Riya performed in seven different dances, but my favorite was the number just before the grand finale—Riya’s solo, which she had choreographed herself. It was technically modern dance, but it included elements of bharatanatyam, the Indian classical dance she’d studied since she was four. Riya wore a sleek green costume and ankle bells that jingled with each step to emphasize the rhythm of her footwork. The piece, set to Indian music with a lot of dreamy flute, was a tale of a wood nymph who falls in love with a young man and convinces him to make the forest his home. Riya didn’t need words to tell a story. She danced the young man with a proud posture and dynamic kicks. Flowing arms and a graceful tilt of her head transformed her into the wood nymph. But most of all, she told the story with her eyes, which changed from scared to suspicious to lovelorn in the space of seconds.
Halfway through Riya’s solo dance, I sensed a presence to my left. Fletcher stood at the end of our row with an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“Jules,” he murmured. I shook my head. Jules was sitting right next to me, her eyes glued to Riya like her life depended on it.
“Go away,” I whispered. The couple behind me shushed. I pointed at Fletcher, and they turned their annoyance on him.
“Jules,” said Fletcher in a louder voice.
Jules still wouldn’t look at him. “Get lost!”
“Come with me,” Fletcher pleaded.
“No way,” said Jules, turning her back on him and looking sideways at the stage.
“But—”
“She said get lost!” said a droopy-mustached old man at the end of the row. “You’re distracting me from the dancing!”
“I must talk to you,” Fletcher said to Jules. “I heard word that cad Cole ruined your game.”
Mom tried to wave Fletcher away while still recording Riya with her phone. Dad reached into a bag and snuck out one of the chocolate-hazelnut palmiers I’d made for the dancers.
Fletcher edged his way toward Jules, but the man at the end of the row braced his knees against the seat in front to block him. Fletcher began climbing over him but instead stepped on the man’s foot and fell into his lap.
“Young man, this is unacceptable!” the man shouted through his quivering mustache. “Get off!”
Jules hid her face in her hands, but I looked back at the stage, hoping the outburst hadn’t bothered Riya.
Riya had stopped dancing.
And then, as if in slow motion, she leaped off the stage like a deer. The audience gasped. Mom let out a small screech and covered her mouth. Riya landed lightly and stalked through the rows of the audience as her dance music continued to play. She came to a stop at our row, where Fletcher had gotten to his feet, leaving a pile of mangled petals on the floor. Riya’s glare at Fletcher blazed hotter than a kitchen torch.
She slapped him sharply across the face.
As Fletcher fell to the floor, his eyes flashed purple for a split second, just like Dad’s.
“I don’t understand. Is that part of the performance?” asked the mustache man.
Riya pirouetted and ran like a gazelle to the wing of the stage, her jingling ankle bells growing fainter with each step.
Riya danced perfectly in the finale with everyone else, but I could tell that underneath it all, she was furious. After the recital, she didn’t want to stay for the reception, and dragged us all to the parking lot.
As it turned out, Dad ended up eating all the palmiers, too.
We had a silent dinner. I tried to make small talk, but no one paid any attention to me. After an entire day away from work, Mom had to catch up on her email, and Dad didn’t stop eating long enough to say two words. Afterward, he dug into a pile of desserts he’d bought from the While Away. Eventually, Mom went upstairs, Dad went for a run, and my sisters slumped off to their rooms. It didn’t look like I could help anyone, so I took some more notes for the baking contest, which was now only a week away.
Roots. What kind of theme was that? I supposed I could make carrot cake, but I figured a lot of kids would think of that. Should I make something with parsnips? Beets? Potatoes? None of those sounded particularly appetizing. And I also needed to memorize recipes I could make quickly if I made it to the live Bake-Off.
I was still writing when Henry came home.
“What happened? I thought your rehearsal was supposed to go late.”
Henry shrugged and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge. “They sent me home,” he said. “I was only trying to help.”
“Help who?”
