Natasha already thought it was babyish, Ava suspected. But Natasha was the kind of girl who liked making others happy, and Tally and her mom only visited once a year. Tally’s dad came even less often, because he was a physicist and very busy with that and other grown-up stuff. He was Italian and had an accent and wore his hair in a man-bun.
Uncle Fio, Aunt Emily, and Tally lived in California, which to Ava sounded exotic. They wanted to move to Willow Hill, though, and Ava could totally understand why. Willow Hill wasn’t exotic. The small, tightly knit town of Willow Hill was the opposite of exotic, and it would be hard for Aunt Emily, who was an art curator, to find work here.
But Ava wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, ever.
She suddenly felt woozy with love. She loved Mama and Papa, and she loved their small, cozy house. She loved Aunt Emily, who was Papa’s little sister, and she loved her cousin, Tally. She even loved slightly scary Uncle Fio. She loved her aunts on Mama’s side, too: Aunt Vera and Aunt Elena, who lived in Willow Hill and visited often. They were here now, chatting and laughing with Mama, Papa, and Aunt Emily.
The girls’ auntie Grace was here, too. Auntie Grace wasn’t related to Ava and the others, not technically. But she’d been part of Ava’s life since the day Ava was born. She was the best, kookiest Auntie Grace ever. She shared meals with Ava and her family once or twice a week, and she baked the most delicious brownies. She was rarely serious, and she told fabulous stories. Ava, her sisters, and Tally all adored her.
Ava knew with every fiber of her being how blessed she was. Even as a nine-year-old, she knew that her certainty was a blessing, too.
Ava exhaled, blowing the air out with a pfffft sound. She locked eyes with Tally, who was flushed with expectation. She cleared her mind and let things happen as they would . . . and there it was, the hum of energy Ava and Tally were sometimes able to call forth.
Natasha and Darya didn’t know about this part. This part was just for Ava and Tally, and it was why the two of them would go on believing in magic long after Natasha and Darya moved on to other things. Or so Ava hoped.
“The windowsill of the farthest window to the right, on the porch,” Ava said clearly.
Tally rose to her feet and sprinted off. Darya gave Ava a half smirk, but when Natasha hopped up and followed Tally, Darya dashed after them both.
“Hey, wait up!” she cried. “Wait for me!”
Ava grinned. She lay down on the quilt, extending her legs and resting the back of her head on her overlapping palms. A honeybee flew in a lazy circle above her, and Ava said, “Hola, bee. What do you see? Do you see me, bee?”
Bees had compound eyes; Ava had learned that in science. Each eye had thousands of lenses, which blew Ava’s mind.
Did that mean that the honeybee saw thousands of Avas? Or did it see thousands of different parts of Ava, parts that could be fit together like a puzzle to form a full picture of who Ava was?
She floated off for a bit, her thoughts like rising bubbles. When the bubbles popped, her thoughts joined the fabric of the universe. She joined the fabric of the universe.
Feet pounded the ground, and Ava propped herself up on her elbows. “Well?”
“We found something!” cried Tally, rosy-cheeked and shining. She flopped onto the quilt and held out her hand, her fingers cupped in a loose fist.
Natasha and Darya dropped down on either side of her. They glanced at Ava over Tally’s head, including her in what they thought was a shared conspiracy. Sometimes it was. Sometimes Ava had one of her sisters hide a stone under a sofa cushion, or asked them to place an especially lovely feather in the kitchen cupboard. Once, she persuaded Natasha to stick a dandelion in Aunt Vera’s bun.
Other times, Ava didn’t need their help. If Darya chose to assume that Natasha had planted the treasure, however, that was fine. Same for Natasha when Natasha suspected Darya of sneakily acting on Ava’s orders. Ava let her sisters believe what they wanted to believe.
“Show me,” she said to Tally.
Tally smiled and opened her hand to reveal four mini-marshmallows.
“Nice!” Ava said. “I didn’t know if they’d be marshmallows or acorns, but I was hoping for marshmallows!”
Tally passed them out, and each girl popped hers into her mouth. Magic, soft and sweet, melted on their tongues.
The honeybee made one last pass above their heads.
Bye for now, bee, Ava thought. See you later.
The bee hovered in front of her, frozen in time for just a moment before buzzing away.
I wish for children to play beneath my branches and nap in the shade of my leaves. I wish to know their stories: what they’ve done and what they will do. I wish to see the whole world unfold before them.
— THE WILLOW TREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ooo baby, this book was a tough one! One of my top writing challenges, for sure. Why? Because it’s the third in a trilogy. Trilogies are always hard. Also, because I ended The Forgetting Spell, book number two in the Wishing Day trilogy, with a fantastic cliffhanger ending. Yay me! Only, then it came time to write The Backward Season, which meant answering the momentous questions left dangling at the end of The Forgetting Spell, and . . .
I got it wrong. Many, many times. And each time, my amazing editor, Claudia Gabel, gently told me that I’d gotten it wrong. My bonus amazing editor, Alex Arnold, concurred. Each time. Many, many times. So many times.
We brainstormed, we talked things out, we plugged away and plugged away again. Claudia and Alex refused to settle for “almost, but not quite.” They refused to let me—or themselves—settle for less
