furled, but she could swear they leaned toward her voice just slightly. "It will be another beautiful spring day for you."
Another spring day—as it had been yesterday, and would be tomorrow. The Greenhouse existed in a perpetual state of renewal, a miracle of glass and intention that Mrs. Wisteria had tended for more seasons than most Garden mice had been alive.
She paused by the eastern wall, where condensation gathered most heavily in the mornings. With practiced movements, she adjusted the tiny brass apparatus that Mr. Thistledown had designed for her—a network of gutters and collection vessels that captured the morning dew and directed it to the plants that needed it most. The device made a gentle tinkling sound as she fine-tuned its alignment, like distant wind chimes playing a melody only she could interpret.
"Three drops more for the moonflowers," she noted, making a small adjustment to the leftmost channel. "They've been singing in their sleep again."
Mrs. Wisteria continued her circuit, checking each microclimate with the attention of a scholar and the intuition of an artist. The Greenhouse wasn't merely a building that housed plants—it was an intricate symphony of temperature, humidity, and light that required constant fine-tuning. Some corners needed to remain cool and misty, while others required concentrated sunlight. Some plants thrived in community, while others needed careful isolation.
Near Madame Argent's medical herb section, Mrs. Wisteria slowed her pace. She had been consulted about the arrangement of this area with particular care. Feverfew and chamomile grew alongside valerian and lavender, each in their own perfect pocket of conditions. The healing plants required special attention—what Madame Argent extracted from them depended not just on the plants themselves, but on precisely how they were grown.
"Your mint is trying to escape again," Mrs. Wisteria observed to the empty air, knowing that Madame Argent would check in later. She gently redirected the ambitious tendrils with an experienced paw. "Always exploring, aren't you? Well, not into the foxglove, if you please. Those two should never mix."
A soft rustling drew her attention to the far corner, where young Ivy's workshop was carefully hidden. Mrs. Wisteria smiled but pretended not to notice. She had discovered the young mouse's secret project weeks ago, but remembered well what it was to need a private corner for dreams to take shape. "The air currents are particularly strong near the western vent this morning," she said conversationally to a nearby fern. "Most interesting patterns forming. Worth observing, I should think."
As the light strengthened, Mrs. Wisteria approached the great wall of glass that formed the boundary between the Greenhouse's eternal spring and the Garden's changing seasons. Today, like every day in May, she took special note of the differences. Inside: controlled perfection, where plants performed their growth and blooming with orchestrated precision. Outside: wild beauty, where spring was visibly yielding to summer's first advances.
She pressed one paw to the glass, feeling the temperature difference. "Almost the same today," she murmured. These May mornings always created the thinnest barrier between the worlds—when the Garden's temperature nearly matched the Greenhouse's carefully maintained climate.
From her pocket, Mrs. Wisteria withdrew her most precious tool: a small brass key that unlocked the rarely-used side door. Each May, she allowed herself this one ritual. With careful movements, she turned the key and opened the door just a crack, allowing the Garden's awakening smells to mingle with the Greenhouse's perpetual spring scents.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in both worlds at once.
"Ah," she sighed. "There it is."
That perfect balance—the moment when both worlds held equal appeal, equal beauty, equal promise. When the boundary between controlled perfection and wild growth seemed unnecessary, even arbitrary.
The door closed again with a soft click, and Mrs. Wisteria returned the key to her pocket. There was work to be done, condensation to manage, seedlings to rotate, light patterns to adjust. The Greenhouse would not keep itself in eternal spring without her careful attention.
But for that one breath, she had stood at the threshold and remembered that all boundaries are, perhaps, more permeable than they appear.
Behind her, as she returned to her morning routine, the first morning glory unfurled its petals, as if it too had been waiting for that brief commingling of air from both worlds before beginning another perfect spring day.