I freeze and force my mind to go blank.
Still focused on me, she begins coiling a leather belt while I impersonate a second suitcase. The belt buckle falls out of the middle and the whole thing unwinds, distracting her momentarily. She lets out a gasp of annoyance. “So what is it?”
“I, uh, really, uh—”
“You really what?”
I see an opportunity, like a single red bloom in a field of golden poppies. Keeping my thoughts carefully neutral, I say, “I smelled this scent on someone the other day and I didn’t know what it was. It’s been bothering me.”
Her eyes narrow, reminding me of a cat that’s unsure if it sees a mouse. “Go on.”
“It had a dominant of miso soup, osha beats, a lick of buffalo weed, not too spicy, with a silvery finish. Do you know what it is?”
She goes back to rolling her belt. “There must be two hundred botanicals that fit that description.”
“I know.” I didn’t really think she could tell me. Words can only take us so far in describing a scent. The English language is notoriously lacking in scent terminology. Of course, aromateurs have evolved their own terminology, but that can only narrow the field, not pinpoint. At least Mother’s off the trail. I lead her further away. “What do you do if you can’t match a scent?” From her open crossword book, I pick up her favorite bookmark and pretend to study the laminated pressed violets.
“Never happens anymore. It used to, when I was younger.”
“So what did you do when it happened? When you were younger. It would be nice to know how to become . . . great.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Lipinsky’s easy. I met him once before. He’s mostly fruits.” She smiles. “It’s wonderful to see you finally taking such an interest.”
I let the matter drop now that I’m safe. “I better let you finish packing.” I pass her the bookmark and haul myself up from the bed.
“Mim?”
I pause by the doorframe. Mother studies me with a curious expression. “Immerse yourself in the scent, then meditate on it. The notes will tell you where to go.”
After dinner over a crossword puzzle with Mother, a challenging one I chose to keep both our minds occupied, I head to the workshop. I need to catalogue the scents to source on tomorrow’s trip to Meyer. I bring textbooks, just in case Mother drops in and wonders what I’m doing in there. At least one good thing came of failing to inventory: when she leaves, I can work on Alice’s elixir without fear of discovery.
I insert our old iron key with the heart-shaped grip. It sticks, the way it sometimes does. When I’m a hundred years old, I’ll probably stick in a few places, too. I jiggle it a few times, until I hear the lock give way.
A tendril of Layla’s Sacrifice pushes against the inside of its glass dome like it’s trying to escape, in strange parallel to its namesake. A sixteenth-century aromateur, Layla, had a daughter, Shayla, who mistakenly fixed a Turkish prince with the wrong princess. For her crime, she was sentenced to three days in a locked tomb, a slow and horrible way to die. But so great was Layla’s love for her daughter that she volunteered to stand in for the punishment. Layla stood with her back straight as a reed while they rolled a rock against the entrance of the tomb.
When they returned three days later, they found only an orchid.
“You have it easy in there. Three squirts of water a day, sunshine, peace of mind. It sure gets more complicated when you’re on the outside.”
I grab a notebook and pen. Before beginning my work, I run my hand along the narcissuses the groundskeeper William had carved into the farm table, an old ritual for resetting my mind. The simple act thins the anxious cloud hanging over me, but it doesn’t evaporate altogether.
I write down plants I could use for the remaining notes in Alice’s elixir. Her scentprint contains several exotics, which doesn’t surprise me given her age and gender. The miso soup heart note still bothers me. It’s the drum majorette in the woman’s parade of scents, and totally necessary.
I turn on the computer and pull up our database of plants. Miso is made from soybean, and I run through all fifty-nine species, including four that I personally added to the list after a trip to Asia a few years ago.
None of them match Alice’s miso scent. Then I pull up the Meyer website, which contains a list of all ten thousand species grown at the garden. As I read the names of each plant, I mentally call up their smells.
Again, no matches.
I drum a pencil against my temple. Meyer’s database isn’t regularly updated. They add new species all the time.
Then again, what are the chances they would add a plant with that particular note?
I fumble the pencil and it drops onto the desk, breaking the tip. If I can’t find it at Meyer, I will have to look elsewhere, and elsewhere is somewhere between not here and everywhere.
TWELVE
“HARVEST STINGING NETTLE FROM THE TOP, WHERE IT’S
LEAST EXPECTING YOU.”