Everything goes cold inside me. It’s like someone poured in ice cubes and shook me up, and I can hardly make sense of which way’s up. The door opens, but I push off, hurtling away like a meteor in search of her orbit.
My chest shakes when I inhale, and I press one arm into my stomach to cage my sob. Somehow, it hurts to breathe even worse than when I was underwater, drowning. If this is how love feels, it makes you wonder why everyone’s so obsessed with finding it. Maybe our elixirs should come with a warning label: product comes with serious risk of total meltdown.
I wanted him to get over me. I should be happy he moved on.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. It’s better this way. Relationships just distract us from our life’s work. Grandmother Narcissa only became great through devotion to her craft. Assuming I can get my nose back, think of all the matches I can make, undistracted by other people. Undistracted by the one commodity in which we trade.
My legs feel shaky and tired even before I get to Parrot Hill.
Should I tell Mother straight out, or come into it sideways once she’s had a chance to tell me about her trip?
As I round the curve toward the home stretch, a singular sight makes me slam on the brakes. A bamboo-green hybrid with a Honk If You Love Math bumper sticker sits in the driveway.
Mr. Frederics is here.
Mother already knows.
THIRTY-SIX
“LOOK ABOUT, THE HUMBLE EDELWEISS GROWING ON THE
MOUNTAINS HAVE BROKE THE ROCKS.”
—Limonia, Aromateur, 1598
MOTHER AND MR. Frederics sit outside the workshop under the nutmeg tree and its buddy, the ylang-ylang. Their backs are to me, with the tops of their heads peeking out above the shrub line. As I approach, Mother calls out my name without turning around. She can smell me from a hundred yards away.
Mother’s still in her traveling clothes—blue pullover, loose-fitting pants, and a scarf knitted by a client. She stands to give me a perfunctory hug, not smiling. Her nose wrinkles, catching a scent of something it doesn’t like. It could be a dozen things, Aunt Bryony, the stink of deception, unwashed hair. But a single word causes a chill to snake up my spine: “Blueberries.”
I forgot about that one. Of course she smells my heartbreak.
Mr. Frederics nods at me. “Afternoon, Mim.”
“Hi, Mr. Frederics.”
“Mr. Frederics was sharing with me something very interesting.” A muscle in her cheek twitches.
“Oh?” I sink onto the bench opposite them. My big eyes don’t fool Mother for a second.
Mr. Frederics laughs sheepishly. “Well, Sofia, Ms. DiCarlo, isn’t interested in me after all. You were there at the Puddle Jumpers event. I was trying to teach the children mathematics with the grapes. She told me to give it a rest, not everyone likes math. Imagine that.” He scoots back on our teakwood bench and matches his fingertips together. “Anyway, no matter. Turns out, I’m in love with someone else.”
Mother’s nostrils flare and she twists around and peers at our solid wooden gate. “Seems we have another visitor.”
Who does she smell?
“Hello?” calls the familiar voice of a former Miss California.
Mr. Frederics hops to his feet and shades his eyes. “It’s her. Now what could she be doing here? Allow me.” He starts toward the gate.
Mother fixes me with an unblinking stare. “How long was Bryony here?”
She smells the remains of my aunt’s presence. “Two days.”
“Why’d she come?”
“I called her.”
The blood drains out of her face. “You called her? Whatever for?”
“I lost my nose.”
“I know. You smell like boiled beets.” Her voice becomes a whisper.
Mr. Frederics trails after Alice, his face animated as he speaks to her. Alice picks her way toward us without looking back at him.
“But the good news is, I still have the rest of me.” I laugh shakily.
She blows out an irritated breath. Something catches her nose, and she sniffs. Her eyes snap to mine. “Is that bladder wrack? And thirty-two-thousand-year-old narrow-leaf campion from Siberia. What have you done?”
My words trip out. “About the bladder wrack, that’s the one I told you about, the one with the silvery finish, like miso soup. I found it, er, in the ocean, and as for the campion, it was bushy. Meyer won’t even notice—”
“You stole it?”
Our visitors reach us. A film of hospitality barely conceals Mother’s anger. We both stand to greet Alice.
Alice holds out her hand. “Hello. It’s nice to see you again.”
Mother’s eyes grow round, but Alice doesn’t notice. She’s distracted by Mr. Frederics behind her, who’s furtively pressing a handkerchief to the damp spots of his head.
I better pipe up. “Oh, this is actually not my aunt—”
Mother swipes a finger in the air toward me, telling me to shut up. She recovers herself. “How nice to see you, too.” She slides me a questioning look.
“Mrs. Sawyer, won’t you have a seat?” I help Mother out, still puzzling over why she doesn’t want me to tell Alice of her real identity.
“Please, it’s Alice.”
“Alice.” Even Mother’s heard of the infamous Sawyers. Her nose twitches as she inhales sharply, trying to figure out the situation.