“Actually, yes. Any emotion based on fear tends to be ‘sour,’ like helplessness, self-pity, rejection . . .”
A circlet of yellow flowers straight as candles grows near Court’s foot, their florets arranged in perfect Fibonacci numbers. Court plucks the only puffed one and twirls it between his fingers. Then he holds it out to me. “What’s a dandelion mean?”
I take it. The bloom’s chardonnay notes are oakier when it matures to a puff. “Flirtation.” The word slips out before I have a chance to catch it. A flash of heat sears my collar.
“And here I thought I was being subtle,” he jokes, though I catch the unmistakable scent of smoked paprika, the mildest of the chilies and a telltale sign of embarrassment, creeping in from his direction. Or maybe it’s coming from my direction.
Before my nose ties itself into knots, I add, “And hope. It also means hope.” I lift the dandelion puff like a wineglass. “To your mother’s happiness.” I send the seeds sailing away in one breath, knowing it will take more than hope to set things right.
SIX
“THOUGH COWSLIPS LINE THY MAPLED CART,
THE WISE WILL CATCH A FALLING HEART.”
—Carmelita, Aromateur, 1728
THE ROAD TO Parrot Hill is a winding two-lane highway no one uses except for the residents, who are few in number and mostly elderly. I’ve never seen any parrots myself, but they swarmed the sycamores when Mother was young, mini-F-18 bombers that dropped their loads wherever and whenever. After the parrots stopped coming, Mother bought chickens to enrich the soil, which are easier on the hair.
A burst of anxious energy helps me pedal up the incline, leaving a swampy bog in my wake. The wet-dog smell of forgotten cucumbers assails my nose, spiked by zingers of hoary tomatoes. Even though most of the homeowners no longer grow their own vegetables, the ghosts of produce past still linger.
At the break in the briar, I stop at the end of our long, stone driveway, breathing hard. If I’m not careful, Mother will smell my stress.
I step through bitter chicory plants with their jagged leaves, to reach a Merengue rosebush bursting with plump blossoms. Mother insists we plant them this way for the visitors. The bitter walnut scent of the chicory actually balances the sweetness of the roses, sort of like how coffee and sugar, working together, can create a more pleasing and complex taste. I inhale, letting its muscat-sweet fragrance cool my mood.
Calmer, but not by much, I pedal up to the covered walkway that leads into the round courtyard just outside our kitchen. Our cottage is a mishmash of stone blocks, as if the ancestor who built it simply employed whatever odds and ends were on hand. The whole lopsided structure has stayed intact through several earthquakes, but the wishing well is crumbling on one side where I crashed our old maple cart last month. Mother wouldn’t speak to me for a week for taking out those two relics in one careless swoop, especially that cart. Aromateurs traditionally used handcarts made of maple, a hard wood whose scent won’t react with the cargo, but true maple carts are hard to come by nowadays.
I lean my bike against the good side and peer through the window of the corner turret where Mother sometimes escapes, working her crossword puzzles. I don’t see her, which I hope means she’s in the workshop.
Cautiously, I enter the house, but not hearing or smelling Mother, I retreat into my room and perch on the edge of my bed. A handwritten journal our ancestors compiled in 1672, the Rulebook sits on my nightstand. I flip through the tissue-thin pages to Rule Eighteen:
In the case of an error, the Wronged Party (WP) may be neutralized with a Potion to Undo Feelings (PUF) without consent until the time of the WP’s first kiss with the client. Thereafter, the WP may only be PUF-ed with informed written consent.
I don’t know how I’ll know when Alice and Mr. Frederics kiss, but the sooner I can make the PUF, the sooner I can avoid a meeting of their two lips. I skim through all the pages but can’t find a single word about how to make the PUF. For something so important, seems someone should’ve written it down. We do keep index cards of all the elixirs we’ve made in my workshop desk. Maybe the card from the one time Mother made a PUF will be in there. It may not be helpful, since elixirs are client-specific. Still, it’s a starting place.
Grimly, I trudge down the stairs and out the kitchen door. Mother’s scent drifts from the direction of the workshop. Maybe I should wait until she leaves before searching for the card. But, I smell gardenias, which means she’s making an enfleurage, a time-consuming oil extraction of the more delicate blooms. She could be in there all day and night.
I’ll just have to keep my cool and hope she’s too involved with her work to smell a few wayward stress fumes from me. Gardenias are heavy scenters, and might help mask my anxiety.
I travel down the path of stones. Everything is okay.