And still, there remains one story to tell.

This story began, as many stories do, with a girl who bloomed too big for the space the world had carved out for her. Her name was Rosemary.

Rosemary and her sister, Sage, were born to a woman with the soul of a dandelion. She blew into and out of their lives, as unpredictably as the Southern winds. One day, their mother brought them to Salem and left them and their suitcase on the doorstep of the home of their aunt Daisy. It was one of the kindest things she ever did for them.

Rosemary and Sage were different from the girls they went to school with. Instead of a mother who baked cupcakes for the class party, they had a mother who would occasionally call from dusty towns they could never remember the names of, and an aunt who could tell them their future by looking into teacups. Other girls had Rollerblades and dolls; Rosemary and Sage had an old house packed full of family heirlooms. Other girls had birthday parties and ballet classes. They had each other and their next-door neighbor Peter, a painfully shy boy who played with the girls when he was feeling brave and left them bundles of flowers under the willow tree when he wasn’t.

It was enough.

One night their aunt Daisy told them about the family curse, and although Rosemary laughed it off, it frightened Sage because a part of herself recognized it. Would she become like her mother, intent on looking for love in places where it couldn’t be found?

Their mother showed up only a handful more times, looking more spent and weary with each visit, and by the time the girls were teenagers, they had stopped looking for her silhouette in the driveway, and no longer held their breath when the phone rang.

Aunt Daisy fell ill shortly before the girls graduated from high school, and as Daisy drifted away, Sage felt herself coming apart, piece by piece. She discovered that her fears had been founded, her mother’s dandelion soul had taken root in her, and before long she was staying out late every night, drinking and partying, leaving Rosemary to care for their dying aunt all that long year.

The night Daisy died, Rosemary sat alone, her calls to Sage unanswered.

Of course, it was Rosemary who planned the wake. It was a beautiful event held in the gardens, and half the town showed up to talk about Daisy and eat the beautiful quiches and salads Rosemary had spent all day preparing. Sage was sticky and uncomfortable in her funeral dress, and as she tried to sneak away from the party, she stumbled upon a scene that stunned her.

Peter was proposing to Rosemary under the willow tree. And Rosemary was saying no.

Sage managed to duck behind some bushes, and as she listened, the truth slowly unfolded.

Rosemary had spent the year caring for her aunt, yes, but she had also spent the year falling in love with Peter. Now Peter wanted her to come with him to school in New York City so they could begin their life together. He’d marry her today or tomorrow or in fifteen years. It didn’t matter. And now that Daisy had passed, she was free.

But Daisy wasn’t the only reason Rosemary had stayed in Salem. She had stayed for Sage. All Sage had was her, and she would not leave her sister behind. Peter tried to reason with her, and then argued with her that she deserved her own life. Sage could manage her own mistakes, chart her own course. It wasn’t up to Rosemary to save her. Rosemary repeated herself firmly. Quietly. “I will not leave Sage.”

As she listened, Sage’s heart grew panicked, then ashamed. All this time she had tried to convince herself that her choices were only impacting herself, when really, they had affected her sister as well.

Peter told her he couldn’t ask her again. He couldn’t bear to say goodbye to her again. If this was no, she needed to mean it. Rosemary told him that her mind was made up. But as Peter walked away from the willow tree, Rosemary reached for one of its branches, carefully tying a knot in its end. It was a willow love spell, one that asked that one day your love would return when the moment was right. Rosemary did not mean it. But she would not abandon her sister.

Sage snuck back to the house and spent the rest of the night pacing. She knew in her heart she could not transform her dandelion soul overnight. It would take years, and miles, plus maturity she did not yet have. She also knew that her sister would be true to her word; she would never leave Sage, even if it meant sacrificing her own desires.

Rosemary would never leave. But Sage could.

Sage left that night when the moon was fullest. She wanted to tell her sister so very many things, but in the end she could only think of two words to write on the note she left under her sister’s bedroom door. “Forgive me.”

Sage’s road was long and winding after that. She saw many places and met many people, but no matter how many years passed, every time she glanced in the mirror, it was her sister’s reflection that looked back at her. Bit by bit, her soul settled, and she found herself longing for her roots.

Sage made her way back to Salem, but by then, Rosemary had replicated her sister’s actions. She’d vanished without a trace. Sage had no way to find her sister, but she knew the power of intention. Maybe if she re-created the magic of their childhood, her sister would return. The home had been abandoned for years by then, and she spent months digging through the treasures that had occupied their youth. As she did, she found clues, pieces of history that led her to the heart of the family curse. It was about estrangement. Separation. The way to end a curse of separation was to reconcile. If two Bell women were able to fight their way back to each other, the curse would be broken.

Sage grew impatient, particularly after her fortieth birthday, when she learned she likely would never have another one. Sage tried again to find her sister, but Rosemary was hidden, and Sage knew she wouldn’t be able to find her until the moment was right. The curse would know when it was time to break.

And so she trusted. And she said goodbye. And when she thought there wasn’t much more time, she wrote her letters, and spoke her final words into the night sky, certain they would one day find her sister.

All is as it is. So mote it be, today, tonight, under moon, over sea.

Sage