Chapter 11: Orchid Captivity
The humidity hit Alex first, a thick, warm blanket that smelled of wet soil, chlorophyll, and something sweetly rotten. Sunlight, fractured by thousands of glass panes, dappled everything in shifting patterns of gold and green. She was hunting for a specific shade of vermillion for her latest project—a study in texture and scale—and Jules had muttered something about a rare Peruvian lily in the back greenhouse that might do the trick.
Now, she was the texture.
The vine had felt like a rough, dry rope when she’d grabbed it to pull herself up onto the higher bench. It had held her weight for a second, then snapped with a brittle crack, sending her tumbling sideways into the sprawling, prehistoric embrace of Jules’ prize Cattleya orchid. Thick, sinewy tendrils wrapped around her leg and torso, the surprisingly strong anchors digging into the soft wood of the bench. A thorn, more like a rose’s tooth, had caught the sleeve of her shirt, pinning her arm at an awkward angle. She hung there, suspended a foot above the damp gravel path, like a bizarre insect in a web.
“Well, hello there, little pollinator.”
The voice was a melodious rumble from above. Alex twisted her head, the vine tightening around her ribs with the movement.
Jules’ face filled her view, eclipsing the sun. Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun, tendrils stuck to her damp temples. Her smile was wide and delighted, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She leaned in, her breath a warm, mint-scented breeze that stirred Alex’s hair.
“I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Jules sang, resting her chin on her hands, which were folded on the edge of the planting bench. Her gaze traveled over Alex’s trapped form. “And you’ve gone and decorated yourself with my best girl. She’s a bit clingy, isn’t she?”
“It’s not funny,” Alex grunted, trying to work her hand free. The thorn tugged at the fabric. “A little help?”
“But you look so artistic! All entwined with nature.” Jules’ giant finger, calloused from gardening, entered Alex’s world. It didn’t try to pull the vine away. Instead, it stroked the orchid’s broad, waxy leaf next to Alex’s head with a soft, scratchy sound. “You’re giving me ideas. Maybe I should leave you there. A living ornament. Ellie would hate it. Too untidy.”
“Jules!”
“Alright, alright.” Jules pushed herself up with a soft groan. Her shadow swept over Alex, a momentary coolness. She reached for something just out of view. “But you have disrupted the ecosystem, my dear. We must water the interrupted.”
The watering can appeared, a colossal galvanized metal thing with a long, narrow spout. It blocked the light, dripping cold condensation. Jules tilted it.
A single, fat droplet formed at the spout’s tip, gathering weight. It hung, shimmering, for a heartbeat. Then it fell.
It hit Alex square in the chest with a soft plap. The impact wasn’t hard, but it was shocking, icy cold against the humid warmth. Water exploded outward, soaking her shirt instantly. She gasped.
“There we go,” Jules cooed, watching the water roll down Alex’s front. “Poor thirsty thing.”
Another drop. This one landed on her forehead, trickling down her nose. Alex sputtered.
“You are the absolute worst.”
“I’m nurturing!” Jules insisted, her eyes sparkling. She tilted the can a fraction more. A thin, continuous stream now poured from the spout, but she aimed it just to Alex’s left, so the water crashed onto the gravel path, a roaring, miniature waterfall. The sound was deafening up close, and spray misted Alex’s face and legs. “See? I’m watering the orchid you’re assaulting. Very considerate.”
Alex struggled again, her movements becoming frantic. The thorn ripped through her sleeve with a loud tear, freeing her arm but also making her lurch. She slipped further into the vines’ grip, one now looping perilously close to her neck.
Jules’ playful expression vanished. The watering can stopped mid-tilt.
In one smooth, sudden motion, her hand was there. Two fingers, impossibly deft for their size, slid between Alex and the woody vine near her throat. They didn’t yank. They simply inserted themselves, a barrier of flesh and bone, and then slowly, relentlessly, pushed outward. The vine, tough as it was, snapped with a series of quiet pops.
