“We will not be selling that woman a single thing from our garden.”

A Bonner’s betrayal had changed her life forever, and the well of rage still boiled deep inside her. Irene was not about to let her daughter make the same mistakes. She hoped the tea would help tamp enough of that anger down so she could focus on getting through to Addison.

But Addison just rolled her eyes, opened a jar of lemon balm, and tossed a few leaves into Irene’s mug. “I should’ve waited until you put Sarah’s pain in the shadow garden.”

Though Irene’s heart raced, she knew the anxiety wasn’t her own. She’d been doing this work long enough to not let others’ suffering affect her—too much. “That wouldn’t have made a difference. Sylvia Bonner wants to make sure there isn’t a dry eye at that funeral, and I will not let her use our magic to help people feel artificial grief for a man who won’t really be missed.”

Each fruit, vegetable, and herb from the shadow garden slightly amplified a person’s emotions, making joy sing a bit brighter and melancholy hum a touch deeper. It wouldn’t be enough to leave the funeral’s guests feeling fully bereaved, but it would certainly help set the mood.

“Maybe it’s finally time for you to get over what her son did to you,” Addison said as she circled around to the front of the counter. “It’s been more than twenty years.”

“This isn’t about him,” Irene said. “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. Sylvia came to you because she knew I’d say no.”

Addison rested her elbows on the countertop, her brown hair falling into her face. She might not have the strawberry-blond curls and hazel-green eyes that marked every other Haywood woman, but she had Irene’s freckles, her sun-kissed shoulders, and her stubbornness.

“Maybe it’s time we started saying yes to the universe,” Addison said.

“This is not the universe,” Irene said through clenched teeth.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Addison said. She pulled out her phone, swiped through her photos, then placed the screen in front of Irene.

“What’s this?” Irene asked.

“My reading from this morning.”

“And why is it relevant?” Irene asked as she looked at the symbols the leaves formed at the bottom of Addison’s teacup.

A ladybug. A fern frond. A hand pointing to an ear of corn crossed with a sprig of rosemary.

“Sylvia specifically asked for rosemary,” Addison reminded her.

As much as Irene wanted to, she couldn’t explain the reading away. Not when the tea leaves were so clear. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. “So, the universe warned you she was going to ask for rosemary from the shadow garden,” Irene said. “That doesn’t mean we sell it to her.”