"What are you--" he began, and then abruptly we had only a single rose, and it began to grow.

And not only the rose: vines were climbing up the bookshelves in every direction, twining themselves around ancient tomes and reaching out the window; the tall slender columns that made the arch of the doorway were lost among rising birches, spreading out long finger-branches; moss and violets were springing up across teh floor, delicate ferns unfurling. ...

"Is this what you meant?" I asked him.

(Excerpt from Uprooted by Naomi Novik.)

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