She hadn’t even heard Irene’s footsteps. With a deep sigh, she turned to face her daughter. Irene wore an old T-shirt over a pair of leggings, and in the soft morning light she almost looked Addison’s age.

“This and that.” Maura tucked her cup and saucer closer, out of Irene’s sight. They read their tea leaves every morning, but symbols like these were unusual. Unexpected readings, it seemed, were becoming a trend.

“We’ve lived together long enough that I know when you’re hiding something from me,” Irene said.

“Then we’ve also lived together long enough that you should remember that if you need to know something, I’ll share.” Maura pushed back from the table. “I’ll put on the kettle for you.”

“You want to see what’s in my leaves.”

Maura only shrugged and watched as her daughter spooned her own mixture of tea and herbs into a mug.

“I know you’re worried,” Irene said.

“Reading my aura without my permission is rude,” Maura said.

The kettle whistled, and Maura poured the water into Irene’s cup.

“This is about the founders’ dinner,” Irene said.

Again, Maura said nothing. She didn’t want to influence Irene’s reading. “Drink,” she said.

Irene sighed but brought her cup to her lips. “Having you watch me is far from the morning ritual I was going for.”

“If you’d drink faster, we could get this over with,” Maura said.

Irene sipped slowly. Maura tapped her foot against the tile floor. When Irene finally flipped her mug, Maura peered over her shoulder and took a sharp breath. She grabbed her own cup, glanced from its contents to her daughter’s and back again. Maura gripped the countertop and shook her head slowly.

“Well this isn’t good,” Irene said. “Not that truth or change are necessarily bad, but I don’t like the snakes one bit. Or the comet, and all with Addison at the center.”

She glanced up at her mother and her eyes went wide. “You knew it was going to be about Addison.”

Maura pressed her mug into her daughter’s hands. “They’re the same.”

“Again?” Irene held her cup next to Maura’s.

“Twice in one week,” Maura murmured as she sat down at the kitchen table. She was supposed to be the one with the answers, the one who guided her daughter and her granddaughter, who taught them to pull the sorrow out of Yarrow’s heart and bury it deep in the soil just like Maura’s mother and grandmother had done before her.

“I… I don’t know what it means.” Maura’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

“It means we need to be wary,” Irene said.

“Obviously,” Maura snapped, but she let her daughter take her hand. “Can’t we just skip this dinner?”