The Pride of Amaryllis

In the once-lush heart of a Victorian English garden, where roses had once cascaded over trellises and tulips had swayed in spring breezes, the land now lay brown and brittle. The marble fountain stood dry, the hedges sagged from relentless heat, and the stately delphiniums drooped with unmistakable despair. Summer had lingered too long, its warmth turning from blessing to curse.

But in the middle of this sun-struck desolation stood Amaryllis, her wings iridescent in the harsh light, her hair the vibrant color of blooming coral. No larger than a sparrow, she wore a dress spun from the petals of her namesake flower. It was orange and cream, elegant and unmistakable. She balanced on the cracked lip of a terracotta pot, arms crossed, lips pursed in disapproval.

Amaryllis

"Honestly," she muttered, staring at a shriveled marigold, "how hard is it to hold up your head?"

The marigold, naturally, said nothing. Most flowers didn’t talk back. But Amaryllis didn’t mind. In fact, she preferred it that way. She liked being listened to, the garden in precise order according to her vision.

To most of the fairy world, Amaryllis was considered a bit… much. Too proud, too focused on presentation. She obsessed over how rose vines curved and whether snapdragons aligned in perfect color order. She was, after all, guardian of a Victorian garden—and if that didn’t require exacting standards, what did?

To her, pride wasn’t a flaw but a principle.

“My namesake flower,” she once explained to a puzzled caterpillar, “is the very symbol of pride to humans. And humans love symbolism. I am simply honoring the tradition of having pride in my work.”

The caterpillar had continued chewing it's leaf without comment.

Still, the merciless drought was testing even Amaryllis’s enduring confidence. For weeks, she had fluttered from bed to bed, watering with dewdrops gathered in acorn caps, whispering encouragement to the dry soil, coaxing earthworms to dig and aerate. She shooed away curious birds and scolded squirrels who trampled her struggling petunias.

But it wasn’t enough. The garden continued to wither.

One morning, after catching her reflection in a pond now reduced to a muddy mirror, Amaryllis made a difficult decision. Her wings were dulled with dust, and a patch of her petal-skirt had wilted. Pride or not, even she knew she couldn’t salvage the garden alone.

“I need reinforcements,” she announced to the empty air.

That was when she sought out Brambletoes.

Brambletoes was a hedgehog of peculiar intelligence who lived beneath the garden wall. He wore a tiny brass monocle on his left eye, though it did little for his sight, and spoke in a slow, thoughtful tone that irritated Amaryllis to no end.

She found him curled in a shady burrow beneath a clematis trellis.

“Wake up, Bramble,” she whispered, fluttering before his face. “I need a strategist.”

The hedgehog opened one eye. “Is it raining?”

“No.”

“Then why wake me?”

Amaryllis sighed. “Because the garden is dying, and I refuse to let that happen. You once mentioned knowing how to channel water from the old groundskeeper’s pump, didn’t you?”

“I might’ve mentioned it,” Brambletoes grumbled, but he was already uncurling. “What you need is someone nimble enough to crawl through the buried clay pipes. I’m too round for that.”

“Then who?”

“Mothwick,” he said, as if it were obvious.

Amaryllis groaned. “Not her.”

“She’s the only one who fits,” Brambletoes said with a shrug. “Even if she is… unconventional.”

Brambletoes & Mothwick

***

Mothwick was a gossamer-winged sprite who lived in the ivy behind the sundial. Her wings were perpetually askew, her clothes a haphazard patchwork of cobwebs and birch bark. She carried a jar of firefly glow even during daylight “for ambiance.”

Amaryllis didn’t understand her. Mothwick let moss grow in her hair on purpose. She painted tiny mushrooms with beetle-shell lacquer. She collected dewdrops not to water plants but to make prisms in the sunlight. But she was, undeniably, a tunnel-crawler of exceptional skill.

“Why should I help?” Mothwick asked when approached. She was lounging on a thistle leaf, sipping nectar through a reed straw.

“Because if the garden dies, you won’t have your mushrooms or your thistles or your ambiance,” Amaryllis snapped.

