Embarrassed, I shook my head.
‘Then you better look it up, I’m not Wikipedia. We’ve been here almost as long as your people, although we made our way to these parts under very different circumstances.’
The shame of what she was saying burned in me. I started to formulate some kind of insufficient apology but she carried on talking over me, not even slightly interested in hearing it.
‘Words is only words. No need to waste ’em where they ain’t needed. My great-grandmother was a root worker, you know whatthatmeans?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I do know it’s not a witch.’
‘Good girl, you learn quick,’ she replied with a chuckle. ‘But you ain’t know much. My great-grandmother, she knew your people real well, told us to wait on you and here you are. Smaller than I thought you’d be, can’t see you plugging up much of a hole in anything, least of all the end of the world. Surely a pretty thing though.’
‘You know about the prophecy.’
I hadn’t realized how tightly I was clinging to the iron gate until I felt it bend, hot in my hands. ‘Are you here to help?’
Behind her, in the square, I saw my oldest ancestor smothering a smile behind her hand and Sistah Mariama clucked with displeasure.
‘Y’all be always expecting Black women to save the world. We do our part, honey, more than our fair share, and you tell that spirit lurking in the shadows to leave me be. You do your part, I’ll do mine.’
Emma Catherine Bell lowered her head respectfully and took herself away across the park, lingering by the fountain.
‘I’m still not entirely clear on exactly what my part is,’ I confessed as Mariama started off down the street, her indigo blue dress holding tight to her curves as she went. ‘If there’s anything you can tell me, I sure would appreciate it.’
She ran a hand over the azalea bush on my side of the fence. ‘This town is famous for its azaleas. While they sleeping in the ground, you think they know if they going to be pink or orange or red?’
‘I think azaleas are less likely to find themselves in the same predicament I’m in,’ I replied as politely as I could, and she snickered to herself, nodding as she walked on.
‘Most folks forget how powerful a flower can be. That azalea sure is pretty to look at but you eat it and you’re going to be sick to your stomach. No one thinking ’bout that while they strolling around, admiring.’
I followed her as far as I could, stopping short when I got to the end of the garden, held back by my own iron railings.
‘That’s your advice? Don’t eat azaleas?’
‘It’s more than I owe you, little witch.’
Without turning to look back, Sistah Mariama of the Gullah Geechee raised her voice as she crossed the street.
‘People underestimate pretty things. Just because they fragile don’t mean they ain’t got strength all of they own.’
Across the street, the ghost of Emma Catherine Bell watched with reverence as my new friend disappeared around the corner, leaving me in my garden, surrounded by beautiful, fragile flowers.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’
Jackson closed the door that led from the downstairs bedrooms to the back garden with his elbow, hands full of cans of soda and a paper plate. I’d been sitting outside for a while, watching the sunset in the back garden. The vibrant colours of a summer’s day had faded out, the slider shifted all the way to the left on the saturation bar.
‘You missed the cake-cutting.’ He placed one of the unopened sodas on the table in front of me and sat in the open chair by my side. ‘Let me guess, the dance at the DeSoto was so awful, it put you off parties for life?’
‘The dance at the DeSoto was great,’ I replied as I flipped the tab on the soda. ‘At least it was until the end.’
‘Yeah, I always hate it when they play that Black Eyed Peas song too.’
The bluish-grey tones of the early evening cooled his skin but nothing could dim his smile. Not when it was at full wattage like it was right now.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Jackson said, popping his own can while I poked at the cake with a little silver fork.
‘No, you don’t.’
