THE SPARE BEDROOM SMELLED like a cross between a florist, a perfumery, and a gardener’s bonfire bash. Lilac bunches of flowers hung above my spot beside Josh and had been tucked beneath my pillow, along with a photograph of him—the necessary components of the Wisteria dream spell.
The tiny burps working their way up my throat tasted of the ginger Jess had made me eat, to prevent my body from being used as a vessel.
I didn’t want to delve too deep into what she’d meant by that.
On the bedside tables, hacked up mugwort lay shrivelling in clay pots, consumed by flames that burned shades of red and brilliant blue—for protection, Jess had said as she’d secured bracelets she’d made from mistletoe about both my wrists. The latter scratched my skin, but I didn’t complain—not when that would be
