Then everything goes wrong. I grossly miscalculated how well this pot of dirt would hold up a seven-foot tree. By the time I notice the pot tipping over, it’s too late. The whole thing falls to the floor with a massive crash. I let out a startled yelp as dirt and pieces of glowing palm tree fly across my room. A chunk of bark hits me in the face, which feels like a personal eff-you.

Once the chaos subsides, I snatch up a bottle of cleaning potion from my shelf and sprinkle it liberally across my floor. Piles of dirt disintegrate as the liquid hits them, leaving behind a faint scent of lemon. Maybe I can get this cleaned up before Mom busts me.

It takes me a few tries, but I manage to hoist the ghost palm back upright. I prop it against the wall and pray that it won’t tip over again. This would be way easier if I had some Light as a Feather potion on hand. I guess I could levitate the tree myself, but at my level, magically messing with living things without prior planning is a recipe for disaster.

The floorboards in the hallway creak, and I tense. Time’s up.

“Shay? Shay, are you awake?” Mom calls. Her heavy steps echo through the apartment as she approaches my room.

Ooh, I’m dead. I am so incredibly deceased. I’m not actually supposed to brew potions in my room. Ugh, I should have done the easy potion and gone to bed on time.

Mom whips open the door and strides into the room. She’s wearing her black bonnet—I definitely woke her up. Damn.

“You okay?” she says as she turns the lights on. “Did something happen?”

I freeze, one hand still resting guiltily on the stupid ghost palm. “Um. One of Dad’s trees fell over.”

“You good?” She comes over and looks me up and down. “It didn’t hit you?”

“I’m fine.”

She takes another few seconds to confirm that I’m actually all right. Then she turns her attention to the tree. “Why’d you have that in here?” she says, her eyes narrowing.

“He said I could test my Flora-Grow on it.”

She sniffs, catching the scent of my potion, and her eyes flick to the cauldron. “Were you brewing in here?” she says, her hands flying to her hips. “Shayna, you know better than that. While you live in my house, you follow my rules.”

I nod obediently, looking as apologetic as possible. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t need to be working on your li’l potion projects in the middle of the night.”

“It’s homework. For AP Potions.”

Her expression softens, and I sense that I could get out of this without serious consequences. Maybe.

“I had to finish this tonight,” I continue. “It’s due tomorrow.”