My heart drops. “By Sage? Because you all seem to be crazy about her.” I don’t want Sage to have betrayed my mom for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I somehow feel like I’m forming a friendship with this person I will never get the chance to meet.

Yes, I realize how delusional that sounds.

“Oh, it wasn’t only Sage. Everyone betrayed Rosemary,” Poppy says lightly. “We don’t blame her one bit for leaving. Not one bit. But I don’t blame Sage either. Or their mother, Dahlia. The curse had a strong hold on all of them. Next question.”

“But… how did Sage betray my mom?” I insist.

The aunts all begin shaking their heads, even Marigold.

“That’s a bit we can’t get into,” Violet says. “Your mother will need to tell you that.”

“I always thought it was that boy,” Marigold says.

“Marigold!” Poppy says.

Marigold’s eyes go wide. “What? It’s always a boy, isn’t it?”

Shock is rippling through me yet again. “What boy?”

“Never mind,” Poppy says. “Next question.”

They’re all staring at me steely-eyed and I realize it’s useless to try to get that story out of them. I may as well try to push a boulder up a mountain. I take a deep breath, doing my best to pivot. “Okay, so I read the story in the Book of Shadows. Is it… real? The witch and the garden and all of that?” Skepticism is really showing through in my voice, and I’m alarmed to realize that I sound exactly like my mother.

They all blink at me.

“Well, yes, of course it’s true, dear,” Poppy says, placing her hand gently on mine. “I’m sure it came as a bit of a surprise, but the Bell women are cursed. All of us.”

Her voice is so matter-of-fact, I almost laugh. For being cursed people, they sure are nonchalant about it. “What does a curse… look like? And what do you mean when you say it had a strong hold on my mom and grandma?”

Marigold leans forward. “A curse can look different on everyone. Dahlia was always looking for love—that was her curse. Always searching for the next man, or the next audience, and it blinded her to the love that was right in front of her. Your mother… Well, sometimes I think it hurt her worst of all. She was so vulnerable.”

“My mom?” I blurt out. Have they met her? Because trying to imagine my mom as vulnerable in any way is like trying to imagine a giraffe waterskiing. Impossible and slightly comical. I glance between the three of them. They are all looking at me gravely, no hint of joking. Then I remember my mom’s face when she talked about her mother leaving her in the motel.

My chest suddenly feels heavy. “Okay, why?” I ask slowly.