“Yes,” says Yuki curtly. “I’d studied performance art at the institute, and that donkey’s shop was my work assignment. I was almost broke at the time—living with my sick mother, who was getting care from the Hero center in Noxim, and commuting into the city for work. Your mother noticed me and spoke to me, and—well, I was awestruck. Foix Institute, and all that. But she was so … kind. She loved the freshness and fragility of fresh blooms, as I did. She loved the unconventional—reveled in it. As I do. And so we developed something of … a friendship. And as I’m sure you know—when she warmed to someone, my goodness, you felt as if the sun itself was smiling upon you. She even gave me seed money to start my own floral business—helped me draft plans.” She sniffs the air. “That became this store,” she continues, with a glance around the gloomy interior. “But in any case, we needn’t get bogged down by the present, when the past is so much lovelier. Your mother was a gem of a human being.” She takes a deep breath and picks up a black hand towel. “And she loved you two so much.” She wipes the mask from the top corner of her forehead, revealing porcelain-white skin below.

And even though I should soften, I suddenly seethe, rivers of fury flooding over in my body, as it sits, cramped, on the low stool. Another stranger, convinced she knows Mama’s mind so well, when her own daughters didn’t—and still don’t.

“You don’t believe me?” she asks. When she sees we aren’t budging, she saunters over to an overflowing chest and opens a drawer, carefully lifting out a note.

She hands it to me, and my mood shifts when I spot her curling script, from angry suspicion to something fragile, dark, delicate.

Yuki, my dear, it reads, with those wispy y’s and petite, looping vowels that make me feel like I’ve discovered treasure. You are pure promise. Consider this a gift that, I hope, will enable you to build the floral shop of your dreams. Life is to be lived courageously, dear one, and I know few people who are capable of living their lives with more bravery, honesty, and joy than you. With love, your Lady, MFH

Honesty. When I read the word, so close to the word Lady, a bitter taste blooms at the back of my tongue. My fingers tighten around the note’s edges, crinkling the monogrammed sheet. I can’t let it go: this evidence of her identity, this new glimpse into her.

But when Yuki holds out her hand, I return the note.

“She told you her name was Lady,” I say aloud, feeling Noni’s cool hand settle on my wrist.