“Eva is different,” Mom said, encouraged by my silence. “She’s like you.”
Like hell she is.
I looked away. No one was like me. Sometimes I wished I could find someone who was. Someone who craved death as much as they feared it, who knew what it was like to hold rot in your hands. But that was selfish, to wish my curse on someone else.
Still, sometimes it was hard not to fear that I was the only person in the world this broken.
“Wholeness is much like a puzzle, little death-touch. Do not confuse its many pieces for brokenness.”
My fingers ticked a familiar, anxious rhythm against the side of my leg in a desperate attempt to calm the voice in my head before it got louder.
“I just…” Mom trailed off. Her frown made her delicate, drawn-on brows curve like the jut of a wing in flight. “I can’t keep doing this, Artie.”
I closed my book and held it to my chest. The Edgar Allan Poe anthology weighed heavy against my sternum. I liked the pressure of it, how that beating, maddening heart under the floorboards hid the crack in my own chest.
I’d tried to be small for years. I’d tried to be light as air, but I was still too much for her.
“You’re coming back.” It wasn’t a question, and I hated that my voice trembled like it was.
Mom’s fingers wrapped a little too tightly around the door handle on the driver’s side. “Let’s go inside. You’ll like it here. I promise.”
I determined I would not.
A little bell announced our arrival. The Honey Shoppe was all warm wood and glinting glass. Amber-colored jars lined the shelves, each tied with a neat burlap bow and a rustic label:MOREAU HONEY. Behind the counter, soldier-straight rows of jars full of brightly colored loose-leaf teas broke up the overwhelming glow of gold. My gaze snagged on a gingham cloth by the window, where a loaf of focaccia had been cut into cubes, toothpicks spearing the crust. A folded white card invited shoppers to slather on the house-whipped honey butter.
My mouth watered at the smell.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mom murmured. When she turned her back, I swiped one of the samples and popped it into my mouth. Surprise and pleasure at the taste spread through me. The herbal undertones were rich and earthy. Rosemary, perhaps?
“You haven’t eaten today.”
I speared another sample, my stomach growling as my eyes skated over the labels detailing the various flavors of tea lining the shelves. Some I recognized, like rosehip and dandelion, while others—like meadowsweet or usnea—were unfamiliar to me.
“Is your honeyman in today?” Mom asked the girl behind the counter. She had raven-dark hair that stretched all the way to her waist.
“Not today, no. He’s…” The girl paused and cocked her head. “Mrs. Connoway?”
“Charlotte, please.” Mom’s smile could have melted a candle. “I’m surprised you recognize me. Missy, isn’t it?”
“Izzy.” The girl looked faintly stunned.
“Izzy.” Mom nodded pleasantly. “I was so sorry to hear about your mama.”
“Oh. Thank you, ma’am.”
The bell rang behind us, signaling another customer. When Izzy caught their eyes, her bewildered expression fled, replaced by a sudden tightness around her own eyes.
“Whatcha doin’ here, Lenny?”
I turned, not realizing how close the newcomer stood until the bone of his shoulder knocked hard into mine. “Watch it.” He shot me a glare before turning to face the girl behind the counter. “Your sister ’round, Moreau?”
I didn’t hear her reply, anxiety sparking in my chest as I crossed my arms and pushed past him, almost tripping over my feet in my desperation to get outside, away from those too-gold walls.
I’d touched him.
Panic strobed through me, and my heartbeat quickened as the door swung closed behind me.
“Hey. Take a breath, little death-touch.”
