The source of the noise isn’t hard to locate. It’s coming from two elderly women who are holding up traffic as they cross the four-lane street. One is wearing a gauzy lavender shawl covered in sparkles, a lock of her long, snow-white hair dyed lavender to match. The other is wearing a bright red muumuu and thick glasses, her hair a wild mess of wiry gray curls. Despite the fact that they are roughly between the ages of eighty and eight hundred, and the muumuu-wearing one is pushing a tennis-ball-bedecked walker, they’re moving like twin freight trains. A car beeps impatiently, and the lavender-haired one flips the car off before restarting her shuffle.

A laugh rises up over my anxiety. “Who is that?”

The muumuu one catches sight of my mom and starts waving her arms in the air. “ROSEMARY.”

She is definitely looking at my mom. Confusion floods me. “Are they yelling at you?”

My mom grabs my arm, her voice suddenly urgent. “Willow, I need you to go back to the hotel. Now. I’ll explain—”

Frustration replaces my confusion, and I shake off her clawlike grip. “Mom, no. I’m not going back to the hotel.”

The women hit the sidewalk, and suddenly the lavender-haired one spots me. Her mouth drops open. “My goddess. She brought the DAUGHTER.”

That’s when they really start moving.

It’s more of an attack than an embrace. I am overtaken by the muumuu-wearing one, who pulls me into a shockingly tight hug, her arms pillow soft.

“You’re here! Oh my dear, you’re here!” she says into my ear.

“Ma’am?” I wheeze. Along with being alarmingly robust, the woman smells strongly of cinnamon, and if it weren’t for the fact that she isn’t my grandmother, this might be one of the best grandmotherly hugs in existence. Over Muumuu’s shoulder I see my mom has been overtaken by Lavender, who is hugging my mom with the same ferocity.

“Excuse me,” I try again. I attempt to unlock the woman’s arms. No luck.

“I knew it would work. I knew Rosemary would come back. If only it could have been sooner!” Muumuu pulls back and studies my face. Her face is sweet and wrinkly, like a baked apple, and that with her cinnamon scent makes her seem like comfort food personified. Despite the obvious misunderstanding, I feel a tiny flicker of warmth in what Bea loves to refer to as my cold dead heart.

I carefully disentangle myself. “Hi there. I’m so sorry, but I think there must be a misunderstanding. Neither of us is named Rosemary.”

She gives a gaspy little laugh. “I knew the letter would work. Violet said I may as well try to make a storm cloud take back its raindrops, but I sprinkled the letter with cinnamon and left it out overnight in the moonlight. Of course it worked!”