“What about your daughter?” My voice comes out small and unsure.
Mother notices me, holding my elbows. “Of course I—” She pulls her shovel out of the dirt and gestures with it at my nose. “Don’t try to sidetrack me. What happened between your aunt and me has nothing to do with you and me. You withheld vital information.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t have if she wasn’t so scared you’d seal her in a cave.”
“And you’re the Miss Nose-It-All now. Seal her in a cave, my foot.” Her eyes slide to me. “For heaven’s sake. I would’ve understood the error.”
“Yes, because you’re a fount of blue thistle,” mutters Aunt Bryony, referring to that foggy note of empathy.
“Oh, you’re one to talk about blue thistle. You weren’t exactly brimming with blue thistle yourself when you left me BY MYSELF.”
“It’s not just that.” I hear myself say. My ears ring with the noise of their dispute.
“What is it, then?” Mother snaps.
I gather the fibers of my courage before they fly away. “Sometimes it feels like the only thing you care about is my nose. Like, you never ask me about how school is going. You didn’t even know I aced my Spanish test. Or that I fell on my face in Cardio the first day. It’s like you forget I’m a human being.”
Mother’s nose reddens and her face looks on the verge of crumpling. “Is that what you think, Mim?” Her small hands grip the edges of the shovel.
Aunt Bryony tries to take it from her. “I dug up the oca tubers yesterday.”
Mother won’t let go of the shovel, and the two wrestle with it. “How did you know I planted oca tubers here?”
“I smelled them, of course.”
“Smelled them?”
My aunt flexes a thin eyebrow at me, and I hug myself tighter. “Aunt Bryony’s smell came back. It was the seawater. There is no jinx.” I almost tell her about the falling hearts, too, but decide she’s had enough surprises for one day.
Mother’s grip on the shovel weakens. “I don’t believe it.”
“Fine, don’t.” Aunt Bryony gets to her feet, and her nostrils twitch. “But you might want to take care of that spurge weed growing in section D. It’s going to sprout soon.”
Mother also gets to her feet. She sniffs, then her mouth splits open. “How did you . . .” Her voice grows weak. “It can’t be.”
“I always told you our mother loved William.”
My skin tingles. “The groundskeeper?”
Aunt Bryony gives me a solemn nod. “He was your grandfather. They loved each other for fifteen years before our mother sent him away, and her nose was legendary.”
Mother snorts. “Then why would he leave?”
“Because even love witches have love problems.” She slips her hands into the pockets of her red traveling cloak. “Of course you wouldn’t understand that.”
Mother points the shovel at my aunt. “You sure waited a long time to tell me.”
“You would’ve known earlier if you’d read my letter.” Aunt Bryony’s earrings swing.
“I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“Some things can’t be fixed with pen and paper.” Mother’s voice is getting hoarse. “Anyway, something so important, why couldn’t you tell me in person? You have a Cloud Air card, too. At least, let your fingers do the walking.” She makes a phone with her hand and holds it to her ear.
“I did call you after you threw away my letter, but you never answered. And anyway, don’t take your anger out on poor Mimsy.”
“Mimosa is none of your business.”
“I called her,” I pipe up. “Aunt Bryony came to help me.”
Mother throws down her trowel and climbs to her feet. “I don’t believe this. Was she here to help when you were born?” Yanking off her scarf, she shakes the bundle at my aunt. “Imagine nursing a baby and weeding at the same time.” Back to me. “Did she watch you take your first smells? Nope. Send any birthday cards? Ha! It’s not like she forgot the address.”
“I didn’t know about Mimsy until I read the ‘Living Miracles’ article in the Times.”
“She was five when they wrote that! What have you been doing for the last ten years?”
“Waiting for you to respond to my letter.” Aunt Bryony pulls the edges of her cloak more snugly around her. Two bright spots of pink appear on her cheeks. “Anyway, I already said I’m sorry. Now it’s your turn to apologize to Mimsy.”
“For what? And will you please stop calling her that?” She reties her scarf around her neck with exaggerated movements, but it comes undone again.
Bryony stares up at the palm fronds. “For having your nose so deep in the soil you don’t know if it’s raining on your ass.” She prods Mother with the double barrel of her amber eyes.
“You were always the crude one.” Mother stuffs her hands into her pockets. She looks like she belongs somewhere on the Asian steppes, with the woolly jacket, the scarf, and the two bright spots of red on her cheeks. “And I have no idea what you mean.”
“She asked you a question that you still have not answered.”
My head throbs and my throat feels swollen, as if I swallowed a fig whole.
“What question?”