Lizzy blew out a breath as she watched her go. It was her own fault. Without meaning to, she’d let down her guard, allowed herself to hope that after years of distance and rejection, there might actually be a way for them to move forward as more than just polite strangers. But nothing had changed. Rhanna was still Rhanna, shutting her out, pushing her away. Just like old times.
She closed her eyes, drained by the evening’s drama. Rhanna wasn’t a puzzle she was going to solve tonight—or ever, probably. The real question was, Where did they go from here? Now that she had opened the door, could she just close it again? It was a question she was simply too exhausted to think about now.
She covered the soap molds with waxed paper, then rounded up some old towels and threw them on top as well. She was about to turn off the lights when she realized she’d nearly forgotten the most crucial part of the process.
Each recipe had its own unique blessing—a few brief lines, written in verse form, meant to be spoken aloud, as an enhancement to the remedy’s natural healing properties. To those on the Path, the blessing was considered the most potent ingredient in any preparation.
Lizzy picked up the recipe book and scanned the words printed at the bottom of the page. She had seen her grandmother recite various blessings over the years, and had even joined in on a few, but she’d never spoken one on her own. How would she know if she was doing it right, if it had . . . taken? She had asked Althea once. Her answer had been vague and enigmatic. Spells. Prayers. Blessings. It’s all the same. It’s about intention, Lizzy, about sending what’s in your heart into your work.
She hadn’t understood then, but maybe she did now.
She read through the lines several times, committing them to memory. When she was sure she had them, she closed her eyes, letting her hands hover above the soap, the way Althea had done the day she resurrected the blackened basil plants, and spoke the words.
“Soap so gentle, pure and mild.
Bring sweet sleep to the crying child.
Let darkest night pass by with ease.
Thank you, Spirit. So mote it be.”
Lizzy remained still when she finished, waiting for some sign that the blessing had taken. At first, there was nothing, just the steady chorus of night sounds filtering in through the open door. And then she felt it. A fizzy sort of vibration humming in her bones, like the ripple of current through water. It was a heady sensation, so intoxicating it nearly made her giddy. But then, at its ebb, came a wake of inexplicable calm, a knowing that in those few brief seconds, while her eyes were closed, the world had reshaped itself in some small but powerful way.
Lily of the Valley . . . for reconciliation.
My Lizzy,
We’re here again, you and I, meeting across this scribbled page. It gives me pleasure as I write, to think of you holding this book, propped up in bed, or perhaps in my reading room. It makes me feel close to you, though I’m not sure you’ll like what I have to say. Once again I must speak of your mother. You’ll think I’ve already said my piece concerning the two of you, but I find there is more to say, and so, at the risk of running you off for good, I must say it.
You were always an inquisitive child, the sort who asked why over and over again, who needed to peel back the layers of a thing until you got at the truth. It didn’t matter what it was—you needed to understand it all. You liked knowing about things. What they did. How they worked. What would happen next. You thought if you knew enough, nothing would ever catch you off guard. You liked things mapped out, predictable, safe. But that’s not the nature of who we are. Life, particularly for women like us, doesn’t come with a road map.
Nor do the people in our lives.
Even as a child, this seemed to confound you. You needed to be able to put people in neat little boxes, to label them as friend or foe, safe or unsafe. Because then you’d know what to expect, and how to protect yourself. But with Rhanna that didn’t work. She was your mother, and she wasn’t, living under the same roof, but absent in all the ways that matter to a little girl.
She was so unprepared for you, so terrified of the responsibility. And so young. I was afraid she would do something rash—something that couldn’t be undone. And so I struck a bargain with her. She would bring you into the world, and I would do the rest, raise you up and train you in our ways. Even then I knew the Moon legacy would fall to you.
You were too young to understand such a bargain, and you hated her for it, though you pretended not to care. The chasm between you continued to grow, until you barely spoke at all. Meanwhile, Rhanna was coming apart. You didn’t see what I did, because you didn’t know her. But I did, and I watched her change—almost overnight. She was in pain, tormented by something I couldn’t see, and she wouldn’t explain. I begged her to talk to me, to let me help, but she just kept getting further and further away. We each have a shadow-self, a dark place we go to hide when we’re hurt or afraid. For Rhanna that place was at the bottom of a bottle, or in some stranger’s bed. And there you were, watching it all. That’s what you remember—how she was at the end.
You’re a smart girl, Lizzy, and I love you, but there are areas of your life where you choose to wear blinders. Your mother is one of
