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  “Please,” Lyse said through gritted teeth.

  Eleanora was heavier than she appeared, and it was obvious Lyse couldn’t hold up the limp body on her own. If Lizbeth didn’t help her soon, Lyse was going to lose her grip—and, to make matters worse, she had a canvas bag of wine over one shoulder, weighing her down.

  “Thank God,” Lyse said as Lizbeth reached out and slid her arms around Eleanora’s slender waist, taking most of the weight for herself. Which wasn’t a big deal since she was much bigger than Lyse, and probably a whole lot stronger.

  Together, they dragged Eleanora inside. As they struggled, Lizbeth kept her gaze on Lyse, watching as the other woman stepped across the threshold into the house, her neck straining from the physical effort of lifting the deadweight. They carried Eleanora through the dark living room, the glass bottles of wine in Lyse’s bag slamming against each other in earnest. When they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the light seemed to rouse Eleanora from her stupor, and her eyelids fluttered open.

  “What’re . . . you . . .” Eleanora murmured, looking around wildly. “Put me . . . down.”

  Eleanora’s voice was weak, but she was getting her strength back. She fought them as they settled her onto one of the kitchen table benches, pushing roughly at their hands, and generally behaving like a grumpy old monster with sharp claws and teeth.

  Now that Eleanora appeared to be all right, Lizbeth wanted to disappear. She could feel the prickly sensation, the one she got whenever she was upset. That reminded her so much of the times before—no, she wasn’t going to think about it. Too easy for the prickly feeling to take over, if she let her mind go there. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying the bad mojo would go away.

  She knew Lyse could handle things with Eleanora. Maybe she should go back to the living room, grab her coat and bag, sneak home. Weir would be annoyed with her—he thought he was getting the house to himself for the night—but she didn’t care.

  She just wanted to escape.

  “Hey, you know I can still see you when you’re closing your eyes,” Lyse said. “I really appreciate your help. Thank you.”

  Lizbeth cracked open an eye and caught Lyse’s apologetic smile—and the smile changed everything. After that, Lizbeth was perfectly happy to stay exactly where she was.

  * * *

  There was a bump and then the sound of claws skittering on porcelain as Arrabelle’s adorable gray Cornish Rex kitten, Curiosity, fell into the empty kitchen sink, drenching herself under the running tap. Lizbeth grinned and picked up the kitten, setting her down on the rustic clay tile floor. The kitten stared up at her with saucer eyes and meowed—a tiny little pipsqueak of a sound—and then she began to lick her wet front paws. After a moment, she sauntered off, probably looking for a place to hide out while she dried off.

  Curiosity was obsessed with the kitchen faucet, and she’d been sitting on the countertop watching and waiting for Lizbeth to turn her back so she could stick her white-stockinged paw into the cold stream of water. Only this time she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for.

  “Poor little guy,” Lyse said, resting her hand under her chin. “He’s all wet.”

  Lizbeth wanted to correct her: He was actually a she.

  “Lizbeth is an apprentice herbalist, Lyse,” Eleanora said, turning to her grandniece and smiling. “And I think she spends more time with that kitten than Arrabelle does.”

  Lizbeth smiled because it was the truth. Sometimes she did feel like Curiosity was more her cat than Arrabelle’s.

  “So you’re an apprentice,” Lyse said from her seat beside Eleanora at the kitchen table. “You didn’t write anything about that at the coffee place.”

  Lizbeth blushed, embarrassed by the way she’d behaved that afternoon. All she’d wanted to do at the coffee bar was reassure Lyse that everything was going to be okay, that the giant lady from their dreams was one of the good guys. Instead, she’d botched it, freaking Lyse out and making a big fat mess out of the whole thing.

  “You went to Burn?” Eleanora asked Lyse, surprised.

  “That little coffee place on Echo Park? Yeah. But I didn’t go in,” Lyse said. “I just met Lizbeth outside on my walk to the bodega.”

  “Hmm,” Eleanora said, picking up the mug of pumpkin soup Lizbeth had heated up for her and taking a sip.

