Dear Snugsnug,

I’ve done it.

Master solemnly swore that the test was about the basil plant and nothing else. I also have it in writing. I was tempted to ask him to sign it with blood but I managed to rein in my enthusiasm. So without a wasted second, I poured my love and devotion into this plant.

If there was a saint for basil guardianship, ’twas I. The basil took priority over everything and anything. Not only did I guard against pests, disease, over-watering and excessive sunlight, but I had to be extra vigilant against the shrewd cats that hung around the house. Not one of them are owned by Mikaere, yet he gave them free rein to go wherever they please. So far they don’t seem interested in my basil but if I could get one thing about cats right, it was that they were the epitome of fickle.

Ma called. At first I was touched by her unnecessary concern, but the warm feeling quickly cooled when she went on about how I was going to get kidnapped and killed if I wasn’t careful, and that I would be the shame of the household if I died in such a way. I wasn’t sure what to be offended at: The fact that she dismissed my death in such a cruel way, or the fact that she thought I would behave with her attempt to scare me.

Master came and went. When he was home, he was visited by customers who sought his potions and when he was out, he was at the clinic working as a doctor for the noma. But I wonder why he works, since it doesn’t seem to be for income. One day I saw him giving the Potion of Happiness in exchange for a sweet cake called Pavlova! Those potions have real gold in them! When I asked him about this mistake, he laughed and said the Pavlova was delicious. Granted, it was divine, but it made me question just how many fortunes were traded for sweet pastry until now.

With the money he does take from clients for his potions or at his noma job, he buys the strangest things. The house is visited three times a week by the delivery man dropping off boxes and packages for us to sign.

Once it was a magical monocle that made you sprout a moustache, one was an impractical potion bottle that changed shape every week, and just this morning, it was a ladle that looked like a dinosaur.

Strange thing is, despite his cavalier attitude towards his finances, he only seems to own a few pieces of clothing. No matter the occasion, he always wears a t-shirt and shorts with jandals (New Zealand term for sandals). If the morning or the evening gets frosty, he throws on a sweater or a hoodie; dressed like that, he greets all patients and customers.

Upon closer observation, Master seems to meet any news with a shrug and multiple nods. When the postman rode into the letterbox and his bike flew across the sky, all Master said was: “Cool.” Of course, after that, he realized someone was hurt and ran out to help him. Every word seemed to tumble out of his mouth, and actions slipped out by chance. Yet his tea never spilled and the bottles on the kitchen table never clinked when he walked by.

He can make plumbing a toilet look like some sacred ritual performed by swans.

He doesn’t seem like a man likely to deliberately sabotage me, or have any malice in his heart, but prudence can’t hurt.

He also mixes this country’s indigenous language in his vocabulary and I have gotten familiar with a few words. Kia Ora is hello, Mōrena is good morning, and uh… what was the other one… he says it whenever he gives me a thumbs up, so I’m assuming it means I’ve done well. Then again maybe it’s ‘I’m going to crush you using only this thumb.’ I should look it up. It may give me clues to my test!

I connected the first letter of every sentence with alphabet crackers. Both English and Maori. One spelt a strange Hungarian word for a type of rooster and another a Korean slang word meaning a rude dismissal. I researched code breaking and delved into linguistics.

Nothing.

I looked at his body movements. I mapped and measured his house, greenhouse and the garden. I even made a colour map of all the furniture and looked into the feng shui of the house. I marked and numbered all the plants in the greenhouse, yes, even the ones up on the roof. I took the colours of the mismatching door knobs in the house and mixed them all together–no dice.

Maybe Master was testing to see what I would do to the plant like some personality test. You know those ones, the ones where if you choose red instead of maroon, you turn out to be a psychopathic killer.

He keeps asking if I would like a hand with anything despite my numerous and polite refusals. It makes me more determined to show I can do this without anyone’s assistance.

Your Loving Lottie