The Last of the Moon Girls(72)

“I was angry.”

The glib response annoyed Lizzy. “We were all angry.”

Rhanna’s eyes glittered as they met Lizzy’s. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. Everyone whispering and pointing fingers, like they knew. They didn’t know anything. No one did. But they kept on pointing. And then one day I had enough. I thought, If they’re so determined to think the worst of us, let them. I’ll give them something to talk about.”

“And you did.”

Rhanna lifted one of her braids, fiddling briefly with the scrap of yellow ribbon before dropping it back over her shoulder with a sigh. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, Lizzy, done a lot of things I’ve been ashamed of. But that day . . . I’ll never forgive myself for the things I said. It was like I couldn’t stop myself. You can’t imagine how it was.”

“I don’t have to imagine it,” Lizzy said flatly. “I was here, same as you. I heard what you heard, saw what you saw.”

“No,” Rhanna breathed. “Not the same as me.”

Lizzy huffed, in no mood for Rhanna’s drama. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

She would have turned away, but Lizzy caught her wrist. “Talk to me.”

“Don’t!” Rhanna jerked her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Please . . . don’t touch me.”

Lizzy stared at her, baffled by the panic in her mother’s eyes. “Did something happen to you?”

Rhanna dropped her gaze as she sidled past her. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We need to pay attention to the soap.” She grabbed the spatula and lifted it out, watching closely as the batter drizzled back into the pot. “It’s ready,” she announced, all business. “Move it to the hot plate, and keep an eye on it. When it looks like day-old Cream of Wheat, you’re ready to add the vanilla and oatmeal. I’m going to start cleaning up, then get the molds ready.”

It took every ounce of willpower Lizzy had not to prod for answers as Rhanna gathered the used bowls and measuring cups and carried them to the sink, but she didn’t have the energy for another battle. And that was what she’d get if she kept pushing. The signs were all there: the shifting eyes and rigid shoulders, the brooding energy coiled just beneath her skin. Rhanna was spiraling toward one of her dark places, and that never ended well.

An hour later, Rhanna had mixed in the oatmeal, and was showing Lizzy how to press the batter into the molds and pack them tightly so the bars would be smooth when they came out. Her shoulders seemed to relax as she worked, but she was still avoiding eye contact, her face carefully shuttered.

“You okay?” Lizzy asked when they had finished the last mold. “You seem . . .”

“I’m fine.”

“Before, when you pulled away from me—”

“I think you’ve got this now,” Rhanna said brusquely, and handed back the spatula. “Don’t forget to cover the molds with waxed paper when you’re through. And some towels, if you have them.”

Lizzy blew out a breath as she watched her go. It was her own fault. Without meaning to, she’d let down her guard, allowed herself to hope that after years of distance and rejection, there might actually be a way for them to move forward as more than just polite strangers. But nothing had changed. Rhanna was still Rhanna, shutting her out, pushing her away. Just like old times.

She closed her eyes, drained by the evening’s drama. Rhanna wasn’t a puzzle she was going to solve tonight—or ever, probably. The real question was, Where did they go from here? Now that she had opened the door, could she just close it again? It was a question she was simply too exhausted to think about now.

She covered the soap molds with waxed paper, then rounded up some old towels and threw them on top as well. She was about to turn off the lights when she realized she’d nearly forgotten the most crucial part of the process.

Each recipe had its own unique blessing—a few brief lines, written in verse form, meant to be spoken aloud, as an enhancement to the remedy’s natural healing properties. To those on the Path, the blessing was considered the most potent ingredient in any preparation.

Lizzy picked up the recipe book and scanned the words printed at the bottom of the page. She had seen her grandmother recite various blessings over the years, and had even joined in on a few, but she’d never spoken one on her own. How would she know if she was doing it right, if it had . . . taken? She had asked Althea once. Her answer had been vague and enigmatic. Spells. Prayers. Blessings. It’s all the same. It’s about intention, Lizzy, about sending what’s in your heart into your work.

She hadn’t understood then, but maybe she did now.

She read through the lines several times, committing them to memory. When she was sure she had them, she closed her eyes, letting her hands hover above the soap, the way Althea had done the day she resurrected the blackened basil plants, and spoke the words.

“Soap so gentle, pure and mild.

Bring sweet sleep to the crying child.

Let darkest night pass by with ease.

Thank you, Spirit. So mote it be.”

Lizzy remained still when she finished, waiting for some sign that the blessing had taken. At first, there was nothing, just the steady chorus of night sounds filtering in through the open door. And then she felt it. A fizzy sort of vibration humming in her bones, like the ripple of current through water. It was a heady sensation, so intoxicating it nearly made her giddy. But then, at its ebb, came a wake of inexplicable calm, a knowing that in those few brief seconds, while her eyes were closed, the world had reshaped itself in some small but powerful way.