THE GARDEN ISdark, but not quiet. The lights I spent a winter stringing around the cherry trees resemble giant clouds of fireflies, and hum in a way I never noticed before. Gravel scrapes and crunches under my feet as I head to the workshop.
I insert the business end of the key, worn smooth after so many years of service. William—my grandfather—used this same key. I turn the heart-shaped end. The lock fights me, then with a screech, gives way.
Standing in the threshold, I notice particles floating in front of me, illuminated by our old-fashioned hurricane sconces. I never noticed how my own breath makes the dust motes dance. I imagine the way that dust used to smell, like old books, sluggish on the liftoff and mellowing into dried leaves. The memory is so vivid, I can almost . . . but not quite.
Instead, my head fills with the symphony of chirping cricketsplaying in counterpoint to a hooting owl.
I hang up the key, and get to work.
The alarm wakes me before the rooster crows. After dressing, I pack a basket full of food and other supplies, then hurry to the workshop.
Everything’s in order here. Last night, I cleaned the bathroom, stocked fresh towels and blankets. I even brought a crossword book, which I thought was a nice touch.
My breath lifts in white plumes, but I’m too pumped to feel the chill in the air. I set water to boil on a hot plate. Then I fetch Layla’s Sacrifice, which has shriveled into a crispy nest. The second bud looks like a corn nut.
I set the terrarium atop the workshop table. Using a hooked pole, I budge open the skylight.
I strike a single match against our workshop table and flames dance before me. The dried leaves of Layla’s Sacrifice ignite as soon as I touch it with the fire. Soon, the whole plant is a burning mass. Smoke lifts in gray tendrils toward the skylight, the marmalade scent now dusky and bitter. When enough smoke has escaped, I replace the glass lid over the burning plant and the flames die. The glass cage fills with gray smoke and ash.
Any moment they’ll come running. The smell of burned Layla’s Sacrifice is strong enough to awaken any aromateur.
As I wait, I prepare tea. I haven’t felt so calm in weeks. Mother and Aunt Bryony just need a chance to work out theirproblems. It’s like the old key to our workshop—with the right amount of jiggling, I feel sure their problems can be worked out.
Aunt Bryony arrives first. She waves the silk sleeves of her pajamas. “What happened here?” She crosses to the table and squints at the sacrificial terrarium. “YouburnedLayla?”
Mother bursts into the workshop next. Her blue flannel pants stick out from under her terry-cloth robe. A wavy line from her sleep mask runs across her forehead. “What the blazes is going on?”
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Into the two cups, I pour perfectly steeped Ceylon. “Honey? Cream?”
Mother doesn’t sit. “What are you doing?”
Aunt Bryony pushes her teacup and saucer at me. “I’ll take both.”
Mother wilts Aunt Bryony with her gaze. “Mim, tell me what you are doing NOW.”
I serve my elders, placing Mother’s teacup on the workshop table next to where she stands, brittle, holding her arms and observing me.
Aunt Bryony slurps her tea.
I cross back to the blue door. Dawn peeks through when I open it. “Aunt Bryony said William locked you in here once to sort out your differences. Please don’t use the skylight.”
“Mim.” Mother starts toward me. “This is not funny.”
I shut the door behind me. As I jam in the key, I feel Mother trying to pull the door back open. She’s faster than I thought.
Quickly, I twist the key, and for a panic-stricken moment, I wonder if it will fail me.
But this time, the lock clicks easily into place.
“Mim!” Mother wails.
“I have a plane to catch in two hours,” Aunt Bryony calls loudly.
“Well then, you’d better get talking,” I call back. I wait patiently outside the door.
“You go climb out the window,” Aunt Bryony says in a fainter voice.
“I most certainly will not do that. You do it.”
