After I park my bike, I pull my beret more securely over my head. The rest of me is dressed in leggings, an oversize men’s shirt and a cardigan from Twice Loved with a reindeer on the back. A skirt would not be practical for climbing coastal rocks, which I may need to do to find the miso plant.
As I uncap the vial of Ms. Salzmann’s elixir, the fleeting scent of lime blossoms gives way to a singular heart note of tamanu, which is nutty and green like walnuts picked from the tree. I sniff again. Mother never takes shortcuts, and it shows. There’s a silkiness to her elixirs, achieved only through unflinching attention to detail, and patience, an ethereal quality that only another aromateur could appreciate. Given the shortage of aromateurs, at least in this galaxy, it’s a wonder why she still bothers. I sprinkle the contents onto the silk handle of the bouquet. Then I hold thebouquet by the tissue paper and approach the target.
It’s a little early to be ringing doorbells—just past seven in the morning, but I won’t have time to deliver them after school. I press the button.
A senior wearing a terry turban and a kimono squints at me, pulling her wrinkles in new directions. She slips on the pair of reading glasses that dangle around her neck. Her nails are caked with something that smells like clay. “What’s this?”
“Delivery for Ms. Salzmann. Is that you?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
I sniff to make sure. I can’t afford another mistake. Lemon curry. Check. I hand her the bouquet, which she takes without incident. Fixed. I sigh. One down.
“How lovely.” Her nostrils flex as she inhales. “Who could have sent them?” She pulls out the tiny card embedded in the bouquet on which I’d written “From Your Secret Admirer.”
“My secret admirer? Good heavens. Don’t you think I’m a little young to settle down?”
I laugh.
She peers more closely at me. “You look just like those twins who used to bring flowers for the still lifes, back when I was teaching.”
“My mother and her sister are twins—Dahlia and Bryony.” Mother never mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Aromateurs often donate flowers to worthy causes.
“Yes, those were their names. They’d always beg to stay andwatch the artists work. Of course I’d say yes, even if we were doing nudes.” She winks.
Mother definitely never told methat.
“You have a second to give me an opinion on something? It’ll only take a second. Come on in.” Ms. Salzmann disappears into the house.
Before entering, I sniff. Acrylic paint. Bran muffins. No drugs, or smoke, or anything that would set off warning bells. I step inside.
A skylight washes the main room of the strange house with bright morning light. For a second, I think the room is filled with people, then realize they are life-size statues fashioned of recycled junk like beer bottles and cereal boxes. Ms. Salzmann sets the flowers in the arms of one of the statues, then crosses the room to a shelf stuffed with books. Nearby, a wingback chair is arranged next to a pottery wheel and a table. On the table, sits a bust of a man.
Ms. Salzmann glances at me rubbernecking her crowded room. She taps the table in front of the bust. “Tell me, who does this person look like to you?”
I study the face. The strong nose, wide-set eyes and Caesar-like bangs remind me of the face on all the current teen rags right now.
“Tyson Badland?”
She clasps her hands together and leans in. “He’ll be so pleased.”
I gape. “Is it for him?”
Her lips flatten into a sly smile. “All the stars must have a bust nowadays.” She cups her hand beside her mouth. “He’s shorter than you think.”
“I better go. I’m late for school.”
She escorts me to the front door. “You good with your hands?”
“I guess.”
“I’m looking for an apprentice, you interested? My last girl moved to Singapore.”
“Sounds interesting, but I have a lot of projects going on right now.”
“Well, here’s my card in case you change your mind.” She hands me a business card from a shelf on the wall. “Thanks for the flowers.”
Court can’t leave until lunchtime, after his Kill Drill. That works out fine, since I have an arrow to shoot.
