He hovered between me and Ivy. “Haven’t seen the garden yet, have you, Sherlock?”

I threw the pillow at him, which he easily dodged. It knocked the lamp beside Ivy, and she casually reached out and caught it before it hit the floor. She never looked up from her magazine, never spilled a drop of her coffee perched on her knee. The hair on my neck prickled. “Don’t call me that, either,” I said to cover my unease. He looked positively smug as he hovered before me. “What?” I said snidely. “The garden has more than weeds and dead people?”

“Maybe.”

“Really?” This would be the first good thing to happen to me today, and I got up to look out the back door. “Coming?” I asked Ivy as I reached for the handle.

Her head was bent over a page of leather curtains. “No,” she said, clearly uninterested.

So it was Jenks who accompanied me out the back door and into the garden. The lowering sun was heady and strong, making the scents clear as it pulled moisture from the damp ground. There was a rowan somewhere. I sniffed deeply. And a birch and oak. What had to be Jenks’s kids were darting noisily about, chasing a yellow butterfly over the rising mounds of vegetation. Banks of plants lined the walls of the church and surrounding stone fence. The man-high wall went completely around the property, to tactfully isolate the church from the neighbors.

Another wall low enough to step over separated the garden from the small graveyard. I squinted, seeing a few plants out among the tall grass and headstones, but only those that became more potent growing among the dead. The closer I looked, the more awestruck I became. The garden was complete. Even the rarities were there.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered, running my fingers through a patch of lemongrass. “Everything I could ever need. How did it all get here?”

Ivy’s voice came from right behind me. “According to the old lady—

“Ivy!” I said, spinning around to see her standing still and quiet on the path in a shaft of late amber sun. “Don’t do that!” Creepy vamp, I thought. I ought to put a bell on her.

She squinted from under her hand, raised against the fading light. “She said their last minister was a witch. He put in the garden. I can get fifty taken off the rent if one of us keeps it up the way it is.”

I looked over the treasure trove. “I’ll do it.”

Jenks flew up from a patch of violets. His purple trousers had pollen stains on them matching his yellow shirt. “Manual labor?” he questioned. “With those nails of yours?”

I glanced at the perfect red ovals my nails made. “This isn’t work, this is—therapy.”

“Whatever.” His attention went to his kids, and he zoomed across the garden to rescue the butterfly they were fighting over.

“Do you think everything you need is here?” Ivy asked as she turned to go inside.