The Wrong Parcel

The parcel arrived on a Wednesday afternoon with someone else’s name on it.

Mina found it outside the shop door, wedged between a sack of flour and two crates of apples. It was no bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and tied with green string. Across the top, in neat black ink, someone had written:

MISS E. MARROWCANDLEMAKER’S ROW

There was no return address.

“Wrong street,” her father said when she carried it inside. “Candlemaker’s Row is on the other side of town.”

“I know.”

“Then leave it for the courier.”

Mina set the parcel beside the till and went back to stacking jars. A moment later, the paper twitched beneath the string.

She stopped.

Her father had not noticed. He was busy arguing with a customer over the price of onions, so Mina watched the parcel instead.

It moved again.

This time, something inside sneezed.

Mina picked it up. The box was warm beneath her hands.

She carried it into the storeroom and closed the door behind her. “All right. What are you?”

Something scratched against the cardboard.

Mina untied the string.

The lid sprang open and a cloud of pale yellow dust burst into her face. She coughed, waved it away and peered inside, expecting a frightened mouse or some other small creature.

Instead, she found a plant.

At least, she thought it was a plant.

Three broad purple leaves surrounded a round green bulb, while two thin roots dangled over the side of the box. One of them tapped impatiently against the cardboard.

“You sneezed?”

The bulb shivered, then sneezed again.

Yellow dust settled across Mina’s apron.

“Oh, brilliant.”

The leaves folded inwards.

Mina looked again at the label. Miss E. Marrow was probably waiting for the parcel, whatever it was. She retied the string, tucked the box beneath her arm and told her father she was taking it across town.

Candlemaker’s Row was only fifteen minutes away, but she had barely reached the fountain when the parcel began thumping against her side.

“Stop that.”

It thumped again.

A woman carrying a basket glanced over as Mina hurried past. By the time she reached Candlemaker’s Row, one purple leaf had forced its way through the paper and was waving in the breeze.

Number twelve was a narrow shop with dozens of candles burning in the window. Mina knocked, and an elderly woman opened the door.

“Miss Marrow?”

“Yes?”

“I think this belongs to you.”

Miss Marrow looked at the parcel, then at Mina, then back at the purple leaf poking through the wrapping.

“That is not mine.”

The box sneezed.

Miss Marrow stepped backwards. “I ordered candlewick.”

Mina looked down at the parcel. “This definitely isn’t candlewick.”

“No.”

Another root slipped through the paper and curled around Mina’s wrist.

Miss Marrow quietly shut the door.

Mina stared at it. “Well. That was helpful.”

The root tugged at her hand.

“What?”

It pulled again, this time towards the end of the street.

Mina hesitated, then followed.

The parcel led her through three narrow lanes, across the market square and into an alley she had never noticed before. At the very end stood a tiny greenhouse squeezed between two buildings, every pane of glass fogged from the inside.

The parcel began shaking so hard she nearly dropped it.

“All right, all right.”

She pushed open the greenhouse door and was met by a rush of warm, damp air. Plants crowded every available surface. Tall ones leaned from cracked pots, vines looped across the ceiling and tiny blue flowers glowed beneath the benches. Something with red leaves snapped at a passing fly.

A man appeared from behind a curtain of ivy.

He spotted the parcel and stopped dead. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“You lost this?”

“I sent it out this morning.”

“You sent it?”

He hurried over and lifted the plant from the box. At once, its purple leaves opened and the green bulb made a pleased clicking sound.

“It was meant for the botanical rooms,” he explained. “The courier must have mixed up the labels.”

Mina looked at the empty box in her hands.

“So Miss Marrow got something else?”

The man went still.

So did Mina.

A distant boom rolled across the rooftops.

They both turned towards the window.

Above Candlemaker’s Row, a cloud of pink smoke was rising into the sky.

The man winced.

Mina looked at him. “What was supposed to be in her parcel?”

He cleared his throat. “Fireblossom seeds.”

“Fireblossom?”

“They’re perfectly safe.”

Another boom echoed across town.

He added, “Usually.”

Mina grabbed the empty box. “Come on.”

The man sighed, reached for his coat and followed her out.

By the time they returned to Candlemaker’s Row, smoke was pouring from Miss Marrow’s windows and six enormous red flowers had grown through the roof.

Miss Marrow stood outside with her arms folded.

“I assume,” she said, “you have my candlewick.”