“The other actors. After all, I can play all their roles better than they ever could.” He started spooning yogurt into his mouth.
“What?”
Henry waved the spoon around. “No one is truly channeling their characters like I am. We must embody our roles, or no one will believe us. We must broadcast our intentions. So I instructed everyone, trying to help them improve.”
“You were playing all the characters?” No wonder they’d made him leave. What had happened to my sweet and thoughtful brother? He’d always been dramatic, but never obnoxious or unkind.
“Opening night’s only a week away! And Mark—he plays Oberon—needs to put so much more emotion into his role, you know?”
“I guess so.”
“Case in point: Oberon needs us to feel love when he speaks of the love flower: Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound. Mark was acting like these were just like any other lines.”
I froze. That sounded eerily familiar. “What did you say?”
“He needs to emote more about the love flower.”
“The love flower?” A chill ran through my body. “And it’s purple and white?”
“Yes. He needs to say the lines with feeling—after all, it’s the flower that makes people fall in love with the first person they see. It’s a critical moment!”
I racked my brain. What was in the story from The Book, the story Vik had read the day we first met? He’d mentioned the “Love Blossom, with trailing vines and petals that blushed purple with love’s wound.” I pictured a grove filled with vines and purple flowers.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Ridiculous, right?” Henry finished the yogurt and looked at his reflection in the teaspoon. “Amateurs.”
And in his eyes, a tiny flash of purple glimmered.
I ran to my bedroom, locked the door, and pulled on my hair as I looked at the window, where all I could see was my own horrified face.
The love flower from Henry’s play was purple and white. The love blossom from the story in The Book was purple and white.
And so was the honeysuckle I’d put into my cookies the night of the big dinner.
CHAPTER 14
MAYHEM MANAGED
I paced the floor. Could my cookies have actually made people fall in love? It was one thing to hear stories about fairies and magical plants, but it was something else for me to do something that made people act loopy. And there were certainly plenty of people doing plenty of loopy things.
Fletcher and Cole had been eating my cookies when they both became obsessed with Jules. I plopped on my bed and pushed my hair out of my eyes.
What about Jules and Riya? Other than not talking to each other, they seemed to be their normal selves. Jules had been too busy getting everyone to play soccer to bother with the cookies. And Riya hadn’t eaten any because she’d been grossed out that I’d used an ingredient I’d found in the woods. I buried my face in my hands. My sisters would kill me if they discovered I was the reason why the boys were acting so zany. Not just because I’d messed up their love lives, but because Cole’s and Fletcher’s behavior had ruined the stuff that Jules and Riya excelled at, the stuff they cared about most, that made them who they were.
And Henry? He’d been so obnoxious and self-centered lately, so obsessed with his own reflection. What had he been doing when he ate his first cookie?
He’d been taking a s
elfie.
I slapped my forehead. I’d made Henry fall in love with himself! I put a pillow over my head. He’d been annoying enough at home since this happened; I bet that Lily and the other kids in the play were really fed up with him.
But . . . Vik, Mom, and I had all tasted the honeysuckle nectar, and Vik and I had even eaten some of the cookie dough, and we seemed to be fine. Or at least I thought so. And Dad had been acting weird since he’d come back from his trip to Houston—way before I’d found the honeysuckle.
I chewed on a strand of hair and turned the possibilities over in my mind until I thought my head would explode.
Bizarre as it was, the honeysuckle being the love flower was the only explanation that made sense. It couldn’t just be a coincidence.
I burrowed under the covers and curled up into a ball. I had poisoned everyone. It was the absolute worst thing a cook could do. This was way worse than making people throw up from pasta salad that sat in the sun too long. And based on the way the boys were acting, the effects weren’t going to wear off anytime soon.
I needed to fix things. Now!
But how?
My first thought was to ask Mom for help. But what could I tell her? I didn’t have any proof, and she would probably think I was hallucinating. And given how hard she was working, I didn’t need to add more stress to her life.
