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I had to ask Ana more questions, but I could see she needed rest. I told Nikola I would need some time to think of the best remedy, but that I could give a massage to start.

“A massage?” Nikola asked. He seemed confused, like he’d never heard the term before.

“Yes, for her aches,” I explained. When he still seemed skeptical, I added, “Do you want my help or not?” This silenced him.

I asked for some of his family’s oil. I had my own but might as well use some of theirs. I raised the sleeves of Ana’s nightgown and massaged it onto her arms, like you taught me. Her skin was ice-cold, her limbs stiff. It unnerved me, though I did my best not to show it.

I sang while I worked, hoping a lively tune would impart some strength. My voice wavered at first—I was a little nervous to sing in front of Nikola. He sat in the corner, watching with those piercing eyes. But I tried to imagine he wasn’t there, that I was back with you. Ana’s breathing deepened as she fell asleep; she seemed to enjoy the massage, an encouraging sign.

Before I left, I gave Nikola some dried sage and lemon balm for making tea in the morning, explaining that it should help invigorate her a bit. He asked if I could return the following night, and I agreed.

When I stepped back outside into the dark, I was so grateful for the fresh air that I wanted to inhale the whole sky. But even though I had escaped the putrid scent, a chill lingered in my bones all the way home.

Ten

Petra

June 2026

For the first time since arriving at Lavender House, I sleep without incident. When I realize this, blinking sleepily at the dim sunlight glowing against my canopy, I stretch luxuriously against the mattress, basking in relief. My stress and jet lag must finally be dissipating.

Yet something strange happens on my way downstairs. As I’m walking down the hall, the floorboards creak behind me. I turn, expecting to see Rex, but the hallway is empty. My heart thumps as I listen hard.

Silence. And then, so small it could only be my imagination, a rustle of wind, I hear a woman’s laugh.

I sweep down the rest of the hall in long, swift strides.

My feet slow as I approach the kitchen. A low, steady chanting emanates from within, making the hair on my arms stand on end. When I step inside, I find Karmela’s black figure hunched over a string of rosary beads, swaying and praying in Croatian. Her eyes are closed, expression grave.

“Um, hello,” I greet.

Karmela stops abruptly, her eyes fluttering open. “Oh, good morning.” She blinks a few times as if registering where she is, who I am. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” I say with a smile. “Much better than before.”

“Dobro,” she says, clapping her hands together. Good. “I have something for you.” She picks up a small black box resting on the table and hands it to me.

I gingerly open it to reveal a dainty silver necklace. The medallion bears the image of the Virgin Mary.

“It belonged to your mother,” she tells me. “It was blessed in Međugorje. The Virgin often appears there.”

Back home, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything religious. But the fact it belonged to my mom softens my reaction.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

We spend the rest of the morning baking makovnjača together. The poppy seed roll was one of my mom’s favorite recipes, but it’s been years since I made it. Even though I’m awful at rolling the dough—thin as a bedsheet but not so thin it breaks—Karmela bolsters me with bravo after bravo after bravo. My heart swells to see our hands working side by side. I am a child again, in the kitchen with my mom, the air filled with speckles of flour and laughter and a warmth so deep it sinks into my soul.

Later that day, I excuse myself for a walk, taking my camera with me.

I meander through town, snapping photos of anything that catches my eye—the hand-painted signs at the crossroads, ivy snaking over a drystone wall, a small roadside shrine with a sun-bleached statuette of the Virgin Mary, who is apparently very popular here. I even snap a photo of Luka from afar, as he pauses from waiting tables at his restaurant to peer out over the sea. Ko Doma, the sign on the side of the building reads. Like at home.

The restaurant has a rustic charm, with walls made of sand-colored limestone and a shaded terrace. A donkey peeks out from a stable beside it. I’m still full from the rolls I made with Karmela, but a drink sounds nice.

“So you’re still here,” Luka says as I settle down at a table.

“So I am.”

“How’s your leg?”