  “I liked the look of the place,” Lyse said to Lizbeth. “You’ll have to take me back there sometime.”

  She likes me, Lizbeth thought. She thinks I’m weird, too, but that’s okay.

  “I’m so sorry I’ve held us up,” Eleanora said, frowning into her mug. “I think it’s just the valerian root Arrabelle’s been giving me. It makes me dizzy—but we should go now—”

  Eleanora started to stand up, but Lyse touched her arm.

  “Hey, we’re not going anywhere until you finish what’s in that cup,” Lyse said, frowning at her great-aunt—although the color was already starting to come back to Eleanora’s cheeks. “So you’d better get to it.”

  Lizbeth was sorry Eleanora had gotten woozy, but she didn’t mind the respite she’d gotten because of it. It’d given her time to finish the kale, avocado, and pumpkin salad they were supposed to have after the ceremony. She was behind in making dinner because Arrabelle had had her grinding turmeric and ginger all afternoon for a tincture.

  As Arrabelle liked to say, their kitchen was more than just the hearth of the home where dinner was made. It was a magical place where the plants and herbs of the Earth were distilled into special tonics and brews that lifted spirits and healed bodies.

  “So what’s being an apprentice like?” Lyse began, then caught herself. “I mean do you like it?”

  Yes-or-no questions were always best for Lizbeth, and she appreciated Lyse’s polite rephrasing of the question. She nodded, her eyes roving across the room as if to say, How can anyone not like working in this place?

  What she didn’t say was that sometimes she felt like Arrabelle’s maid. She cooked some of Arrabelle’s meals (so Arrabelle would remember to eat), did laundry on occasion, and tried to keep the place clean (Arrabelle picked up after herself, but she never dusted)—all while also helping with the preparations for the herbal tinctures, pills, and tonics they made. Making the herbal remedies could be tedious and difficult at times, but she really loved learning about the different plants and their uses—it was just doing the grunt work around the house that bored her.

  Lyse raised an eyebrow, and Lizbeth thought the other woman might’ve intuited that there was a little bit of job dissatisfaction behind the simple nod.

  “Was that hearth original to the house?” Lyse asked, looking around the room.

  Lizbeth shook her head.

  Arrabelle had put in the sandstone hearth—which took up the entirety of the back wall—and the clay tile flooring when she’d bought the house.

  “The place was a teardown when Arrabelle got ahold of it,” Eleanora said, answering for Lizbeth. “She redid it from the ground up.”

  “Wow,” Lyse said.

  “I was with her when she bought this thing,” Eleanora said, thumping the top of the long, rectangular pine table where she and Lyse were sitting, its golden wood scored with innumerable gashes and burns—collateral damage from years of Arrabelle mixing potions and preparing poultices on it. “And those guys.”

  Eleanora pointed to the two huge antique Chinese apothecary cabinets standing sentry on either side of the walk-in hearth.

  “Boy, did they cost her a fortune,” Eleanora added.

  There was an insistent meow at Lyse’s feet.

  “Little lovey thing,” Lyse whispered, picking up the kitten and setting it in her lap to ruffle the short, curly fur on top of its head.

  Curiosity was in kitten heaven with all the attention. Lizbeth could hear her purring from across the room.

  While Eleanora and L
yse were distracted, Lizbeth went to the nearest apothecary cabinet and collected an opaque brown bottle from one of its many drawers. It was a nettle and milk thistle concoction that Arrabelle called Energize. She took the bottle of Energize with her to the sink and retrieved a glass from the drying rack, filling it with cold water. She used the dropper to extract a few drops of the tincture and added them to the glass of water. Then she placed it on the table in front of Eleanora.

  “I don’t want to drink this—” Eleanora protested.

  “Drink it,” Lyse said.

  Eleanora sighed, resigned to her fate, and did as she was told, her throat working as she gulped it down in one swallow.

  “Nasty,” she said, making a face as she let out a massive burp. “Excuse me.”

  Lizbeth grinned.

  “God, that burp smelled like piss,” Lyse said, wrinkling her nose.

