by Stacey Lee
“I didn’t know about Mimsy until I read the ‘Living Miracles’ article in the Times.”
“She was five when they wrote that! What have you been doing for the last ten years?”
“Waiting for you to respond to my letter.” Aunt Bryony pulls the edges of her cloak more snugly around her. Two bright spots of pink appear on her cheeks. “Anyway, I already said I’m sorry. Now it’s your turn to apologize to Mimsy.”
“For what? And will you please stop calling her that?” She reties her scarf around her neck with exaggerated movements, but it comes undone again.
Bryony stares up at the palm fronds. “For having your nose so deep in the soil you don’t know if it’s raining on your ass.” She prods Mother with the double barrel of her amber eyes.
“You were always the crude one.” Mother stuffs her hands into her pockets. She looks like she belongs somewhere on the Asian steppes, with the woolly jacket, the scarf, and the two bright spots of red on her cheeks. “And I have no idea what you mean.”
“She asked you a question that you still have not answered.”
My head throbs and my throat feels swollen, as if I swallowed a fig whole.
“What question?”
“She wants to know if you love her.”
Every plant in the garden seems to hold its breath. Even the papaya trees seem to clutch their fruits tighter, as if afraid they might drop them and ruin the silence.
Mother lets out an exasperated breath. “Of course I do! You’re my daughter, aren’t you?” Her eyes flood with emotion, and she holds herself so tightly, her body trembles. Some invisible wall keeps us apart. I fear if I reach out to her, she might break or I might, and I won’t know how to put back the pieces.
An evening breeze stings my cheeks. I didn’t even know they were wet.
Abruptly, Mother flings one end of her scarf behind her, nearly whipping my aunt in the face. “You may take your quilt. After that, I hope you have a nice trip back to your own life.” She retreats to the house, a solitary majorette.
This time we don’t follow her. She doesn’t even bother to remove her clogs before entering the kitchen.
My aunt pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me. “Well. You know about the giant sequoias, right?”
“They need fire to grow.”
“Yes. But unlike us, sequoias only need one fire. We go through several in the course of our lives. It’s the human condition. We never stop growing.”
“I have a lot to learn still, I know.”
“Not just you.” Her mouth softens into a smile. Then she tucks her arm under mine and tugs me toward the courtyard. “As I said, the quilt is yours, but keep your mother out of the oca tubers. In her mood, she’ll dig herself back to Oman if you let her.”
“You can’t leave like this.”
“I can’t stay here, dear. Not after that.”
“But you have to stay somewhere.” I have to get them talking again, for Mother, for all of us, but that won’t happen if my aunt leaves. “It’s getting late, and—”
“There’s a motel—”
“Please. Just this one thing.”
She clamps her lips and one eyebrow hitches. She shifts her gaze from the gate to the house.
Before she can protest, I say, “You can have your old room. I’ll stay in the guest room.” We keep it for out-of-town clients, but since we have enough local clients to keep us busy, we haven’t used the room in years.
Mother’s door is closed and her room is dark when we return to the house. I fix my aunt squash soup, then she retires, too.
After everything that has happened today, I want to crawl under the covers and not wake until spring. But instead of going to our tomb-like guest room, I fetch the key from our kitchen cupboard and head to the workshop.
THIRTY-NINE
“LARKSPUR’S LAST WORD IS FOR THE PARROTS. JUST STAY
OUT OF THE SALT WATER. (BUT IF YOU DON’T, YOUR NOSE
WILL COME BACK, DON’T WORRY!)”
—Bryony, Aromateur, 2017
THE GARDEN IS dark, but not quiet. The lights I spent a winter stringing around the cherry trees resemble giant clouds of fireflies, and hum in a way I never noticed before. Gravel scrapes and crunches under my feet as I head to the workshop.
I insert the business end of the key, worn smooth after so many years of service. William—my grandfather—used this same key. I turn the heart-shaped end. The lock fights me, then with a screech, gives way.
