“I called her.”
The blood drains out of her face. “Youcalledher? Whatever for?”
“I lost my nose.”
“I know. You smell like boiled beets.” Her voice becomes a whisper.
Mr. Frederics trails after Alice, his face animated as he speaks to her. Alice picks her way toward us without looking back at him.
“But the good news is, I still have the rest of me.” I laugh shakily.
She blows out an irritated breath. Something catches her nose, and she sniffs. Her eyes snap to mine. “Is that bladder wrack? And thirty-two-thousand-year-old narrow-leaf campion from Siberia. What have you done?”
My words trip out. “About the bladder wrack, that’s the one I told you about, the one with the silvery finish, like miso soup. I found it, er, in the ocean, and as for the campion, it was bushy. Meyer won’t even notice—”
“Youstoleit?”
Our visitors reach us. A film of hospitality barely conceals Mother’s anger. We both stand to greet Alice.
Alice holds out her hand. “Hello. It’s nice to see you again.”
Mother’s eyes grow round, but Alice doesn’t notice. She’s distracted by Mr. Frederics behind her, who’s furtively pressing a handkerchief to the damp spots of his head.
I better pipe up. “Oh, this is actually not my aunt—”
Mother swipes a finger in the air toward me, telling me to shut up. She recovers herself. “How nice to see you, too.” She slides me a questioning look.
“Mrs.Sawyer, won’t you have a seat?” I help Mother out, still puzzling over why she doesn’t want me to tell Alice of her real identity.
“Please, it’s Alice.”
“Alice.” Even Mother’s heard of the infamous Sawyers. Her nose twitches as she inhales sharply, trying to figure out the situation.
“I think I hear the kettle boiling,” I fib.
“Sit down, Mimosa.” Mother shifts her gaze between Alice and Mr. Frederics. “Mr. Frederics, would you be so kind as to fetch the tea tray from the kitchen?”
“My pleasure.” Mr. Frederics hurries away.
Alice gives Mother a grateful smile that turns panicked. “It’s not working,” she hisses.
“Oh?” says Mother, steering her raised eyebrows to me.
I marvel at the power of a single uttered vowel. My insides wring out and sweat pools on my back and neck.
“Why do you think the PUF isn’t working?” I ask.
Mother straightens up like an arrow shot her in the back. “The PUF.”
“You know, the orchid we swiped on her wrist.”
Another invisible arrow shoots Mother, this time in the front, and her breath sweeps out of her. She grabs her palm and begins kneading it with her knuckle. Her mouth flattens into a grim line.
Alice glances toward the kitchen. “You said it would beimmediate, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean, I started to make an omelet this morning, and before I knew it, I was making cake batter.” She presses her hand to her heart.
Mother stops kneading her palm and folds her hands in front of her, back in charge of the situation. “The heart remembers. It’s perfectly possible to fall back in love with Mr. Frederics again, all by yourself.” She slits her eyes at me. “Or have I mentioned that?”
“You said the heart was like a balloon,” Alice volunteers.
