For all the talk of flies on the wall, no one ever gave thought to how many secrets a houseplant could hear, even when said houseplant was sentient.

Bartleby the pothos had been a plant for seven long years, but he’d been human far longer. Even ­Violet—the reformed witch who had transformed him and then cared for ­him—often forgot he was in the room, leaving Bartleby to shudder his leaves in resignation as he tried to ignore the indecent acts she got up to with her fiancé, Nathaniel, after Violet’s flower shop closed for the night. More often, though, from his perch above the counter where Violet arranged bouquets, Bartleby was privy to the conversations of customers and the gossip of the townsfolk in Dragon’s Rest. All without their notice or, actually, his consent.

So, when he heaved his roots from his ceramic pot and swung across the cobblestones with a scattering of soil, Bartleby wished he were more surprised that no one saw him. He snaked a vine to the stirrup of the hitched horse and hauled himself clumsily up. Once, he had been strong enough to lift a horse, but now he could barely climb onto one’s back.

“Remember,” Nathaniel was saying to his sister, Pru. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back.”

Pru made a face. “Is that a threat?”

Bartleby knew Pru to be jovial and easygoing, the very opposite of her twin brother, but despite her joking tone, there was a fretful tension to her posture that made her look more like Nathaniel than Bartleby had ever noticed before. She was nervous, despite all her outward confidence.

“I only mean you’ll always have a place here in Dragon’s Rest, with us and the apothecary.”