The sun inside the space never burned hot, but by mid-morning Penelope's shirt was stuck to her back anyway, and she had developed a personal grudge against the row of tomato seedlings in front of her.
"Deeper," Aunt Lucy said, crouching beside her with dirt up to her elbows. "Bury them up to the first set of leaves. The stem grows roots anywhere it's covered."
"That feels wrong. You're burying the plant."
"I'm burying the stem. It'll thank you for it."
Penelope pressed another seedling into the trench and packed soil around it with more force than necessary. Down the row, Dahlia was doing the same with visibly less patience, her dark hair knotted at the back of her head, a smear of mud across one cheekbone, her fingernails a ruin.
"I want it noted," Dahlia said, without looking up, "that I once held a knife to a man's throat in a room full of his bodyguards and never sweated like this."
"Noted," Aunt Lucy said, amused. "Space the next row a hand's width wider."
"Whose hand?"
