My mom doesn’t seem to be aware that anyone is here except her. She isn’t moving, but somehow she’s… wilting. Shrinking. Falling back into herself. What is going on with her? Then I follow her gaze and realize she isn’t looking at the house at all. She’s looking up at the house next door.

“Rosemary?” Poppy says.

She inhales sharply. “The end. How was the end?”

For a moment I don’t understand what she means, but then I realize she’s talking about Sage. My heart thuds, hard.

“Death is death, dear,” Poppy says softly. “But she was at peace. Especially because of the house. It’s her apology. Wait until you see.”

Curiosity splinters through me. How can a house be an apology? And what was she apologizing for? I turn to look at it again, wishing someone would explain it to me. My mom suddenly looks exhausted, her eyes rimmed red.

“Do you smell those?” Violet says, pointing to a nearby rosebush. The blossoms are as wide as a diner coffee mug, and as I turn to them I’m suddenly aware of a smell reminiscent of brewing tea.

“They’re called tea roses,” Violet says. “These bushes are a hundred and eighty years old, planted by the infamous Lily.”

Another flower.

“Who’s Lily?” My gaze is still on my mom. She’s collecting herself, and watching it makes my heart feel like an orange gone soft. I’m not used to her being vulnerable.

“Your ancestor,” Poppy says. “This is her father.” She points to a post where a shiny gold plaque has been affixed:

BUILT FOR

FREDERICK BELL

SPICE MERCHANT

1893

HISTORICAL SALEM, INC.

“Salem was quite the bustling port back in its heyday,” Violet says. “He sailed all over the world. It’s his name on the house, but if you ask me, our family’s story truly began with Lily Bell.”

She says Lily’s name in a tone close to reverence, and I feel something unspool inside of me. Excitement, yes. But also longing. I’m so eager to understand where my mom came from that I feel physically hungry. “Why? What was special about her?”

“Well, she’s the reason we’re all named after growing things, for one,” Poppy says. “Five generations of women named after beautiful things from this very garden. Now, let’s go inside, and we’ll tell you all about her.”

It’s all the encouragement I need. I bound for the door, my heart as light as my feet. If the house is this beautiful on the outside, I can’t even imagine what it must be like on the inside. I’ve only made it partially up the walkway when my mom’s voice comes from behind me.

“Willow, stop. We won’t be going inside.”