I snatched it back too late to stop the monster’s death-touch. The pink flower heads had wilted to a brown crisp. Relief eased my pounding headache, and I shoved to my feet, the taste of petals still slicking the back of my teeth.
“It’s okay,”the monster soothed.
I was shaking as I yanked open the passenger door. We’d stolen the life out of those weeds with a single touch.Flesh to flesh, dust to dust.
Nothing about that was okay.
It was too hot to leave my equipment in the van, so I tucked the urn under one arm and slung my camera bag over the other shoulder. The bag was Mom’s. She’d picked it from a tourist stand at Four Corners the winter we drove west and filled our film rolls with Arizona’s red horizons. The pattern of blue and orange fibers on the bag had faded, like everything between us. It was the only thing of hers I’d inherited that didn’t hurt. I locked the door and left the van behind, the sweet chemical scent of her perfume washing over me.
We couldn’t be more than a quarter mile from the farm. Every step felt heavy under the dark-eyed stares of wild sunflowers growing in the ditch. When I closed my eyes, I pictured the sunflower dress Eva Moreau had worn one bird-watching morning.
The day she’d kissed me.
I exhaled and pushed the memory away.
The wordcottagedid a mighty injustice to the structure aheadof me. Its stone base held solid chestnut walls and a porch that had never sagged a day in its life. At the crest of its gables, a ribbon of smoke seeped from a stone chimney. Beside it stood the workshop where I’d learned how to uncap honeycomb and run frames through an extractor before pouring the honey into jars to sell.
From where I stood at the bend in the road, the greenhouse was behind the cottage, slightly obscured from view, as was the hill leading down to one of the Moreaus’ six apiaries. The dying sun soaked the glass in rose-gold light. I stalled in my tracks, struck by the sight.
A hollow of yearning widened in my chest.
I’m not afraid of dead things, Arthur.
I should have gone straight to the front door and knocked. Instead, I took a step off the path, toward the greenhouse, unaware that I was rubbing my honeycomb tattoo until I was nearly at the door.
There was no one inside, as far as I could tell. Greenbrier swathed the walls, a carpet of moss creeping from the outer wall over the doorjamb. When I reached out to touch the handle, the monster stepped in, stalling our hand midway.
“What are you doing, little death-touch?”
The maw of yearning in my chest opened a little wider. “I just want to see.”
This wasn’t the plan. I’d only meant to pop in, deliver Mom’s ashes to her damn honeyman, then get the hell out of here. This little glass house was dangerous.
The monster’s disapproval swelled as I shook off its hold and turned the knob, pushing the old door open on creaking hinges. My nose filled: vegetal with summer smells and rich, wild herbs.
My eyes fluttered, and for a moment, I was seventeen again.
Then the door to the workshop burst open.
I jerked back, startled, as a short woman flew like a gale across the yard, her long braid snapping behind her in the wind. Another—taller, with raven-dark hair—followed close behind, her heels sinking into the grass in punching steps. “Eva,” she panted. “Would you calm down?”
My heart gave a painful lurch of recognition.
“You want me to becalm?”
Even without the flood of wildflowers spilling from her shoes, I would have known the warm rasp of Eva Moreau’s voice anywhere. In a blindfold. In the dark.
“This is whatnotpining looks like?”
The monster was right. I’d spent the entire drive here raising a shield in preparation for this very moment. There was no reason to open old wounds. This wasn’t a homecoming, and I was the furthest possible thing from a prodigal.
But I hadn’t steeled myself for this: the blaze of her, shooting like a fallen star across the garden. Furious. Formidable.
I needed to get a grip. This was fine. I was fine.
“You’re sweating.”
Neither woman had looked back toward the greenhouse, where I stood, still holding my mother’s remains.
