My gaze wandered to the top of the armoire that sat near the door. A triangle of paper stuck out over the top edge. I got up and stood on my tippy-toes to reach whatever it was. I pulled down a square book, covered in a thick layer of dust. I could tell by its shape and the crinkly sound its pages made that it was a photo album. Pressed between pages of sticky transparent plastic were pictures of a young girl, probably eleven or twelve, with thick black hair and big brown eyes. She wore glasses that were too big for her face. In one photo, she was sitting under a tree with her face turned up to the sun and her eyes closed. The grass all around her was a vibrant, almost unnatural, shade of green. In another, her eyes were open wide, a big grin stretched across her face as another person pushed a piece of cake into her mouth. A colorful birthday banner hung behind them.

I flipped through the other pages, and the girl got older with each turn. In her late teens, she wore her hair in braids, traded her glasses for contacts, and looked much more serious and focused. In another photo she sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of this same house, a potted bush of hogweed leaning toward her, its white flowers curling around the runners of the chair and around her ankles.

I flipped to the last page and pulled a small portrait of her from behind the plastic. She’d taken down her braids, her natural hair curling out from a colorful head scarf, and she’d started wearing her glasses again. She wore a long blue dress, and she smiled so warmly I could feel it through the picture. I turned the photo over in my hand. Selene, August 2004 was written on the back. I flipped it over to look at the image again. Her arm curved down, her hand cupping her slightly bulging belly. She was pregnant with me.

“Selene” wasn’t just a name. She wasn’t some faceless character in the story of my life. She had lived here, worked in the apothecary, and tended to the garden. She knew the secrets of this place, and if her sister knew about my immunity to poison plants, then maybe it was because they both shared this same ability.

Mo’s words echoed in my head. I didn’t have to choose. I could dig. I could find out more about these women and their work, and I didn’t need to feel guilty for it.

I took out my phone and sent a text to Marie.

Bri: I’d like to see her grave, if you’re still willing to show me.

A few minutes went by before my phone buzzed.

Marie: Nyx will pick you up at seven tomorrow night.