Esme watched, invisible, as the eleventh keeper’s patient wiped away a tear.
‘After my mother left us, I practically raised my sister. Now she’s gone, too. Since she passed, I haven’t been able to find joy in anything. Not in my garden, not in my Gift.’ She hiccoughed. ‘But I have to be strong. For my family, for my children, for everyone else.’
The treatment room looked different, but the old marble sink was the same. Flora Agapios, a curly haired woman swathed in aquamarine robes, stood before the bench. She reached through Esme for a teapot and strained clear liquid into it, pressed from a velvety black flower. Esme recognised the blossom as a rue plant. They grew in Miranda’s garden, hoarded rainwater, and ‘cried’ whenever they were touched.
‘You’re allowed to feel,’ said Flora, pou
