ver. Or rather,

nd a large mahogany desk, his face grim. Eleanor sat in a nearby armchair, dabbing at her e

of Juliet's sobbing could still be hea

His voice was heavy, devoid of

ommand, no

raised by a kind, elderly herbalist named Walter Potts in a small, forgotten town in Pennsylvania. She painte

s welling in her eyes. Guilt

cion a palpable force in the room.

lves of leather-bound medical texts, all of them coated

g, placing it on the polished surf

er of hopeful curiosity in her

brown butcher paper. Inside were what looked like

pointment and contempt washed over his

he study doo

sive dress stained with tears. She saw the pathetic-loo

er voice raw. "Did you dig

threw it back onto the desk. "We don't need your charity, Chloe. The Townsends a

know what the roots were, but J

. "That's Frost-Vein Fern," she said quietly. "And that one is Stone-Heart Lotus. M

onic leg pain from a riding accident and Elean

t shrieked. "Do you think you're in some

thought that counts." She turned to Chloe, her voice soft and placating. "Your birthday is

lit match to Juliet. Flames of je

waiting to see what exorbitant price this long-lost sist

seemed to look past them, through the walls

lifted

lacid, now held a sharp, unwa

er mother, her brother, and the br

was clear and firm, each wo

sh is

to Juliet's pale,

fulfill the Townsend family's marr