“Sorry. I have school now.”
They protest loudly. I try to ignore them as I tread back to the house. Locking them up could be a disaster. We might be in for a very frosty winter at Sweetbriar Perfumes. On the bright side, at least I won’t be treated to the scent of all those burning tires. As for Aunt Bryony, I haven’t felt the force of her anger yet, but something tells me I want to stay far away. Extreme measures were necessary, though. After all, what are the chances they’d ever be in the same slice of the world again, let alone the same room?
They do have a phone. If Mother got desperate enough, she could call a locksmith, though I bet the thought of a stranger tromping through our garden would put her off calling for a little while. At least Aunt Bryony could cancel her flight.
I don’t really go to school, so I can keep an eye on them, though I do leave a message with the school secretary, citing a “family emergency.” Time to gather eggs, a task Mother usually takes care of. The chickens have already flown the coop, and I collect an even dozen. Using the front of my skirt as a basket, I carry them to the kitchen.
As I cross our bull’s-eye courtyard, a heavy thud followed by scraping sounds carry from the front of the house. I listen to the silence being scratched, grateful to my ears for sticking by me all these years, despite my inattention.
Still holding the eggs, I stand on my toes and peep over the gate.
The back of Court’s shirt pulls out from his jeans as he squats, positioning a box onto a dolly.
I gasp. “What are you doing?”
He freezes, then slowly straightens up. A lock has pulled away from the rest of his neatly combed hair, but his part is ruler straight. “Delivering bricks.” He rests an arm on the top of the dolly. “I guess I couldn’t wait to patch things up.”
I fall back onto my heels and say through the gate, “Our wishing well?”
“Among other things.” His footsteps draw near. “Mel told me about Kali’s journal.”
It takes me a few moments to process what he’s saying. Melanie told him?
He peers over the gate and reaches for the latch. “May I?”
Before I can answer, the gate opens and suddenly we’re standing face-to-face, with only a skirt full of eggs between us.
Amusement flits across his face when he takes in my makeshift apron. But then he’s back to being serious. “I’m an ass for believing you would actually fix me, even with a fake—”
“Forget it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was afraid it’d get back to Vicky. Then, when I lost my smell—”
“You lost your smell?”
“It’s only temporary, I think.”
He winces. “How?”
My wrist cramps, and I shift position, causing the eggs to roll around. “I thought it was because I fell in love with you, but it was because of the salt water.”
“What did you say?”
“It was the salt water. Love witches don’t mix well with salt. Sort of like garden snails.”
His eyes soften. “I meant the other thing.”
I retrace my sentence and gulp. I can’t say things like that, especially now that there’s a new girl in his life. My lips have suddenly gone dry. I step back. “Doesn’t matter anymore. It was nice of you to bring us bricks.” The eggs start to tremble.
“Let me help you.” He takes the corners of my skirt before I drop them. Thank the lilies for leggings.
I knead my numb hands together. Court gazes at me, his face full of longing, and the memory of a campfire springs to my mind. Closer, he tugs my dazed self by the skirt.
Then the chatter of familiar voices breaks the silence.
“They got out!” I jerk back.
Thankfully, he doesn’t drop my skirt. “Who?”
“Mother and Aunt Bryony. They’ll put me in the cold press. You have to go.”
It’s too late. They’ve already seen us. I collect my skirt and grit my teeth.
“Which one’s your mom?”
“The one who’s not smiling. Just don’t look her in the eye.”
Mother strides up, and it strikes me that even though she’s not smiling, neither is she frowning. But Aunt Bryony, holding a pie pan with a chunk of frankincense on it, looks like she discovered gold. She give me a thumbs-up from beneath the plate, though I don’t know if that’s for Mother or Court or her nugget.
The twins appraise me through the same hooded cat eyes, magnified in the case of Aunt Bryony, who’s wearing Mother’s reading glasses. They even have the same prescription.
“Nice to see you again, Court,” says Aunt Bryony.
“Likewise.” His brow creases as his gaze shifts between Mother and Aunt Bryony.
“Have I met you, too?” Mother asks dryly. She picks up an empty flowerpot.
I recover my breath. “How’d you get out?”
Mother transfers my eggs into her pot. “That shall remain a secret in the event we decide to lock you up.”
Aunt Bryony leans in. “It was a snap.”
I sniff out of reflex for burnt tires, but all I get is soil and lavender from the closest bushes. “So . . . you’re not mad anymore?”