The room beyond was the size of the flower shop—maybe even bigger—and set up in a similar way. A wide counter, scattered with different kinds of scales, measuring cups, and scoops of varying sizes, ran the length of the room. Behind it and along the back wall, shelves went up two full stories, the height of the house. A ladder ran along a track that circled the entire room like in an old library, but there weren’t any books on the shelves, only glass jars. Dozens and dozens of glass jars of all different sizes and shapes.

“I’m so confused,” said Mo, her gaze darting around the room.

We filed in, Mom still clinging to Mo for dear life. The air was sweet and smoky, something like the lingering scent of incense. A fine layer of dust covered everything. I set my bag on the counter and walked to the ladder, pulling it in front of the wall of jars behind the counter. I put my foot on the bottom rung.

“Please be careful, baby,” said Mom. “I don’t know how far away the hospital is.”

I tested my weight on the step. Mo came over and steadied the ladder as I climbed up about halfway. It wobbled and creaked and I grabbed the shelf, glancing down at Mo.

“You gotta hold it still,” Mom said.

“This thing is rickety as hell,” Mo huffed. She planted her foot next to the small wheel at the bottom.

When I was sure she had a handle on the ladder, I leaned over and plucked a big glass jar with a silver lid from the shelf. I read the peeling, faded label aloud. “Wintergreen.” I set it down and examined the labels on the other jars. “Winter’s Bark. Witchgrass. Witch Hazel.”

“Witch what?” Mom asked.

“Witch hazel,” Mo said. “Comes in a liquid. You can use it for hemorrhoids.”

Mom scrunched up her nose. “Excuse me?”

I laughed. “I mean, you’re not wrong. It’s a natural anti-inflammatory.”

“Okay. But what’s witchgrass for?” Mom asked.

I shrugged. I wasn’t entirely sure. I continued up the ladder, reading labels as I went. Thyme. Spiderwort. Orchid. Myrrh. It went on and on in reverse-alphabetical order. There had to be two hundred jars, and most of them were full.

“What is this place?” I asked. Whatever it was, it felt familiar.

At the top of the ladder, I stepped onto a narrow platform that wound around the top part of the room, allowing access to the highest shelves. A sturdy mahogany banister was anchored to the balcony-like structure. I gripped it as I shuffled along the walkway, examining the rest of the jars. A nondescript built-in cupboard sat in the wall near the end of the walkway. I slid the door open. Inside were three shelves, all lined with glass jars, painted black, obscuring their contents. I pushed up my glasses and picked up the container closest to me.

Water Hemlock Root.

I fumbled the jar but caught it before it crashed to the floor below.

“You good?” Mo asked.

“Yeah,” I said as images of the dissected hemlock root flashed in my mind. “It’s just more dried plants.”

I read the names on the other jars to myself as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. Oleander Leaves and Stalks, Wolfsbane, White Snakeroot, Angel’s Trumpet, Rosary Pea, Little Apple of Death, Castor Oil Beans.

They were all poisonous.

Deadly.

I shook the jar. I didn’t think there was anything inside, but I didn’t want to chance opening it. My stomach twisted into a knot. I closed the cabinet door and climbed back down on unsteady legs.

Mo rummaged through a drawer under the counter. “Look. There are labels, bags, twine, like we have at the shop. Were the people who lived here selling this stuff?”

“It’s an apothecary,” Mom said. “I think. Or some kind of old school natural medicine dispensary. My grandma used to go to a place like this when I was little.”

Maybe that was what the larger part of this place was for—natural medicines or teas or something—but that couldn’t be all. I glanced up at the small cabinet of poisons. Those plants couldn’t even be handled with bare hands, much less ingested as medicine, not without fatal consequences. I rubbed my finger over the cut on my thumb.

“Should we check out the rooms upstairs?” Mo asked.

I nodded, grabbed my bag, and closed the heavy door behind us as we went out.

The wall along the stairs that led to the second floor was lined with paintings and photographs of people—families, children, and a trio of women smiling and hugging one another. I paused to take a closer look. They all had the same big brown eyes, and two of them wore glasses. They shared the same toothy smile, the same mass of tight coils crowning their heads in varying lengths, their brown skin beaming in the sun. They looked happy standing arm in arm in front of this very house. They looked like me.

Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “You okay, baby?”

“I’ve gotta be related to them, right?”

“I’d think so,” Mom said, leaning in and studying the photo. “They’re gorgeous. Like you, baby.” She turned back to me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. But everything suddenly felt heavier.

Other photographs and artwork crowded the wall. A large painting of a black dog with yellow eyes hung in a silver frame. In a smaller painting, a man was shown lying under the ground as vines grew out of the soil above him, twisting into a strange-looking tree. Mom nudged me up the last few steps.

On the upper floor we found another smaller living room, and a laundry room with a washer and dryer. Mom almost cried at the sight of it. No more venturing into the stank-ass basement of our building to wash clothes. Finally, there were four huge bedrooms, all furnished with big four-poster beds and matching linens and pillows. Huge dressers and armoires sat against the walls, and each bedroom had its own bathroom. The thought of being able to complete my wash-day routine in peace made me deliriously happy. Back home, Mom always seemed to have a craving for ice cream right in the middle of my twist out, knowing she’s been lactose intolerant her entire life, and knowing we all had to share the single bathroom. Living out in the middle of nowhere might be worth the trouble if I could have my own bathroom.

Mo discovered a claw-foot tub in the bathroom of the largest bedroom, and she and Mom did a whole-ass praise dance to celebrate.

I wandered into the room next to theirs and flipped on the light switch. The bulbs buzzed on in an uneven pattern, slowly illuminating the room. Even when they’d reached peak brightness, it was too dark. I pulled the heavy navy blue curtains away from the windows, which sent a cloud of dust into the air. I took stock of the rest of the room.