Poppy’s voice climbs a few decibels. “If you want a custom spell, you go to Marigold. She’s been doing it for over fifty years. You’ll love Marigold. She was out late last night salsa dancing, which is why she didn’t get the chance to come meet you. But you’ll see her soon enough.”

Mom is now leaning into Violet, whispering intensely. I give up. “Who’s Marigold?”

“Our other sister,” Poppy says. “She’s the baby of the family. Eighty-three and exactly as rambunctious as you’d imagine.”

My expression must show her exactly what I think of an eighty-three-year-old being called the baby because her face erupts into a thousand wrinkles. “You’ll love her.” She points to another shop. “Now, while you’re here you must stop at Helga’s. We kicked her out of the coven years ago for hexing a new initiate, can’t tolerate dark magic, particularly against the newbies, but her fudge is divine!”

Helga’s Witchy Delights is a small sweet shop painted bright purple with swirly script in the windows advertising confections. “Okay, that is pretty cute,” I admit.

“Your aunt Sage loved it there,” says Poppy, her eyes shining kindly. “Her favorite was the butterscotch fudge.”

I try the name on in my mind. Aunt Sage. Can I call her that if I’ll never meet her? “What was she like?” I ask.

“Divine. Complicated. A typical Bell woman.” She shrugs, her wrinkly smile back in place. I look up at my mom. I’m not sure that she’s divine, but she is definitely complicated.

Violet’s voice has risen again. “It won’t take long. All you have to do is read, and—”

Mom gives up on whispering. “Absolutely not,” she snaps, and I’m a tiny bit relieved to hear her regular voice. “The only reason we’re here is to handle the estate. Once that’s finished, we’re leaving. And there will be no more discussion of this. None.”

Her voice is icy and final, and it makes my heart freeze. Ah. There’s the mom I know and love. But instead of looking freaked out like most people are when my mom goes into assertive mode, the aunts exchange a bemused smile, which, according to my mom’s reddening face, does not go over well.

“Whatever you say, Rosey Posey,” Poppy sings. “Let’s get to the house.”

We turn off Essex into a quiet neighborhood that takes New England charm very, very seriously. Tall, rectangular houses are pressed tightly against the redbrick sidewalks, their exteriors coated in thick layers of paint. Window boxes burst with bright flowers, and shiny brass knockers gleam from every door.

The aunts take a sharp turn past a brownstone church, and I’m about to ask how much farther we have to go when suddenly they all stop walking so abruptly that I plow straight into the back of Aunt Violet.