Sarah laughed softly. “The usual triggers have me in a bit of a dread spiral. Maybe one day I’ll have my confidence back without worrying about a stray thought taking it right out from under me.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” Irene said.

She held one hand out faceup. Addison mirrored her, and Sarah placed her palms in theirs. Addison closed her eyes and felt her mother’s energy beside her.

“You see the anxiety?” Irene asked.

Addison nodded, then remembered her mother’s eyes would’ve been closed, too, and said, “Yes.”

Addison followed the erratic pulse of fear from the tips of the woman’s fingers, along her veins, and to her heart. Already Addison could see the result of her mother’s work, the lingering scars from where Irene had pulled the effects of the trauma free. Right at the center, a fresh crop of pain had sprouted from Sarah’s heart, its leaves just starting to unfurl, its roots attaching themselves to her joy, her confidence, her self-worth.

“Now gently lift the roots from the soil,” Irene said.

Addison started to tug, but as she did, the full root ball shook loose. She inhaled, sharp. Then, she froze, terrified if she made another move, she’d remove too much. Again.

“Mom,” Addison whispered.

Beside her, Irene whispered softly, “Don’t worry. I’ll take it from here.”

Addison watched as her mom gently pulled the roots free, and all the parts Addison had brought up with them stayed behind where they belonged. Then, Irene transplanted Sarah’s anxiety into her own heart, where it would sit until she got home and handed it over to the shadow garden.

When Addison opened her eyes, the tight set of Sarah’s mouth had melted, and she smiled softly. Her aura of begonias had shifted so it now radiated from Irene.

“Thank you,” Sarah breathed as she squeezed both of their hands one last time before she pushed back from the table and stood.

“Always,” Irene said.

Addison waited until the door closed behind her and the shop was empty before she turned to her mother.

“It’s okay,” Irene said. “We’ll figure out your magic.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Addison said. “Sylvia Bonner has a request.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head, before she walked away and started preparing herself a cup of tea without another word.

Chapter 2

Irene

There were two things every Haywood woman knew: never trust a Bonner, and always trust the leaves.

“I don’t care what Sylvia Bonner is asking. The answer is no,” Irene said. The teakettle’s whine emphasized her words.

“Mom, her husband died. Shouldn’t we at least think about it? She just wants an order of rosemary from the garden for the funeral. Apparently she plans to do a toast or something.”