Addison narrowed her eyes. “And how exactly would I do that?”

With a deep breath, Quinn said, “You could try it on my nightmares.”

Quinn didn’t remember much about her father—she’d only been a little over a year old when he died—but every summer, dark dreams plagued her sleep. Even now, all she had to do was close her eyes and she could see the images.

Daddy lay in a puddle of his own blood beside me.

It soaked my clothes.

Dripped from my hands.

My tiny fist brushed his shoulder.

His hand slipped from his chest.

I wailed. I didn’t understand; I knew nothing about death or blood or loss.

But it had come for me all the same.

Then I was in my Aunt Irene’s arms. Cicadas surrounded us, their wings blocking out the sun. People stood all around, plastic cups pressed to their mouths. Lips stained with chocolate. Horror in their eyes.

On the stage before us: the Bonners.

A scream pierced the buzzing as my mom ran toward us.

The cicadas went still. All the faces around me went slack. As the bourbon went down, the memories rose from the townsfolk like a sigh and formed a dark heavy rain cloud of gloom.

Quinn knew she shouldn’t be able to remember that memory harvest. No one else in Yarrow did; even the children and teenagers who’d been too young to drink had consumed sweet chocolate bourbon balls that wiped it all away.

She’d spent most of her childhood believing her father had been murdered. She was convinced the Bonners were involved. It had been their festival, after all. But as her mom healed and found new love with Clem—as their little family grew—Quinn found herself wishing she could do away with the dreams altogether.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rubbed the sole of one boot against the side of the other as she waited for her cousin’s response.

Addison shook her head slowly. “You’re immune to Haywood magic.”

“I’m immune to Irene and Grams,” Quinn said. “But your magic is different.”

“Even if it could work on you, I take emotions, not dreams,” Addison said.

“What if it’s not a dream?” Quinn asked. “What if it’s a memory?”

Addison pressed her lips together. “I want to help, I really do, but giving up your worst memories is bourbon magic, not Haywood magic.”

“And that bourbon uses corn that first grew in the shadow garden,” Quinn said. “Corn you saw in your tea-leaf reading.”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Addison said.

Quinn pulled up the photo Addison had texted her the day before. Quinn might not have the family magic, but even she drank a cup of tea each morning. Reading the leaves at least gave her a bit of satisfaction that she knew the symbols as well as any Haywood.