The future of love depends on me remaining true to our purpose. If not me, then who else? Mother and I are the world’s last aromateurs.
My shoulders sag under the weight of my lineage. Perhaps this is why Mother let me go to school—because in the end, she knew I had no real choice. Like Ruth Meyer, the plants will haunt me if I leave them, and so in the garden I must stay.
I fumble around my bag for the BBG, nearly dropping the bottle in my agitation. I never had to respray before, but apparently, I didn’t do it right the first time.
“Mim?” Court whispers almost shyly.
“We should go now.” This is a business relationship, nothing more.
He winces, and the blue hydrangea of his disappointment is so strong, it almost makes me weep. I peer out at the now-empty garden, hoping he follows my gaze.
He does. I’m about to depress the pump of my bottle when his eyes snap back to me. I snatch my hand behind my back. Real smooth.
“What . . . ?” One eyebrow quirks. “Was that a perfume bottle?”
Guiltily, I open my hand. “Oh, this?”
“Yeah, that.” The gluey notes of confusion dribble out. “Did you spray something?”
I deflate. It’s not a secret. We just spray in secret to avoid awkward explanations. “It’s a special type of elixir.” I gesture with my free hand. “You touched me, so I have to disinfect you.”
“Or I’ll get lovesick?” A grin tugs at his mouth, but when I don’t change my expression, his own becomes serious. “Wait. You used it after the bee stung me. I remember now.” He rubs a hand over his mouth and chin. “How long does it take for that thing to work?”
“It’s almost always immediate.”
“Well then, I guess I’m still waiting.”
His words send a trill of happiness through me. For a nanosecond, a vision of us strolling hand in hand through a golden meadow teases me. But then a thick and thorny vine entangles us, and all the flowers of ancestors past like the ones on Aunt Bryony’s quilt look on, quietly censuring me with their gaze.
A branch pokes me in the thigh, jarring me back to the present. It’s possible the BBG hasn’t taken effect yet. Or a breeze might have blown it away, though that’s never happened before. “I definitely should remist you.”
“What if the guy doesn’t want those feelings taken away? Doesn’t he get a say?”
My tongue stalls. This is where it gets messy. Mother warned me that men are just as emotional as women when they feel rejected.
“Yes, you get a say. But, love witches can’t like people that way.” The trouty odor of my doubt makes me wince. “So it’s in your best interest for you to, er, not be interested.” That is probably the oddest thing anyone has ever said to him. Seeing the good-natured face he puts on drives a cactus spine into my tender spots. I focus on a smudge of dirt on his cheek as my train of thought veers offtrack.
“So you’re saying I can never take you out to smell dinner.”
I sink my heels deeper into the bark-covered ground, wishing it would compost me. If you only knew I would trade an arm for a date with you.
But not my nose.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes, probing mine, flicker, but don’t lose their intensity. My knees begin to buckle, though I don’t know if it’s from standing so long inside these tree branches or standing so long next to Court.
His chest deflates and he gives the tiniest shrug. “Well then. Spray away.”
Before he changes his mind, before I change mine, I spritz near his breathing space. I try to pump twice, just to be extra sure, but the lever catches at the end, meaning now I’m all out.
Mist shimmers between us like a rainbow veil. “Breathe in, please.” I can’t even meet his eyes. “Just to be sure.”
He lets out a cough of tart disbelief. But after a last look at me, he closes his eyes and deeply inhales, a simple reflex that somehow devastates me.
His eyes flutter open, and an unseen ocean of blue notes fill the space between us. The bump on his throat hitches as he swallows. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we leave the garden, Court stuffs two crisp Benjamins into the donation box. “Hope that covers it.”
SIXTEEN
“IF WE ARE THE MAGICIANS, LOVE IS THE MAGIC,
WITHOUT WHICH WE COULD PULL NO RABBITS,
WE COULD CONJURE NO COIN.”
—Poppy, Aromateur, 1819
ON THE RIDE home, we stick to neutral subjects like math and soccer.
Court fiddles with the radio. “Whit’s a better player than me. He should’ve been the one on Sports Illustrated cover. Cassandra says they chose me because I look more all-American.”
Cassandra, the school songstress with the corkscrew hair. My toes clench.
“She told me not to get any tattoos or it’d ruin my image.”
“Is she your”—I stop myself in time—“publicist?” It’s none of my business if Cassandra is his girlfriend.