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I didn’t know what she meant by that, and I’d learned that if I didn’t know something, it was best if I said nothing.

“Do you know what they are called?” she asked after a few moments.

“Um.” I glanced back at the flowers. “Lavender?”

“Close, but no.” She walked past me, and I expected her to keep walking, but she sat beside me. “They are called nepeta blue.”

“Oh,” I whispered, fingers pressing into the thin linen of my nightgown.

She stared ahead. “Why are you out here so late?”

“Couldn’t—” I caught myself. Momma liked it when I spoke properly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There was no response.

“Why…why are you out here?” I tentatively asked.

“I had an ache in the temples,” she answered. “Thought the fresh air and silence would do me some good.”

“Oh,” I repeated, dragging my lip between my teeth. Then I remembered her once telling me that was unbecoming, so I stopped. “I should leave, then.” I started to rise.

“No, it’s okay.” Momma stopped me. “You’re…you’re always quiet.”

Surprise rushed through me. I didn’t know what to do or say. Momma never sat with me outside of our lessons. So, I did what she did. I looked at the pretty flowers.

I kept still and silent, every part of me aware of how close we were. I could almost feel the warmth of her body as the seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. I glanced at her. Her cheeks glimmered. Concern rose.

“Is your head making you sad?” I asked quietly.

“What?” She glanced down at me, her brows furrowing. “Oh,” she murmured, lifting a hand to wipe her cheek as if she didn’t realize she’d been crying. “No, it’s not my head.”

“Then what has made you sad?” I tipped closer to her, my hands balling.

“More like who,” she remarked, her attention focused on me. On my face. “I swear by the gods, every time I see you…”

I held my breath. How much of me could she see? Did I wash before coming out here? Sometimes I forgot, and there was always something smudged on my face.

“You have more freckles.” The corners of her lips tugged up. She smiled.

Momma smiled at me.

“Just like…” Clearing her throat, her smile faded. She turned back to the flowers. “Your father liked these.”

I didn’t know what to be more excited about. Her smile? Or that she was speaking of him.

“He also enjoyed their scent,” she continued. “Thought they had a lighter, fresher smell compared to lavender.” She shook her head. “I could never tell the difference, but he could. He thought lavender smelled like…”

I turned back to the flowers, my fingers relaxing. “Vanilla.”

“Yes,” she said, then sighed. “He said the same. Excuse me.” She rose and left the little garden nook without saying another word.

Left…me.

I slipped from the memory with a strange sense of clarity that had never been there before. Her stares and words were never just cold; they were also full of cruel agony and heartbreak for what she’d lost and the child she could never allow herself to grow close to. Care for. Love. Because if she did, how could she honor the deal my father’s ancestor made?

I fell into another memory, seeing Odetta’s silver hair and her lined face softening briefly in sympathy as she shared her suppers with me. I saw myself sitting beside her at the small table in her chambers while we ate. It was before the garden. I was younger, and I…I hadn’t remembered it correctly.

“Do you think Momma is proud she has a Maiden as a daughter?” I asked, toying with the fork.