The ferns around them began to shift. Their fronds parted, opening a pathway to the rest of the shadow garden. On the other side, a similar barrier had trapped Sylvia and Nate, but the leaves had opened just enough that Addison could reach them.

“Where were we?” Sylvia asked.

Addison stepped up to her grandmother and took her hand.

“Addison?” Irene said.

“Good girl. If you could please deal with these fronds.” Sylvia looked over Addison’s shoulder at the other Haywoods. “A nice trick. I wasn’t aware you all could control the garden.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about us,” Quinn said. A cicada landed at her feet, and she gave Addison a short nod.

Addison closed her eyes and blocked out their conversation, prayed her cousin kept Sylvia distracted as she called to the magic in the older woman’s heart, the way she might call to grief or loss.

It answered at once.

“Enough.” Sylvia pulled a vial from her pocket with her free hand, uncorked it, and held it high.

Addison tugged up one root, then another, and another.

She lifted Sylvia’s magic free.

And then she buried it in her own heart.

Sylvia gasped as Addison slipped from her grasp and wrapped her hand around Nate’s wrist. Uprooting the magic from him was easy.

Addison stumbled back, heavy with the weight of their power.

“What… what have you done?” Sylvia asked, breathless.

Addison dropped to the ground.

She shoved her hands deep into the earth.

Then, she released the Bonner magic into the soil.

The roots pulled at it—all hunger and desperation. And as the power traveled up the stems and stalks, as it broke apart into leaves and flowers, the wilting plants straightened, the curled blooms opened their petals once more. The thick fog of gloom settled on the earth, seeping into the soil, and sunlight broke through the clouds.

Addison looked up at Sylvia, amazed that this woman had managed to capture her heart and then break it so easily.

She brushed back her tears and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “There will be no more forgetting.”

Chapter 47

Irene, One Year Later

Irene leaned against one of the columns on the front porch in a pair of faded overalls, arms crossed as she watched Kaden carry the last cardboard box from the U-Haul up the stairs. He grinned as he passed her. She could spend the rest of her life looking into those eyes.

She pushed herself up and followed him into the house, down the hallway, and up the stairs to the attic Maura had given up for the first-floor bedroom—claiming the stairs had become too much for her. But Irene knew her mother was as glad to have Kaden moving in as she was.