I grip the book too hard and leave a wrinkle on the page. Mother had said those words when describing how to make a PUF for Aunt Bryony. December is when Layla’s Sacrifice is in bloom, the plant with the scent so complex—over ten thousand notes—a single orchid can substitute for an elixir. Could it also substitute for a PUF?
I snap my fingers. That’s it. Even if I’m wrong, I have to try. I don’t know for sure if Alice and Mr. Frederics kissed, but maybe not, given his mother’s presence at the game. I pull on leggings and a tunic, and bobby pin my hair into submission.
Outside, I hurry to the workshop.
The twin buds of Layla’s Sacrifice are big as my thumbs and still closed. Harvesting the petals early kills the whole plant. My breath fogs up the glass as I wonder what Mother would do.
Pointless. Mother would never be in this situation. I’m toast whether I kill Layla or not. Alice might as well benefit.
I lift off the glass cover, and stroke one of the buds with my finger. This particular specimen has been growing in this case for twenty-odd years. When they were teens, Mother and Aunt Bryony spent three months in the Brazilian jungle sniffing it out. To end it now while it’s still in its prime sends a needle of pain through my heart. But it’s either Alice’s future happiness, or the plant. To me, the choice is clear. I can always sniff out another orchid. At least, Mother can.
I swab my sharpest clippers with ethanol. Flowers start disintegrating within minutes of cutting, which is why we put them in carrier oil right away. But an enfleurage will take days to reach usable concentrations. I’ll need to cut and run. I’ll have an hour, two, tops to swipe the fresh cut flower directly onto her skin before it starts to go rancid.
Holding a bud with two fingers, I snip it at the base. Then I wrap it in gauze and place it in a six-pack cooler along with an ice pack. Back outside I go. I stop at a hyacinth bush. Like the rest of the garden, the hyacinth is crying out for a trim, but I clip only a single stalk. Hyacinth means, “Please forgive me.”
Moments later, I’m on my bike, working out how to PUF Alice without her knowing. All she needs to do is touch the bud, which should be easy enough.
A pile of debris sweeps over me, kicked up by an easterly draft. I wipe dust from my eyes and nearly knock off my bucket hat. It’s the same one I was wearing that day at Arastradero when I first met Court. I should’ve grabbed a different one. Maybe Court will be sleeping. He was the star last night, and no doubt there was plenty of celebrating. With luck, he won’t wake until noon. Then again, the aspen shadows have started to seep eastward, which means its well past one.
I’m tempted to turn back and wallow under my covers.
I pass Main Street and approach the turnoff into the hills of Cypress Estates with its griffin fountain. A black compact whizzes by me. The driver’s head cranes around, and I swear she looks like Mother. Of course not, Mother’s not back until Monday. But—?
I whip my head around, remembering the jet that woke me up. The black compact slows and makes a U-turn.
It is her. Mother’s back early.
I veer into the rumble strip, nearly colliding with a side rail. The cooler jostles in my basket. What am I going to tell her? I’ll have to make it snappy. Layla’s Sacrifice will go to waste if I don’t swipe Alice soon.
I’m a heaving, sweaty mess by the time Mother pulls up to me.
The passenger side window lowers. I rub my eyes, not sure I’m seeing right. A vibrant-hued gypsy dress swathes her petite frame, topped with a triple strand of iridescent beads. And is that makeup? Mother got a makeover?
She tilts her head and smiles. Her expression is half-amazed, half- . . . tearful. “Well. She must’ve put something in the soil. You’re as tall as a sunflower!”
“Mother?”
“Honey, I’m not your mother. I’m your aunt Bryony.”
THIRTY-ONE
“IT IS NOT A COINCIDENCE THAT CLIMBING
BITTERSWEET REPRESENTS TRUTH.”
—Jonquil, Aromateur, 1699
I TRY SPEAKING twice before I can form a sentence. Except for the gray streak on the left side of her hairline—Mother’s is on the right—my aunt is an exact physical replica of Mother. “Y-you’re, h-how did you know it was me?”
“You look like her. Which means, you look like me.” She covers her mouth with her hand as we stare at each other. Cars collect in back of us. Some of them honk. Aunt Bryony motions them to go around. “Where are you headed?”
“I have to PUF someone.” I yell to be heard.
Her thin eyebrows lift. “Impressive. Made it yourself?”
“No, I cut Layla’s Sacrifice.” I show her the cooler.
“Ah, well then, time’s wasting. Get in!”
“But, my bike . . .”
“Leave it.”
Abandoning my trusty steed is almost as painful as cutting Layla’s Sacrifice. With a sigh, I dismount and prop my bike against the fountain. I lift my hyacinth and my cooler from the basket, then slide into the passenger seat, still not quite believing my aunt is here in the flesh.