“It’s beautiful,” Mom said.

I didn’t need to read the Latin inscription to know what it was. The white parasol-shaped blooms gave it away. It was the same plant I’d grown in Prospect Park. The very same plant that should have killed me. Cicuta douglasii, the water hemlock. I took a deep breath, pushing away the memories of what had happened in my room with the plant—or more importantly what hadn’t happened.

Mo flipped through the pages, revealing more beautifully detailed drawings of every poisonous plant I knew of and some I didn’t. I recognized the velvety pink petals of oleander and the white orb with its blackened pupil of the Doll’s Eye, both capable of stopping a heart in less time than the hemlock. But there was a vine with tendrils black as the night sky, dotted with indigo leaves and hundreds and hundreds of bloodred thorns that I’d never seen before. The Latin classification was listed as Vitis spicula, but the common name was Devil’s Pet.

“Don’t like that,” Mo said quietly, shaking her head. “No, ma’am. Let’s go on ahead and flip that page.” She turned the page so hard the pedestal rocked to the side.

There were brackets alongside the drawings labeling the parts in intricate detail. There were measurements and deconstructed drawings of the plants from their surfaces to their insides. It was all diagrammed, from the minuscule trichomes—little coverings of hairlike structures some plants had—to the points of every leaf, every vein, every node.

At the bottom of each page, sectioned off by a thick black line, were detailed instructions for the care and cultivation of the plants, printed in perfect penmanship. It listed how much sun, shade, and water each plant needed, what kind of soil, and when to harvest each one.

There was something else, something I didn’t normally see in books about the care and cultivation of plants: a small box labeled Magical Uses. It was different for each plant. For the foxglove, the passage read for protection, use dye to create a crosshatch on the floor of a dwelling. For morning glory, place seeds under pillow to stave off nightmares; root can be a substitute for High John the Conqueror.

“Magical uses, huh?” Mo asked.

I had some idea of what that meant. Lots of plants had medicinal uses, like the salve my grandma gave me instructions for, but I didn’t know how that worked when it came to poison plants.

we turned to the last page Mom gasped. “Wait,” she said. “What is this?”

At the top of the page was the name Absyrtus Heart. The vibrant drawing of the plant was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. It had thick, ropelike stalks and tufts of black leaves, but the top of the plant resembled an anatomically correct human heart, complete with valves, lobes, and what looked like veins running across its fleshy pink surface. In the bottom right corner of the page was the artist’s name in black ink. Mo ran her finger over it.

“Briseis, baby,” Mom said as she looked at the book. “I think your birth mother drew this.”

I stared at her name. The curl of the capital letter S, the crook of which was lighter, like her pen had come away from the surface of the paper for a split second. Mom put her arm around my shoulder and a nervous flutter settled in my stomach.

“I know we came up here in a hurry,” Mom said, her voice low and measured. It was how she talked when she was dead serious, when she needed me to really pay attention to what she was saying. “Maybe we didn’t think this through.” She exchanged a worried glance with Mo. “This is a lot to deal with all at once. This house, this town, and now these hints of the people who left this to you. If this is too uncomfortable, if you’re having second thoughts, we can pack up and leave. No questions asked.”

I sighed and ran my hand over the drawing, over Selene’s name. “You say that, but the rent is still going up in September, and we still have bills for the shop, and—”

“No,” Mo said. She’d switched on her serious voice too. “We won’t stay here if it’s hurting you, understand? Nothing that’s going on with our bills is worth that. We will make it work, with or without this place. Don’t you dare ignore your feelings on this.”

“I’m okay.” It wasn’t the whole truth. I didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn and deal with all we’d left behind but being here was overwhelming and more complicated than I thought it would be. Selene was always at the back of my mind but now she was more real, more present. “It’s a lot to think about but I’m okay. Really.”

“You sure?” Mo asked.

“Say the word,” Mom said, “and we’ll go.”

“No,” I said. “I’m good. Promise.”

Mo gave me a big hug. She was good at reading the room and knew I needed a minute alone. “We’re gonna go have some of that coffee.” She steered Mom down the stairs while I hung back.

I couldn’t look away from the drawing of the Absyrtus Heart. The black leaves and the bloodred stalk, the pink lobes of the upper part, the bluish veinlike structures on its surface—Selene must have put a lot of time into drawing it. Every other plant in the book was deadly. This one would have been too, based on the coloring alone, but I was positive it didn’t exist in nature. It was too strange. I would have seen it in other books. Somebody would have mentioned it in some scientific journal or article. Maybe she’d conjured it from her own imagination.

I glanced at the painting on the wall. The woman, Medea, stared back at me, like she was daring me to open the safe and see what was inside. I felt a stab of guilt. If I was being real, I wanted to know more, but I worried that meant I was being disloyal to Mom and Mo.

I shook my head. I was overthinking it. I had an opportunity here, in this secluded house in the middle of nowhere, to do something I’d never been able to do—let go. I eyed the potted Peperomia prostrata. It turned toward me and instead of trying with everything I had to pretend it wasn’t happening, I took a long, deep breath and let my shoulders relax.

The plant sprouted three more lengths of stalk and knocked over its planter as it stretched toward me. I let it wrap itself around my leg, gently touching the soft leaves. I felt a sense of calm, of belonging. Circe knew something about my power, and I decided right there to find out exactly how much. I took down the picture of Medea and gave in to a curiosity that hadn’t left me since Mrs. Redmond had showed up at our doorstep. I twisted the lock on the safe, pulled out the letters, and opened the first one.