  “That’s because that concoction tasted like piss,” Eleanora said, standing up. “Okay, I think I’m ready to go now.”

  “Shouldn’t we just stay here and forget this thing?” Lyse asked, trying to catch Lizbeth’s eye. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

  Lizbeth knew better than to get into a battle of wills with Eleanora—besides, she didn’t think anything Lyse could say would stop her great-aunt from dragging them to Elysian Park.

  “Nope,” Eleanora said, slipping on her poncho. “Terrible idea. Sitting here playing with that cat is not on the agenda for tonight.”

  Lyse sighed, picked up her shawl, and draped it over her shoulders. She moved to grab the canvas bag of wine they’d brought with them, but Eleanora shook her head.

  “Leave them here,” Eleanora said. “We’re coming back for dinner after.”

  “You’re the boss,” Lyse said, rolling her eyes—mostly for Lizbeth’s benefit—before setting the wine down on the table.

  Eleanora was already heading for the back door, but Lyse held up a hand.

  “If we’re going to go traipsing off into the woods, I think I need a bathroom first.”

  Eleanora pointed toward the living room. “It’s in there somewhere.”

  “Uh, thanks for being so specific with your directions,” Lyse said dryly.

  Lizbeth curled her index finger, gesturing for Lyse to follow her. She could feel Lyse’s gaze on her back as they rounded the corner and passed the plate-glass wall of windows overlooking the city, the squeak of their rubber-soled shoes echoing off the living room’s soaring post-and-beam ceiling. She suddenly remembered the lights being off when she’d opened the front door, and decided it would be neat to show her new friend all the nifty things in Arrabelle’s collection.

  Lyse blinked as the overhead lights came on.

  “Whoa,” she said, eyes wide as she caught sight of Arrabelle’s museum-quality art collection. “This is incredible.”

  Lizbeth nodded and flashed Lyse a quick smile—she really wanted Lyse to know she liked her. It was an important thing to get across.

  At least, it was important to the lady in her dreams, who said Lyse was the one she could trust, that Lyse would look after Lizbeth once Eleanora was gone. Lizbeth really wanted to talk to Lyse about the lady, but how did you write something like that out in words?

  It was tough not being able to open your mouth and just tell someone how you felt. And as much as she was grateful for her sketch pad, it wasn’t enough.

  “This place is like an art gallery,” Lyse said, coming to stand beside Lizbeth so that together they could stare at the walls, every inch festooned with West African ceremonial masks.

  Lizbeth remembered the first time she’d come to Arrabelle’s house, how awestruck she’d been by the masks. The round, beseeching eyes that begged you to take them down from the wall and slip them over your own face. Some of them were less friendly or actually radiated an evilness that frightened Lizbeth. Those bore horrific scowls, slitted eyes, jagged teeth, and pointed tongues, and they wanted only to be left alone. Others were more animal than human: predator cats, hyenas, antelope—and all of them, like preening birds, jockeyed for your attention.

  The masks were handmade spirit totems, hewn from the earth and then fashioned by human hands into physical representations of grief, joy, anger, fear, and more. They were a rainbow of human emotion, trapped in wood and displayed for all to see, their jewel tones offset by the twinkling lights of downtown Los Angeles.

  It was an impressive room, but impossible to take in all at once—even if you were prepared for it.

  Lyse had moved closer to study one of the masks.

  “I have no words,” Lyse said, shaking her head. “But, damn, this would freak me out if I had to walk through here to get a glass of water at three A.M.”

  Lizbeth had been prey to similar thoughts about the spookiness factor of Arrabelle’s masks—especially when she stayed late into the night, helping Arrabelle with some of the more difficult distillations.

  “I wish we could have an actual conversation,” Lyse said softly. She’d stepped closer to Lizbeth, speaking in a low voice so what she was saying would stay between them. “Can you just nod or shake your head if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  Lizbeth sensed the prickly feeling returning, but she tried to ignore it. She smiled at Lyse and nodded.

