“Don’t you think she’s had enough?” Rhys said, clearing his throat, deep lines settling between his brows. He hated it—all of it—the history, the marks, the gold.
“I won’t leave you unprotected,” my mother said as she grasped our hands. I felt the hard ridge on her hand pressing against my skin. Like the hanging girl, my mother had a long angry scar covering the length of her left palm. A constant reminder of her past.
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” she said as she helped us down from the table, then led the way up the spiral stairs to her studio.
“I seriously doubt that,” Rhys said under his breath.
I tried to play it off, but just the thought of the bone needle brought a vile taste to my mouth.
2
SCAR TISSUE
YOU’D NEVER KNOW IT by the caustic scent in her studio, but my mother made some of the most exquisite perfumes in the world. She had an elite clientele willing to pay a small fortune for fragrances that were truly unique. She worked on other things, too. Secret things. The smell of sulfur and putrid brine wafted through the air, remnants of her last dalliance with the unknown.
Our apartment had a minimalist modern feel, but my mother’s studio was warm and cluttered—like stepping back in time—a private oasis in the middle of New York City. Exposed brick walls were studded with arched windows, fragrant plants and vines grew in every nook and cranny. Still, my mom’s favorite part of the house was the small stretch of grass in the center of the room. It wasn’t just any grass—the seeds came from Quivira. She seemed truly at home here in the studio, standing among hundreds of mismatched bottles stacked on graduated shelves. As a kid I loved watching her work; I was always fascinated by the layer of fine gold dust that clung to her fingertips as she traced symbols in the air. She had her own language for formulas, a mix of ancient alchemy symbols and Caddo—the language of the Native American tribe who first inhabited Quivira. Supposedly, it was passed on from generation to generation of Larkin women, but my mother never wanted me to learn. She didn’t want us to be a part of that world. Even if it was all in her head, it was still kind of beautiful, like a twisted fairy tale.
I spotted the sharpened bison bone needle on the edge of her desk.
“Do I smell wild jasmine?” I asked, trying to distract myself from what was about to happen.
A smile eased across her lips as she placed two drops of clear liquid into a narrow vial. “You’re close. It’s blue lotus.” She stood on bare tiptoes to reach a bottle on the top shelf. She only wore shoes if she absolutely had to—another holdover from her upbringing.
My mother glanced at me appraisingly. “Your nose may be improving. Any chance it’s rubbed off on your brother?”
“Highly unlikely,” I said. To Rhys, everything smelled like Play-Doh, cinnamon, or feet.
“You know it’s rude to talk about people in front of them,” my brother called out as he meandered around the studio, squeezing through the apothecary shelves with his hands held high in the air, trying not to touch anything. He thought alchemy was just a fancy word for witchcraft, but my mom always said it was about transformation. It could be herbs, metals, chemicals, or even the soul.
“I wish you’d teach me,” I said as I watched her work.
“You know everything you need to know,” she replied as she pulled bottles from the shelves.
“Just what anyone could pick up from a textbook.” I removed a glass stopper to take a whiff. Sharp and metallic.
She smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “You have your whole life ahead of you . . . a beautiful life, free of all this,” she said as she took the bottle away from me. “You’re not responsible for the sins of your ancestors.”
Rhys made a throttling motion behind her. He hated when she talked in riddles.
“I know what you’re doing, Rhys,” my mother said without turning around.
Busted, I mouthed with a grin.
A deep flush reached all the way to the tips of his ears before he skulked off to look out the windows.
“You know, you have Katia’s eyes,” my mother said to me.
The dead girl. “Wait . . . did Katia look exactly like me?”
“No.” She gave me a puzzled look. “There’s a family resemblance, though. Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious.” I feigned interest in an old marble pestle.
Katia Larkin, my great-great-great-whatever-grandmother, was a powerful alchemist in the 1500s. So powerful that the king of England, the king of Spain, and the Catholic Church all wanted to burn her at the stake. Apparently, she could turn common metals into gold and heal the sick. But the real kicker: They said she was immortal.