Addison rolled her eyes. “She’s a grieving widow and a paying customer.”

“It could be tied to the man,” Quinn said.

“We’re rooting for love here.” Clem smacked Quinn’s shoulder playfully.

Irene bit her lip. Small patterns of leaves dotted the sides and bottom of the porcelain. “There are flowers all over this reading, which should be good, except for all the dark clouds.” She tilted the cup a few more times. “Maybe it’s not an owl at all.”

“Could be a swan.” Addison grinned.

“Right, a swan,” Clem said.

“It’s a sign of loyalty,” Irene explained.

Clem laughed. “So, the universe is bringing us the perfect man and there’s nothing you can do about it. Are you done yet?”

Irene hadn’t seen her best friend’s aura so full of excitement since her and Taylor’s wedding, and damn it if it wasn’t contagious. She tried to hide her smile as she said, “I’m not looking for a man. Or a woman. Or anyone. I just want to help Addison sort out her magic—whatever this funeral has to do with it—and then be done with the Bonners for good.”

Addison crossed her arms. “Is that why your aura is bleeding red and yellow roses?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she admitted. “It’s a little exciting.”

“And there’s nothing there about Sylvia Bonner. Nothing at all,” Addison said, smugly.

“If the universe sees fit to bring you love…” Quinn trailed off.

“Then you take it,” Clem finished. “And it’s about damn time.”

Chapter 8

The Shadow Garden

As Yarrow slept and the moon rose high in the sky, a breeze rustled through stalks of onyx-hued basil and deep gray sage, tall as sunflowers. Starlight fell in slants across petals of black violets. A night-dark strawberry rolled across the ground. A plum-colored tomato fell from its stem. Borage and pansies and nasturtium in varying shades of black and gray turned the darkness into its own kind of rainbow.

Beneath the soil lurked something even darker. Generations of pain saturated the earth, fed each stem and fruit and flower. In the soft, thick leaves of sage: loss. In the blackened basil: broken hearts. Tucked inside the husks of charcoal corn: anger and betrayal. Trapped within the bell of burgundy calla lilies: stolen innocence.

The garden didn’t just absorb pain, it thrived on it. And the town of Yarrow had always had more than enough to spare.

In the earth, feelings had a life all their own. Roots shuddered. They knew sorrow was no easy burden to bear. There was a powerful magic in pain—transformative, if you managed to survive it. In the garden, balance was everything.