The morning light and delicious food had blunted the unease from the night before. Mom was still on edge, but had put her Taser away, which was a good sign.

“I say we start cleaning at the top and work our way down,” said Mo. “We can use that dumpster on the side of the house. There’s a number on it. I’ll call and see if they can come switch it out when it’s full.”

I preferred a plan that involved napping, Netflix, and maybe ordering a pizza but that would have been too easy. We made our way up to the turret with trash bags and empty boxes we’d salvaged from the first floor. I avoided looking at the painting on the wall. I didn’t want to worry about what was in the letters stashed in that safe.

We filled bag after bag with old newspapers and magazines. I organized empty plant pots into stacks and swept up the dust and mouse droppings. I helped Mo carry out a broken chair then turned my attention to the bookshelves.

I pulled collections of poems and stories by people with names like Euripides, Eumelus, and Pausanias off the shelves. Every single one was worn, their pages dog-eared and marked up with pencil in the margins. I dusted them off and reorganized them on the shelf in alphabetical order.

“I think Circe had a thing for Greek mythology,” I said.

Mom picked up a copy of The Metamorphoses. “I remember reading some of this in college,” she said. “It didn’t really stick. I know the Orpheus myth, though.”

“Seeing Hadestown doesn’t count as knowing the Orpheus myth,” Mo said.

Mom put a hand on her hip. “I paid a hundred dollars apiece for those seats. It counts.”

“Check this out.” Mo pulled a beige drop cloth off what I thought was another stack of boxes, but underneath was a book the size of a poster, sitting on a waist-high pedestal. Mo studied its proportions. “This thing’s gotta weigh fifty pounds.”

I grabbed a rag and dusted off the leather cover where the title had been pressed in crimson. Venenum Hortus.

“Latin?” Mom asked.

“ ‘Venenum’ is poison,” I said in a whisper. My skin turned to gooseflesh under the sleeves of my shirt. A tickle at my ankle drew my attention downward. One of the plant pots wasn’t empty after all. Something I didn’t recognize at first was wrapping itself around my leg, turning from brown to green while turtle shell–shaped leaves with thin white veins crisscrossing their surfaces sprouted by the dozens.

“Peperomia prostrata,” I said.

“There was nothing left of that thing,” Mom said, her voice tight. “Those pots were empty. There was only dust inside. I’ve—I’ve never seen you bring something back that was that dead.”