I must have reared back. I felt like I’d been punched.

“Oh, no—what have I said?” she gasped, stepping fully into the room, her hands on her cheeks. “Margot, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I’m worse than that, I’m—”

I held up my hand. “No,” I said hoarsely. “No.”

I meant, No. Please stop talking. You’re making it so much worse.

But she seemed to think I was saying she wasn’t an idiot, or that there was nothing to be sorry for.

“I am, I am. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her voice melted into tears as she sank onto the bed and wrapped her arms around me.

I resisted, inwardly and outwardly, for a fraction of a second . . .

And then something inside me snapped. I closed my eyes and went limp. I let the weight of my cheek press against her thin, warm shoulder and let her arms curl tightly around my ribs.

“Oh, sweet Margot,” she breathed. “Oh, sweet, sad Margot.”

Stop talking, please. Stop talking now so I can pretend you’re my mother.

I didn’t want to cry, but I ended up crying anyway. And I felt her body shake with quiet sobs. The room was nearly silent, but the air was thick with our grief. I could smell it. I could feel it coming out of her skin.

“The real truth is,” she whispered, her voice jagged around the edges, “I know you want to leave, but you must stay. So much depends on you.”

She was quiet then, and the silence was as tight as a stretched-out rubber band.

I breathed in her scent, pretending that my mom had decided to try a new perfume and laundry detergent. That she’d gone on a diet and lost twenty pounds. And I bet Laura was doing her own version of the same thing: pretending she was hugging Agatha with a haircut.

CHAPTER

7

A LOW RUMBLE of thunder shook the house.

We leaned apart. The moment had passed.

“Tomorrow, we’ll see about your clothes,” she said kindly but a little stiffly. “And anything else you want.”

“Okay.” She clearly meant it as a gift, but in the moment it felt oddly like a bribe. Like she was buying her way out of the situation. Her earlier words were just now beginning to seep in. I must stay? Why?

I couldn’t bear to ask, though. I was way past my maximum allowed number of emotionally draining conversations for the day.

“Did you like the soaps?” she asked. “I make them myself.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing. They smell so good. How do you do it?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” She tried to look modest, but I could tell she was pleased. “Drink your tea. I find chamomile so relaxing, don’t you? Oh, I make a chamomile lotion you should try. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”