Maybe the boys needed to see a doctor? But I didn’t even think I could get Henry to go, let alone Cole and Fletcher. And what would they tell the doctor? Uh, Mimi thinks she’s poisoned us with a love flower. . . .
I started to hyperventilate. I couldn’t leave everyone like this! At this rate, no one in my family would be talking to one another in another week.
If only Emma were still here, or even reachable by phone. And Vik! Why’d he have to go away now?
Emma couldn’t help me. Vik couldn’t help me.
I had to figure this out on my own.
I raced downstairs, preheated the oven, and pulled out flour, sugar, and butter. Baking always helped me get my thoughts in order.
As I pressed a tart crust into a pan, it dawned on me: If food had gotten me into this mess, maybe food could get me out. There were plenty of foods that cleansed people’s palates; I needed something to cleanse their minds.
I needed something refreshing to wipe away the confusion caused by the honeysuckle cookies. I covered the crust in parchment paper, poured pie weights on top, and slid it into the oven. Then I grabbed my notebook and started writing.
Mint—that was good for refreshment. What else? Lemon, menthol—no, too nasty. I thought about recipes that Puffy Fay had described as refreshing. In his cookbook, he had a great lime sorbet recipe and a pomegranate syrup that was tart and delicious on ice cream. And there was always chocolate, which dominated other flavors and was universally loved. I felt calmer after making my list, and I started to put together a plan.
While my tart crust baked, I gathered some mint from the large pot on the patio, chopped it up, and added it to a steaming mug of chamomile tea. I let it steep for a few minutes, strained it, and added some honey and an ice cube to cool it. I took a tiny sip—it was plenty sweet and very refreshing. Good. I pulled the tart crust out of the oven, set it aside to cool, and plopped a few shortbread cookies from the cookie jar onto a plate. I took the tea and cookies up to Henry’s room. I burst in to find him strumming his guitar.
“What’s up?”
“I have a treat for you.” My hands were shaking so much that I had to set the mug on his desk.
“Oh, Mimi, you know I’m watching my—”
“Your figure.” Ugh! “Right. Well, you don’t have to eat the cookies—they’re for me. But I thought you might like some tea with honey. You know, to soothe your throat since you’ve been rehearsing all day.”
He smiled. “That’s thoughtful of you. Sure, I’d love some.”
I nodded at the mug, not trusting myself to pick it up again.
Henry set his guitar down and took a sip while I held my breath and tried not to pass out.
“Mmm . . . nice.”
“Glad you like it. Go ahead, drink it up. I’ll snack on these.” I grabbed a cookie and nibbled it half-heartedly while Henry drank the tea. My mouth felt dry and numb, like I was getting a filling at the dentist’s.
Henry drained the mug and set it back on the desk. “Thanks, Mimi. It does make my throat feel better.”
I smiled at him and wondered whether his brain felt better, too.
“Want to hear the song I’m writing for Lily?”
I nodded. Now, that was encouraging; Henry hadn’t talked about anyone other than himself all week.
Henry picked up the guitar and started playing gently.
“Lily, dear Lily, don’t you see?” he sang.
Nice! My breathing got easier.
Henry continued: “How lucky you are to be with me? I’m the hottest and the star-est, the playing the guitar-est.”
I sprang to my feet. “Henry! Are—are you sure that song’s for Lily?”
“Yeah. I mean, she should know how fortunate she is, right? To get to work with me? The most awesome actor-singer-guy anyone’s ever seen? And maybe, if she plays her cards right, I’ll ask her out.”
He smiled, and his eyes glinted purple.
I hurried to the door. “I’ll stop bothering you. Good luck with the song.”
Out in the hallway, I leaned against the door as Henry continued to sing the most self-centered love song ever.
“I’m the cutest and the sweetest,
The guy you’d always want to meet-est . . .”
Mint obviously wasn’t the solution.
It was time for Idea Number Two.
Early the next morning, I snuck next door and peered through a back window. I was relieved to see Cole alone, so I knocked.