Standing in the threshold, I notice particles floating in front of me, illuminated by our old-fashioned hurricane sconces. I never noticed how my own breath makes the dust motes dance. I imagine the way that dust used to smell, like old books, sluggish on the liftoff and mellowing into dried leaves. The memory is so vivid, I can almost . . . but not quite.
Instead, my head fills with the symphony of chirping crickets playing in counterpoint to a hooting owl.
I hang up the key, and get to work.
The alarm wakes me before the rooster crows. After dressing, I pack a basket full of food and other supplies, then hurry to the workshop.
Everything’s in order here. Last night, I cleaned the bathroom, stocked fresh towels and blankets. I even brought a crossword book, which I thought was a nice touch.
My breath lifts in white plumes, but I’m too pumped to feel the chill in the air. I set water to boil on a hot plate. Then I fetch Layla’s Sacrifice, which has shriveled into a crispy nest. The second bud looks like a corn nut.
I set the terrarium atop the workshop table. Using a hooked pole, I budge open the skylight.
I strike a single match against our workshop table and flames dance before me. The dried leaves of Layla’s Sacrifice ignite as soon as I touch it with the fire. Soon, the whole plant is a burning mass. Smoke lifts in gray tendrils toward the skylight, the marmalade scent now dusky and bitter. When enough smoke has escaped, I replace the glass lid over the burning plant and the flames die. The glass cage fills with gray smoke and ash.
Any moment they’ll come running. The smell of burned Layla’s Sacrifice is strong enough to awaken any aromateur.
As I wait, I prepare tea. I haven’t felt so calm in weeks. Mother and Aunt Bryony just need a chance to work out their problems. It’s like the old key to our workshop—with the right amount of jiggling, I feel sure their problems can be worked out.
Aunt Bryony arrives first. She waves the silk sleeves of her pajamas. “What happened here?” She crosses to the table and squints at the sacrificial terrarium. “You burned Layla?”
Mother bursts into the workshop next. Her blue flannel pants stick out from under her terry-cloth robe. A wavy line from her sleep mask runs across her forehead. “What the blazes is going on?”
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Into the two cups, I pour perfectly steeped Ceylon. “Honey? Cream?”
Mother doesn’t sit. “What are you doing?”
Aunt Bryony pushes her teacup and saucer at me. “I’ll take both.”
Mother wilts Aunt Bryony with her gaze. “Mim, tell me what you are doing NOW.”
I serve my elders, placing Mother’s teacup on the workshop table next to where she stands, brittle, holding her arms and observing me.
Aunt Bryony slurps her tea.
I cross back to the blue door. Dawn peeks through when I open it. “Aunt Bryony said William locked you in here once to sort out your differences. Please don’t use the skylight.”
“Mim.” Mother starts toward me. “This is not funny.”
I shut the door behind me. As I jam in the key, I feel Mother trying to pull the door back open. She’s faster than I thought.
Quickly, I twist the key, and for a panic-stricken moment, I wonder if it will fail me.
But this time, the lock clicks easily into place.
“Mim!” Mother wails.
“I have a plane to catch in two hours,” Aunt Bryony calls loudly.
“Well then, you’d better get tal
king,” I call back. I wait patiently outside the door.
“You go climb out the window,” Aunt Bryony says in a fainter voice.
“I most certainly will not do that. You do it.”
“I’d get stuck. You weigh less. You’ll make it. I’ll push.”
“No.”
After a pause, Aunt Bryony calls through the door. “Are you bribable?”
“No.”
“Come on, honey. How about a new car?”
“She doesn’t know how to drive,” snaps Mother.
“No? What kind of teenager lives in California and doesn’t know how to drive?”
“She’s only fifteen.”
“And next year she’ll be sixteen. Better start teaching her now.”
“Now you’re the expert on raising teenagers.” I can already see the dent between Mother’s eyebrows deepen. Probably Aunt Bryony has the same groove.
“It doesn’t take an expert to realize when a young lady is growing up. You never even told her about Edward and the No Mister.”
Silence. I stick my ear to the door. When no one speaks further, I say, “What’s the No Mister?”