The other tendrils were plucked loose with the same careful precision. The thorn was broken off the plant, the shred of Alex’s sleeve still clinging to it. Within seconds, Alex was free, lifted into the air, cradled in Jules’ muddy palm.
“Okay,” Jules said, her voice losing its sing-song lilt. It was lower, quieter. “That got less funny.”
She brought Alex close to her face, examining the red marks on her neck and arms where the vines had bit in. Her thumb, rough with dirt, brushed a smudge of soil from Alex’s cheek with a tenderness that belied its scale.
“You’re okay?” It was a question, not a statement.
“Yeah. Just… damp.”
Jules let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. The playful glint returned, but it was softer now, tempered. “Good. Because you’re my favorite little weed.” She stood, keeping her hand remarkably steady as she rose to her full, sky-scraping height. “And I’d hate to have to prune you.”
She carried Alex not out of the greenhouse, but deeper into it, to a sunlit spot near a burbling irrigation tank. She turned on a small tap, and a trickle of cool, clean water ran from a hose. Cupping her other hand, she let it fill, then held Alex over the tiny pool.
“Rinse off. You smell like compost and panic.”
Alex, still shaking from the adrenaline, sat in the giant, sun-warmed palm and splashed the water on her face and arms. It was refreshing. Jules watched, a small smile playing on her lips.
“You know,” Alex said, wiping her eyes. “Ellie would have just used her drafting knife to cut me loose.”
Jules laughed, the sound echoing in the glass enclosure. “Ellie has no sense of theatre. Or horticulture.” Her smile faded into something more thoughtful. “She told me about last night. How you almost took a dive off the table.”
Alex froze. “She did?”
“Mmhmm. She was… rattled. In that quiet, Ellie way where she just gets extra intense about door-hinge specifications.” Jules’ thumb stroked Alex’s back again, a rhythmic, comforting motion. “You’re going to give that woman a heart condition, climbing her like a beanpole.”
“She put me in her shirt!”
“And you loved it.” Jules’ grin was back, wicked and knowing. “Don’t pretend you didn’t. The mighty Ellie Vance, brought low by a five-foot-four art student with a death wish. It’s my favorite romance.”
Before Alex could retort, the greenhouse door creaked open. A shaft of different, drier air cut through the humidity.
“Jules? Have you seen—oh, for God’s sake.”
Jess stood at the threshold, her hands on her hips. From Alex’s vantage point in Jules’ hand, her older sister looked like a exasperated giant-slayer, framed by the doorway.
“She was helping me garden,” Jules announced cheerfully, holding Alex up as if presenting Exhibit A.
“She’s soaked and her shirt’s ripped,” Jess said, her voice tight with the familiar strain of being the only responsible one. “What happened?”
“Symbiotic entanglement,” Jules said, at the same time Alex said, “The orchid attacked me.”
Jess pinched the bridge of her nose. “Right. Of course. Well, un-entangle her. She has a video call with her portfolio advisor in twenty minutes. She can’t look like she lost a fight with a shrub.”
Jules winked at Alex, then lowered her hand to Jess’s eye level. “What’s the magic word?”
Jess stared at the two of them—the smirking colossus and the damp, bedraggled sister in her palm. She sighed, the fight going out of her. “Please, Jules. Please give me back my idiot sister so I can make her presentable.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Jules transferred Alex into Jess’s waiting, far more cautious hands. The shift in scale was always dizzying—from a giant’s palm to a normal human’s.
As Jess turned to march her out, Alex looked back over her sister’s shoulder. Jules was already turning back to her orchids, humming softly. But she caught Alex’s eye and gave a tiny, secret wave, her fingers dancing in the sunbeam like the petals of one of her flowers.
The last thing Alex heard as the greenhouse door swung shut was Jules’ voice, a cheerful murmur to her plants.
“Don’t worry, my dears. She’s family. We don’t eat family.” A pause. “Usually.”