He let me in, and memories flooded my mind as I entered Emma’s old kitchen. They hadn’t changed it much—just some new dishcloths and different pictures on the walls. Emma and I had baked hundreds of cookies here together. This was where we’d talked about opening a bakery someday. I’d be the baker, and she’d be the manager, we’d said . . . but it was pointless to think about that now. I had to concentrate on fixing the problem in front of me.
“So, Cole.” I displayed the tart. “I brought you a treat.”
“Where’s Jules?” He peered around me like I might be hiding her behind my back.
“Oh, she’s out,” I said. Jules had another game, and she had made it clear she didn’t want anyone else to come with her. “But she helped me make this last night, and she wanted to be sure I brought it over, first thing.”
Cole looked at the tart. “That’s just like her—so thoughtful and kind.”
“We think it’s perfect for you. A lime tart with pomegranate glaze.”
I put the tart on the counter. The crust was the perfect shade of golden brown, and as I cut into it, the bright red glaze contrasted beautifully with the pale green lime custard filling. I served him up a large slice.
“Go on, try it.”
Cole took a bite, and his mouth puckered. “Wow. It’s very—”
“Tart. Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to be. A tart tart, ha-ha. Make sure to eat it up, or you’ll hurt Jules’s feelings.”
He kept eating dutifully, smacking his lips from time to time. The lime curd and the pomegranate glaze were quite sour—I’d made them that way on purpose and hadn’t added too much sugar. I wanted to clear his palate, and his mind, as much as possible. After all, this wasn’t for the baking contest; it was kind of like medicine.
I scrutinized him as he chewed. Did I see a sparkle of clarity in Cole’s hazel eyes? Was that dawning realization on his face?
Cole finished and poured himself a glass of water.
“Well, that was . . . something,” he said. “Please tell Jules—”
“Yes?”
“Tell her I’d love to see her as soon as she returns. And I’ve got a gift for her,” he
gushed.
I scrambled to the back door. “I’ll let Jules know, Cole. Keep the tart. Share it with your mom. Bye!”
I ran home and locked the door behind me.
It didn’t look like lime and pomegranate were doing the trick, either.
What could I do? I needed help, but who could help me? I sat down heavily at the kitchen table and gazed out the windows to the woods. If only I hadn’t found that stupid honeysuckle patch in the first place. If only I had recognized it for what it was. If only the Queen of The Wild would appear at my door and hand me a gift that would help me fix the mess I’d made.
If only . . .
I shot up in my seat. I did have something that could help me. Something that detailed everything about plants and how to use them.
I opened The Book. I leafed through its pages and finally came to the entry I needed.
I scooped it into my backpack and flew out the back door.
I had to get to the woods.
CHAPTER 15
THE QUEST FOR THE REMEDY
I ducked my head inside my hangout in the woods. Like I expected, there was nothing there: no Vik, no help of any kind.
“Wish me luck,” I said to the empty tarp. I shouldered my backpack and hurried down the path.
I hummed Vik’s song to myself and eventually came to the two hemlocks standing like a green gate. I ran through them and raced to the banyan tree.
“Vik! Are you here? I need help,” I called, gazing up at the mass of green-gold leaves.
But the only answer was the birds calling to each other. The day was humid and oppressive, without even a breath of wind.
“Vik? It’s an emergency!”
Still nothing. Clearly he hadn’t returned from wherever he’d gone with Aunt Tanya. I squared my shoulders. I really was on my own. I decided to walk around the pond to see if I could find what I needed. After a while, I came to an area that seemed familiar. Spearmint plants had overtaken a large expanse. I crushed a leaf in my hand and inhaled the refreshing scent: invigorating, but mint hadn’t brought Henry to his senses. Then I came to some fragrant bushes growing nearby—rosemary. I picked a stem and inhaled its piney aroma. Rosemary, for remembrance. Maybe this would help everyone recall what they used to be like, before I poisoned them? But that wasn’t what I needed.
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