“It’s ‘No, Mr.’ Get it?” says Aunt Bryony.
I choke on my own spit. They have a nickname for BBG, too.
“Your mother hit him with No Mister seven times before she believed me.”
“I will explain, if you don’t mind.” Mother spends a moment clearing her throat. “Well, Mim, you’re a young lady now. Boys will be calling for you.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m not six.”
“Up the G-rating, Dahli.”
Mother grunts in indignation and footsteps thud, as if my aunt pushed her aside. Aunt Bryony takes over. “Mimsy, you’re more lovable than you think. If you need to remist, our aromateur’s pollen is not the reason someone likes you.”
“Meaning—?”
“Your boo is into you.”
Mother snorts loudly.
I stare at the wood grain of the door, slow to make sense of what she’s saying. Court liked me for me, not because of being infected by aromateur’s pollen. The ground seems to pitch, and I put my hands on the rough door to steady myself.
“Does falling in love have a scent?”
“Theoretically—” Mother begins just as Aunt Bryony says, “Butterscotch pudding.”
I stare through the peeling blue paint. Court told me I smelled like butterscotch pudding when we first met.
“You can’t detect it because all aromateurs smell like butterscotch pudding,” my aunt continues. “Work with love, and eventually it gets into the bloodstream. Our olfaction adapts to no longer notice it.”
“But I can smell my other heart notes.”
“Not all of them. Some are too small to be detectable by our brains, well, your brains, though your noses know.”
“And makes your brain so special?” comes Mother’s incredulous voice.
“I’m telling you, a good dunk in salt water does wonders. You should try it.”
“So, what do I do about someone who is, er, into me?” I ask quietly.
No one speaks and I’m not sure if anyone heard me.
But then Mother’s voice replies, “You’ll have to let him get over you the old-fashioned way.”
“Or not,” adds Aunt Bryony brightly.
I rest my forehead against the door. Court already got over me the old-fashioned way, if by old-fashioned Mother meant “hopped the bullet train to recovery.”
“Mim, you better open this door before we kill each other.”
“Sorry. I have school now.”
They protest loudly. I try to ignore them as I tread back to the house. Locking them up could be a disaster. We might be in for a very frosty winter at Sweetbriar Perfumes. On the bright side, at least I won’t be treated to the scent of all those burning tires. As for Aunt Bryony, I haven’t felt the force of her anger yet, but something tells me I want to stay far away. Extreme measures were necessary, though. After all, what are the chances they’d ever be in the same slice of the world again, let alone the same room?
They do have a phone. If Mother got desperate enough, she could call a locksmith, though I bet the thought of a stranger tromping through our garden would put her off calling for a little while. At least Aunt Bryony could cancel her flight.
I don’t really go to school, so I can keep an eye on them, though I do leave a message with the school secretary, citing a “family emergency.” Time to gather eggs, a task Mother usually takes care of. The chickens have already flown the coop, and I collect an even dozen. Using the front of my skirt as a basket, I carry them to the kitchen.
As I cross our bull’s-eye courtyard, a heavy thud followed by scraping sounds carry from the front of the house. I listen to the silence being scratched, grateful to my ears for sticking by me all these years, despite my inattention.
Still holding the eggs, I stand on my toes and peep over the gate.
The back of Court’s shirt pulls out from his jeans as he squats, positioning a box onto a dolly.
I gasp. “What are you doing?”
He freezes, then slowly straightens up. A lock has pulled away from the rest of his neatly combed hair, but his part is ruler straight. “Delivering bricks.” He rests an arm on the top of the dolly. “I guess I couldn’t wait to patch things up.”
I fall back onto my heels and say through the gate, “Our wishing well?”
“Among other things.” His footsteps draw near. “Mel told me about Kali’s journal.”
It takes me a few moments to process what he’s saying. Melanie told him?
He peers over the gate and reaches for the latch. “May I?”
Before I can answer, the gate opens and suddenly we’re standing face-to-face, with only a skirt full of eggs between us.
