In the turret, behind the portrait of Medea, you will find a safe. The combination is 7–22–99. More answers will be provided for you there, but you must not, under any circumstances, share the contents of these instructions with anyone. You will have questions, but everything you need to know is contained within these walls. There are, I would imagine, things transpiring in your life that you have questions about—and you may find yourself set apart. Please know that, in time, you will come to understand it all.

Always,

Circe

I stuffed the letter back in the envelope. I was about to run to the turret to see if there really was a safe behind the painting, when the car came up the drive.

Mo parked right in front of the door. “I need a hand, love.”

I helped her bring in two plastic containers of takeout and a paper bag filled with stuff from the pharmacy. We set the food on the kitchen counter and Mo caught sight of the stove.

“Look at that,” she said, smiling. “My great-grandma had a stove like that when I was a kid and even then it was old as hell. You have to start a fire in the middle part to get it going.”

“Like, with wood?” I asked.

“Yup,” said Mo. “That should be fun. Can you do me a favor and pull some of the covers off the furniture in that front room so we can sit and eat? I’d say let’s eat at the table but I saw a mouse skipping across those fancy place settings a little earlier.”

“Gross,” I said. The curiosity about what might be in the turret wasn’t loud enough to drown out the noises my stomach was making. I was starving.

Mo took the stuff from the pharmacy up to Mom and I pulled the drop cloths off the living room furniture. Everything looked like it belonged in a castle in the English countryside, not in a house in upstate New York. The couch and chaise were covered in matching emerald green fabric with yellow begonias stitched on them. There was a coffee table and an ottoman under the other cloths. I washed off some plates and forks from the kitchen and carried them to the front room with the takeout. I hooked up my laptop and put on a movie.

Footsteps on the stairs drew my attention. Mo walked down first, her finger pressed to her lips, signaling for me not to say a word. Mom came down after her, covered head to toe in pink calamine lotion, her bright red bonnet sitting halfway off her head. I laughed anyway and Mo let her hands fall heavily at her sides.

“I know, I know,” said Mom. “Laugh it up.” She lowered herself onto the couch like she was made of glass. Mo got her settled, but she kept switching her position every few minutes, huffing and puffing because she couldn’t get comfortable.

“What was that stuff Grandma put on you when those mosquitoes tore you up last summer?” I asked.

Mom tilted her head back and sighed. “I don’t know, baby, but I wish I had some right now.”

I took out my phone, glancing at the time. “You think it’s too late to call her and ask?”

“She’s a night owl,” Mom said.

Mo raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Owl’ isn’t the right word. Maybe ‘night creature’? ‘Night demon’?”

Mom was trying so hard not to smile. Mo and Grandma loved each other, but they had a funny way of showing it. Grandma was always giving Mo a hard time about putting sugar in her grits, and Mo was always telling her that her wig was crooked. It was jab after jab, and then they’d end up on the couch cry-laughing over episodes of Judge Mathis.

I dialed my grandma’s number, and she picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, my sweet baby,” she said. Her voice was a familiar song, her thick Southern drawl like honey. “How’s everything goin’ up there, baby? Your mama said you was goin’ up for the summer to some place called Rhinebeck.”

I stood and walked into the hallway. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here. But Mom fell into a patch of poison ivy.”

“She did what now?” She let out a deep, throaty laugh.

“Granny, she’s jacked up. She was wearing shorts and a tank top. She’s got welts and blisters everywhere. Mo got her some calamine lotion, but she’s still hurtin’.”

“Calamine lotion ain’t gon’ do it, baby.”

“Can you tell me what you put on her last summer? The stuff for the bug bites?”

“I made that myself. Little bit of this, little bit of that.”

I glanced toward the apothecary. “I’ve got a bunch of herbs and stuff here. I could probably make it if you tell me how.”

“Hmm,” she said. “You know, your auntie Leti was always real good at puttin’ together salves and balms and such. Your mama tried, bless her heart, but she never really took to it. You got a mind to do somethin’ yourself?”

“Maybe,” I said, honestly.

“You need to get you a dish, somethin’ wide to put everything in.”

I went into the apothecary and put Grandma on speaker. I found a large glass bowl on the shelf and set it on the counter.

“Got it,” I said.

“Baby girl, you not gon’ have all the things you need.”

“I might,” I said, looking up at the wall of jars. “I’ll write it down if I don’t have it.”

“You need calendula flowers, a little jojoba oil, salt, lavender oil, and some clay.”

I pulled the ladder over and found jars with everything she’d mentioned. There were two larger jars labeled Clay. I opened their lids and peered inside. “Grandma, is clay supposed to look like powder?”

“Yes, baby,” she said. “You need some that’s a sandy color and smells like outside after it rains. You got that, baby?”

One of the jars was full of a light brown powder that smelled damp and earthy. That had to be it.

“I got it, Grandma.”

“Really?” she asked, sounding surprised. “What y’all getting into up there that you got everything you need right in front of you?”

“It’s an old house,” I said. “But there’s a shop with all kinds of natural stuff in here.”

She huffed. “Wait till I tell your auntie. She gon’ be on the first flight out to visit.”

I gathered up the other ingredients she’d mentioned. “How much do I use?”

“Just put a little in at a time. You’ll know when to stop.”