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“Will he be okay?” I lean forward, close enough to share breath with Maeve. I realize and step back.
“Yes. A broken heart simply needs time and a warm place to land while it heals.” Maeve pulls a tiny glass vial from her pocket and sprinkles drops around the bluebird’s nest. “A little broken heart tonic doesn’t hurt either. I’ll teach you how to make it if you’d like.”
“A broken heart? But his wing looked hurt. He couldn’t fly.”
“Broken hearts often find it hard to soar, in my experience,” Maeve says, and it’s not hard to guess she’s not talking just about the bird.
“I noticed your roses were wilting. I’m working night shifts the next few days, and I thought maybe I could help you with them in the mornings. My mom wins awards for her roses, and she taught me a bit.”
Maeve assesses me, and I wonder if she sees an object of pity, the way Tessa does when she looks at me; or a disappointment, the way Lydia does; or even a person to keep at arm’s length as if bad luck and grief are contagious, the way the rest of this town does.
“I’d like that,” she says, and I exhale the breath I was holding.
“Roses are the bane of my existence,” she continues. “I’ve lived in hundreds of different places, and even in perfect conditions I can never get them to grow.”
“I can’t believe you’ve gotten anything to grow. This is the worst drought Kingsette’s ever experienced.” Even Tanya’s prized vegetable garden stopped producing weeks ago, her tomatoes abandoned nubs on wilting stalks.
“My mother taught me well. She was ... eccentric. She saw magic in rainstorms and sorrow in rainbows. She taught me everything I know about flowers, how to nurture them, how to heal with them. Of course I wanted nothing to do with her or her flowers. Or the way she saw me.”
The way Maeve’s talking, her use of the past tense—it’s too familiar. “Do you want to tell me about her?”
Maeve lifts her hand to allow a butterfly to light on her finger. Her features soften as she gazes at the delicate creature. “Maybe another time.”
The butterfly takes off, and Maeve turns to study me.
“Come, I’ll give you the grand tour.” Maeve leads me through the garden, stopping by a row of raspberry bushes. She pops a handful of berries into her mouth. “Try one.”
My hesitation makes her smile. “They’re just berries. You won’t be trapped here forever if you eat one.”
“Persephone and the pomegranate seeds?”
“You know your Greek mythology,” she says, sounding impressed, which is only mildly insulting.
“I majored in ancient-Greek studies my first year in college. I switched to nursing when I realized I needed something more practical.” Something that would fit into the spaces Kingsette had for me and Brandon. Nurse for me. Lawyer for him.
“Have you ever been?”
I shake my head. Brandon and I were supposed to go for our honeymoon. Then for our first anniversary. We would have made it there for our tenth anniversary. Probably.
“The years I lived in Greece were the only years I tried to grow olive trees.” She scrunches up her features and scrutinizes the garden. “I wonder if I should try to grow those again.”
“They’d be the first olive trees to grow in Kingsette ever.” I pluck a berry off the vine and almost moan at the flavor, which is the most perfect blend of sweet and citrus I’ve ever tasted.
Maeve beams. “I knew you’d appreciate those. Come look at these too.”
She leads us past the midnight blooms, which remain tightly closed against the sunshine, and points out Amazon lilies, which reach to my knees and smell like pockets of heaven; African violets; Chinese hibiscus; and a variety of other orchids with names I’ve never heard.
“Over there are the mandrake, nightshade, and hydrangea. Belladonna, of course,” she says, pointing to the purple flowers with the dark berries in the western quarter of the garden.
“Why do you grow poison flowers?”
“They’re not poison flowers, they’re flowers that can be poisonous when used by the wrong person. A touch of belladonna goes a long way when someone comes to me with a broken heart.” She considers the flowers, something tender passing over her expression. Something honest. “Of course, they need to be handled with care. Even touching the leaves can irritate your skin. If you have an open wound, it’s even worse. Then there’s the hydrangea—beautiful flower, but it’s quite underestimated.”
“Can I speak to Brandon at the next meditation?” The question blurts out of me.
“I thought you came here for the bluebird. And the roses.” A hint of a smirk.
“Please. I just—I’ve seen more mediums than I care to admit. None of them could do what you did last night. I felt the energy you were talking about. A vibration?”
