Marcus Brightwell wanted to make tea for every child in Witchhazel, and he had just run out of leaves. He held his last dry pinch over the kettle. He crushed it, breathed the smell, and dropped it in. This was the final cup. After today, his big dream of a tea factory was only an empty stove and a stack of clean, useless cups. He had spent his savings on kettles and jars. He knew how to brew. He knew how to smile at a tired child and hand them something warm. But he did not know where a single tea plant grew. He had asked every farmer at the market. They sold turnips and wool. Nobody sold leaves. So Marcus packed a satchel and walked into the wild hills past the town. He looked under ferns and along wet stones. He tasted three plants and spat out all three. By noon his feet hurt and his satchel stayed empty. He sat down on a log and nearly gave up. Then he heard chewing. A small creature crouched in a thicket, no bigger than a cat. It had green scales, folded wings, and thin vines curling along its back. Tiny leaves grew right out of its skin. It nibbled a bush, snipped a dead branch with its claws, and patted the soil around the roots. A dragon, Marcus thought, and a gardener. He stayed very still. The dragon worked down a whole row of bushes, tending each one. Every bush wore the same narrow, shiny leaves. Marcus reached out, pinched one leaf, and rolled it between his fingers. The smell hit him at once. Tea. Rows and rows of wild tea, kept alive by this little dragon. The dragon turned and saw him. It did not run. It cocked its head and watched his hands. Marcus moved slowly. He opened his satchel and took out his flask of cooled morning tea. He poured a small puddle onto a flat stone and stepped back. The dragon crept forward, sniffed, and lapped it up. Its leafy tail flicked. It looked at Marcus, then at the row of bushes, as if measuring him. "I need these leaves," Marcus said softly. "For the children. I won't hurt your plants. I'll help them grow." The dragon nudged a bush toward him. Marcus understood. He picked only the top leaves, the way the dragon had, and left the rest. He filled his satchel with fresh, green tea. The dragon watched every move, checking his work. Marcus finally had his leaves. But he saw the problem the moment he stood up. These bushes were wild, scattered, and small. One satchel would not feed a whole factory. And the dragon plainly guarded them. If he wanted enough tea for every child in Witchhazel, he could not just take. He would have to grow his own rows, and he would have to win over this leafy little keeper first.

Marcus came back to the wild hills at dawn. He wanted to learn the dragon's rows well enough to grow his own. But the small green dragon watched him with narrow eyes. When Marcus knelt too close to a bush, its wings snapped tight. It hissed. He froze, his hands over the leaves, afraid one wrong move would break the trust he had built. He backed away slow. The dragon settled, but its tail lashed. Marcus needed to study the plants up close. The dragon would not let him. Every time he leaned in, it puffed and paced. He sat on the wet grass and thought. He could not force it. He had to make the dragon feel safe. "Marcus?" He turned. Lily Summers stood at the edge of the thicket. She was one of the children he wanted to serve, a blonde girl in a blue dress, always first to the door when he opened his stove. She had followed his boot prints up the hill. Her eyes went wide at the dragon. "Don't run," Marcus whispered. "You'll scare it." But Lily did not run. She sat down beside him, slow and quiet, the way he had. She pulled a slender lantern post from her cart, a carved thing with a soft glowing light inside. Her father sold them in town. She set it in the grass and turned the light low. "It's cold up here," she said. "Maybe it likes warm things." The dragon lifted its head. The lantern's glow spread over the bushes. The dragon crept toward the light, no longer hissing. It curled near the warm glass and half closed its eyes. Its wings loosened. Its tail went still. Marcus understood. The dragon feared sudden moves in the cold dark. The light told it nothing was wrong. He crawled to the nearest bush, slow, in the lantern's glow. This time the dragon only watched. It let him touch the leaves. It let him feel the soil and count the roots. "Good," Marcus breathed. "Good." He worked down the row while Lily held the light steady. He learned how deep the roots ran. He learned which leaves the dragon left to grow. The dragon even nudged one bush toward him, the way it had before. The trust held. It grew. By the time the sun climbed high, Marcus had what he came for. He knew how to plant his own rows now. He knew the dragon would let him near, if he moved slow and brought light. He packed his notes and a handful of cuttings to start his own garden. Then Lily tugged his sleeve. "The other children know I followed you," she said. "They want to come see the dragon too. All of them. Tomorrow." Marcus looked at the small, shy dragon. One quiet girl had barely won its trust. A whole crowd of loud children would send it fleeing. His new garden depended on the dragon staying calm. And tomorrow, half of Witchhazel was coming up the hill.