“She uses her binoculars to study birds. She’s an expert birder,” Aunt Iris said. “Encyclopedic knowledge. She used to go on birding expeditions before her anxiety overcame her.”

“We helped her become herself again. We all lose ourselves sometimes,” my mother said. “It’s like who we used to be runs off into the sunset. Who Elsa was ran off after she experienced trauma. She was attacked in the city and beaten up, her purse stolen. Then they used her credit card to buy ten thousand dollars’ worth of junk. She hid in her home, alone and lonely. Trapped. Can you imagine? Now she’s out and about. Slightly stoned, but functioning.”

“More mint tea?” Aunt Camellia asked. She tried to fill my already completely full cup, then said, “Whoops!” as it spilled across the table. “Have another biscuit.”

“Please tell me you’re not selling to kids,” I said. “Please. You absolutely can’t.”

“Oh, my God!” My mother slammed her hands on the table, and my tea spilled. “Young woman! Do not insult us!”

Aunt Camellia reached over with her spoon and rapped my knuckles. Hard. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She rapped them again, her face angry.

“Ouch!” Dang it.

“Evie Lindsay, how dare you?” Aunt Iris said, sitting up straight, brow furrowed. “I am insulted and offended. Surely you know us better than that? We would never sell to anyone under twenty-one. In fact, I don’t think we have any customers under thirty. And they all need it. There are emotional and physical reasons for them needing our homegrown marijuana.”

My aunts and my mother sat back and glared at me, arms crossed. Wow. I was in trouble.

But I was persistent. This was illegal. “Do you have a license?”

“A what?” my mother said.

“A license to sell medical marijuana?” I knew they didn’t. I had a headache. I put my fingers to my temples. Jupiter jumped up on a stack of books and knocked it down. He meowed. I sighed. I had too many books or too many cats.

“You need flower power,” my mother said. “For that headache. And what is a license to sell marijuana?”

“We have car licenses and that’s all we need,” Aunt Iris said.

“More cookies?” my mother snapped at me. She tossed cookies on my plate with anger, one at a time. I caught one before it flew off the table.

“We will accept your apology,” Aunt Iris said, glowering. “I’m waiting, young woman.”

“Please, Evie,” Aunt Camellia said, leveling me with a disapproving look. She rapped my knuckles again. Twice. Ouch! Ouch! “We need healing here.”

I sighed. I apologized. I apologized to my mother and aunts for suggesting that they might sell pot to minors. Even Sundance seemed to be looking at me with a reprimanding eye, that traitor.

We did not further discuss the legality of their selling pot at all. To anyone.