Amusement flits across his face when he takes in my makeshift apron. But then he’s back to being serious. “I’m an ass for believing you would actually fix me, even with a fake—”
“Forget it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was afraid it’d get back to Vicky. Then, when I lost my smell—”
“You lost your smell?”
“It’s only temporary, I think.”
He winces. “How?”
My wrist cramps, and I shift position, causing the eggs to roll around. “I thought it was because I fell in love with you, but it was because of the salt water.”
“What did you say?”
“It was the salt water. Love witches don’t mix well with salt. Sort of like garden snails.”
His eyes soften. “I meant the other thing.”
I retrace my sentence and gulp. I can’t say things like that, especially now that there’s a new girl in his life. My lips have suddenly gone dry. I step back. “Doesn’t matter anymore. It was nice of you to bring us bricks.” The eggs start to tremble.
“Let me help you.” He takes the corners of my skirt before I drop them. Thank the lilies for leggings.
I knead my numb hands together. Court gazes at me, his face full of longing, and the memory of a campfire springs to my mind. Closer, he tugs my dazed self by the skirt.
Then the chatter of familiar voices breaks the silence.
“They got out!” I jerk back.
Thankfully, he doesn’t drop my skirt. “Who?”
“Mother and Aunt Bryony. They’ll put me in the cold press. You have to go.”
It’s too late. They’ve already seen us. I collect my skirt and grit my teeth.
“Which one’s your mom?”
“The one who’s not smiling. Just don’t look her in the eye.”
Mother strides up, and it strikes me that even though she’s not smiling, neither is she frowning. But Aunt Bryony, holding a pie pan with a chunk of frankincense on it, looks like she discovered gold. She give me a thumbs-up from beneath the plate, though I don’t know if that’s for Mother or Court or her nugget.
The twins appraise me thr
ough the same hooded cat eyes, magnified in the case of Aunt Bryony, who’s wearing Mother’s reading glasses. They even have the same prescription.
“Nice to see you again, Court,” says Aunt Bryony.
“Likewise.” His brow creases as his gaze shifts between Mother and Aunt Bryony.
“Have I met you, too?” Mother asks dryly. She picks up an empty flowerpot.
I recover my breath. “How’d you get out?”
Mother transfers my eggs into her pot. “That shall remain a secret in the event we decide to lock you up.”
Aunt Bryony leans in. “It was a snap.”
I sniff out of reflex for burnt tires, but all I get is soil and lavender from the closest bushes. “So . . . you’re not mad anymore?”
Aunt Bryony lifts her plate. “I will be if she doesn’t share this.”
“Get your own frankincense. You have a Cloud Air card.” Mother pushes her flowerpot of eggs into Court’s midsection. “Do you know how to boil water?”
Aunt Bryony tsks her tongue. “Don’t mind her.” She steers Court by the elbow toward the kitchen. “She gets cranky every time she’s incarcerated.”
Mother doesn’t release her mask of control until they disappear into the house. Then she heaves a long sigh and reaches for me. “Honey, I’m sorry.”
She hugs me tight with her bony but stalwart arms, and tears spring to my eyes.
“I shouldn’t have tried so hard to keep you from the world.” Mother’s voice trembles and she caps her words with a loud sniff. It turns up the waterworks happening in my own eyes. “Though you can’t blame me for wanting to save you from a curse.”
A laugh escapes me and that sets her to laughing, too. But then she turns serious again. “You see, I just didn’t want, want to—” She claps a hand to her mouth.
“You won’t lose me, Mother. We’re a family.” An odd one, but is there any other kind? “And I want to be an aromateur. One day.”
“As great as your grandmother Narcissa?”
I slip my warm hand into her cool one. “No, as great as you.”
FORTY
“THERE IS NO FLOWER QUITE SO EXQUISITE,
AS SHE WHO ANSWERS TO ‘DAUGHTER.’”
—Rosie, Aromateur, 1672
KALI’S EYES HOP from Aunt Bryony to Mother. “Dang. Which one’s witch?”