“That’s… a compelling argument,” Mothwick admitted grudgingly. “All right, I’ll help.”

So it was that Amaryllis, Brambletoes, and Mothwick formed an unlikely alliance. While Amaryllis coordinated which flower beds to prioritize and gathered what little moisture remained in the dew vaults, Brambletoes studied the layout of the old garden’s irrigation system from a cracked porcelain tile where someone had once painted a map. Mothwick disappeared for long hours into the soil, returning covered in mud but wearing triumphant grins.

Their differences created tension. Amaryllis couldn’t understand why Mothwick insisted on singing to the worms.

"They respond better to A minor," she said with a barely concealed eye roll.

And Mothwick couldn’t fathom why Amaryllis needed the tulips at precisely the same height

“It’s about dignity. They must be the same.”

Yet somehow, the collaboration worked.

It took seven days and nights. Amaryllis never stopped. She sang to the flowers by moonlight and coaxed the bees to pollinate with promises of future nectar. Brambletoes directed the earthworms to create channels where water could flow more easily. Mothwick cleared blockages in the old pipes and discovered a forgotten reservoir beneath the garden’s stone bench.

Slowly, miraculously, green returned to the garden. A single rosebud appeared, tight and defiant. Then a line of daisies emerged like pearls on a necklace. Even the marigolds perked up, as if finally shamed into proper form.

At the center of it all bloomed a vibrant amaryllis, scarlet and strong, towering over the others with quiet, proud dignity.

When the first rain finally fell, it was a welcome consecration of their efforts. The clouds opened one late afternoon with a low, rumbling sigh. Droplets splashed on petals and pooled in the hollowed acorn cups Amaryllis had left out. Brambletoes snuffled happily beneath a fern, while Mothwick spun in circles with her arms raised, singing a nonsensical rain song.

Amaryllis stood beneath her namesake flower, face turned to the sky, letting the rain cleanse her dust-caked wings. For the first time in weeks, she breathed deeply and smiled without effort.

“It’s beautiful,” Mothwick said, landing beside her.

“We did well,” Brambletoes added, emerging from the hedge, soaked but grinning.

Amaryllis looked around the garden at the neat rows of resurgent color, the proud unfurling of petals, the dignified posture of the topiaries.

“We did more than well,” she said, voice soft but brimming with emotion. “We honored what this place was meant to be. We brought back its spirit.”

And in that moment, Amaryllis understood that pride wasn’t just about form or order or bloom. It was about care. It was about knowing when to stand tall alone and when to accept that even the proudest flower sometimes needs the help of a disheveled sprite and a sleepy hedgehog.

To be proud of something was to give it your all, to fight for its beauty, to believe in what it could become even when it faltered.

She looked up at the amaryllis flower again. “I think I’m finally worthy of your name,” she whispered.

The flower didn’t answer. But it didn’t need to. It was standing tall and proud, like Amaryllis. And she was standing tall and proud with her friends.

Teacake Tidbits - Historical Facts

1. Victorian Gardens Were Showcases of Global Plant Collecting

During the Victorian era, plant hunters were sent all over the world—India, South America, the Himalayas—to collect exotic specimens. These plants were seen as status symbols and were introduced into garden displays, often in glasshouses or conservatories. Many plants we now take for granted in English gardens (like fuchsias, dahlias, and camellias) were once rare, foreign marvels.

2. Garden Beds Were Designed with a Military-Level Precision

Victorians adored "bedding out"—a method of planting seasonal flowers in geometric patterns, often in vivid, contrasting colors. These displays were rotated several times a year and required enormous planning and labor. The effect was almost mathematical: symmetry, repetition, and bright color blocking ruled.

3. Gardens Were a Reflection of Morality and Class

Victorian gardens weren't just for beauty—they were seen as reflections of a person’s moral character. Orderly, well-kept gardens symbolized discipline, refinement, and virtue. Messy or overgrown spaces suggested moral laxity or social decline. This belief extended even into fiction and social commentary of the era.