  “Eleanora,” Lyse began. “She believes she’s some kind of witch. That this nature walk into Elysian Park is so we can conduct a ritual of some kind . . . Did you know this?”

  Lizbeth realized Lyse had no idea who or what they were. This was shocking to her—how could Eleanora not have told Lyse anything about herself? It didn’t make any sense.

  “Did you know that she thinks she’s a witch?” Lyse repeated.

  Lizbeth nodded slowly, eyes drifting down to look at her feet.

  Lyse took this in, her body tense as she nervously shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet.

  “O-kay.”

  Lizbeth waited for the next question, and for a moment it seemed like there wasn’t going to be one, but then Lyse asked: “Has this been going on a long time? This delusion my great-aunt is having?”

  Lizbeth didn’t know how to answer. It’d been going on for as long as Lizbeth had known Eleanora, but it wasn’t a delusion. So she nodded first—

  “Okay—”

  And then she shook her head.

  This only served to confuse Lyse.

  “Wait, what? I don’t understand.”

  Lizbeth shrugged, not sure how to get across what she wanted to say with just a shake or two of her head.

  “Wait, wait . . .” Lyse said, her eyes sparking with an idea. “Do you mean, yes, this has been going on a long time?”

  Lizbeth nodded vigorously, her long hair falling across her face.

  “And that, no, it’s not a delusion?”

  Once again, Lizbeth shook her head with vigor. It was nice to feel like she’d made herself understood. It was the hardest part of being what she was, the idea that no one really knew what she was thinking. It was sweet relief to be able to communicate with Lyse.

  “So, if you’re saying it’s not a delusion, then what is it?”

  Lizbeth frowned to remind Lyse this wasn’t a yes-or-no question.

  “Sorry,” Lyse said. “This is hard. Like surreal Jeopardy! or something.”

  An amused grin spread across Lizbeth’s face, mirrored by Lyse’s own smile.

  “Let’s try that again,” Lyse said. “Eleanora thinks she’s a witch. Do you think she’s one?”

  The smile disappeared as Lizbeth nodded.

  Lyse shook her head as she took this in.

  “I don’t believe in witches.”

  Lizbeth raised her gaze to meet Lyse’s eyes.

  “I’m just gonna play along with this because I promised her I would . . . and because she’s dying,” Lyse continued. “A
nd I owe her one for taking me in when I was a kid. After my parents died.”

  Lizbeth understood the pain she heard buried underneath Lyse’s words. Loss, bereavement, being alone . . . all those things Lizbeth knew well. She wished she could say, Yeah, I get it. We’re the same. I know how it feels to be lost—but she couldn’t. Instead, she reached out and took Lyse’s hand.

  Lyse stared down at their clasped fingers.

  “It’s okay,” she said, giving Lizbeth’s fingers a gentle squeeze before releasing them. “It was a long time ago.”

  Lizbeth knew Lyse was wrong: Time might heal a body’s wounds, but it could do nothing for the misshapen scars those wounds left behind.

  “All right,” Lyse said, stepping away from Lizbeth and twisting her head so she could look around the room. “Take me to this bathroom I’ve heard so much about.”

  Lizbeth grinned, then ushered Lyse away from the living room. She led them down a long hallway that opened up onto a spacious sitting room decorated in tasteful shades of pale cream and beige, overhead track lighting giving the space a soft yellow glow.

  Lizbeth pointed to a door in the back corner of the room. Beside it was a desk that held a metal sculpture of a dancer caught midleap, its body twisted backward in flight. Beside the sculpture sat a brown corded telephone.

  “Wait,” Lyse said, and Lizbeth, who’d been planning a quiet getaway, was forced to turn back. “Okay, you have to stop looking at me like you’re a scared little baby animal. You’re making me feel awful.”

  Lizbeth nodded and tried to relax her face, so she seemed less “scared baby animal.”

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier, and I wanted to apologize. You just freaked me out a little, and I wasn’t the nicest to you, so I’m sorry.”

  She offered Lizbeth her hand.

  Lizbeth stared at it.

  “Just take it,” Lyse said, offering Lizbeth an encouraging smile.