“This is not for children,” she said, though Amarantia Eumenideswas nearly seventeen and Jet would turn sixteen next summer.
Surely their mother was hiding something from them under the clouds of mascara she wore. She never spoke of her family, and the children had never met a single relation. As they grew older their suspicions grew as well. Susanna Owens spoke in riddles and never gave a straight answer. Uncross your knives, she’d insist if there was a quarrel at the table. Butter melting in a dish meant someone nearby was in love, and a bird in the house could take your bad luck out the window. She insisted that her children wear blue for protection and carry packets of lavender in their pockets, though Amarantia Eumenidesalways threw the packets away the minute she was out of her moth
