Lizzy followed her to the backyard, past the greenhouse with its newly replaced glass, and the vegetable garden with its chicken wire fence and gate, finally coming to a stop before Evvie’s pastel-colored bee boxes.

Lizzy eyed them warily. She’d never developed Althea’s fondness for bees, or anything with wings and a stinger. She held her breath as Evvie laid a hand on the lid of one of the hives, a smile softening the corners of her mouth. Lizzy held her breath. She didn’t know a thing about beekeeping, but even she knew you were supposed to wear some sort of protective gear—a smock, gloves, one of those pith helmets with the netting. Evvie had none of that. She just stood there, barefaced and bare armed—and began to sing.

The hairs on Lizzy’s arms prickled to attention. It wasn’t a tune she recognized. The words were foreign and had a faintly French lilt. She stood spellbound as Evvie closed her eyes and let her head fall back, holding perfectly still as the song poured out low, lush, and achingly sweet. And then she slowly began to raise her arms, holding them out to her sides. An invitation, Lizzy realized. She was calling them to her.

One by one the bees came, hovering around her like a soft, humming cloud, eventually lighting on her arms, her neck, her cheeks. It should have been terrifying, but somehow it wasn’t. It was lovely and magical, and suddenly Lizzy understood.

She’s one of us.

It explained so much. The inexplicable sense of the familiar she’d felt almost from the beginning; those sharp, all-seeing eyes; her remark about family not always being about blood. Of course she and Althea had hit it off. They were sisters under the skin, walkers on the same path.

“Come meet my bees,” Evvie said, as if nothing remotely extraordinary had occurred.

Lizzy eyed the humming bodies still clinging to Evvie’s arms and shook her head. “Thanks. I’m good.”

“They’re happy. They won’t hurt you.”

Lizzy sucked in a breath, holding it as she inched closer. “Aren’t you supposed to have one of those smoker things?”

“Don’t need one.”

“You’re not afraid of being stung?”

“Nope.”

Lizzy couldn’t stop staring. Magick or not, it was hard to comprehend what she was seeing. “The song you were singing just now—what was it?”

“It’s called ‘Galine Galo.’ It’s a Creole lullaby.”

“You sing lullabies to your bees?”

“They like it.”

Lizzy cocked an eye at her, skeptical. And yet it was plain that Evvie’s song had not only attracted the bees, it had lulled them. They seemed almost . . . affectionate. “Have you always been able to do this?”

“Long as I can remember.”

“How on earth did you know to sing to them?”

Evvie shrugged. The bees on her shoulders stirred, then resettled. “Don’t know. Just did. My mama used to sing that song to me when I was little, and it always calmed me. Guess I figured if it worked for me, it would work for them.” She paused, pursing her lips to blow gently on one arm. “Go on,” she said softly, clearly talking to the bees. She turned to the other arm and blew again. “Go. Go. I’ve got work to do, and so do you.”

Lizzy watched, fascinated as the bees obeyed. When the last bee departed, Evvie bent to remove the lid from an old enamel washtub at the base of the hive. Inside was an assortment of tools. She pulled out a curved blade and set to work, prying one of the frames free, carefully lifting it out, shaking off several clinging bees.

Lizzy was surprised to find herself relaxing as she watched Evvie work. The bees seemed unfazed by this invasion of their habitat, treating Evvie not as an intruder, but as a guest.

“Do they ever sting?”

Evvie glanced up from her work. “Every once in a while, but it’s usually my fault when they do. I’ve broken their rules.”

“Bees have rules?”

“Of course they have rules. Every living thing has rules. A big one with bees is that you don’t wear anything with a strong scent. It stirs them up, makes them nervous.”

“I guess that makes sense. Could I learn how to do it? The singing thing, I mean. Not that I want to. I’m just curious.”

“Doubt it.” Evvie pressed her lips together as she mulled the question further. “It’s like you and your nose. Your gran told me how you’re able to read people. It wasn’t something you learned. It was something you were born with—a gift.”

“Althea used to call it that too, but it hasn’t always felt that way to me. Sometimes I know things I’d rather not know. Like what someone’s thinking when I’m around.”

“If you’ve been given a gift, there’s a reason. The magick goes where it’s best used.”

Lizzy nodded absently, wondering what use there might be for a woman who sang to bees. “I suppose. But it still seems a little dangerous. What if something happened? What if they all decided to get mad at the same time?”

Evvie looked up from the frame she’d been examining. “Bees are like people, little girl. They attack when they feel threatened—when they’re afraid. It’s the same for us. It’s always the things we fear that sting us in the end. The things we hide from or push against. When we drop the fear—the resistance—things take their course in a more natural and painless way.”

“You sound like Althea now, with her nature metaphors, always trying to teach me something.”

Evvie slid the gooey frame back into place and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “I’d say that’s just about the nicest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“I found a book,” Lizzy blurted. “In the bookcase in Althea’s room—one she wrote just for me.”

Evvie nodded, her expression wistful. “She finished it the day before she passed. I helped her press the flowers and herbs. And locked it up with the others when she finished it. She knew you’d find it when the time came.”

“How could she possibly know that?”

Evvie smiled one of her enigmatic smiles. “She raised you, little girl. And loved you with her whole soul. That kind of bond doesn’t end just because one of you stops breathing. That book was a labor of love, a way to keep teaching you after she was gone.”

“I thought she left you here for that.”

“Don’t be silly. There’s only ever one queen in a hive. And that was Althea.”

Lizzy couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “What happens when the queen dies?”

Evvie looked at her a long time, her eyes softly probing. “Depends,” she said at last. “Sometimes the queen nurtures her own replacement. But if the death is sudden and the hive is unprepared, the drones band together to nurture a new queen. She’s carefully prepared, fed, and pampered, until she’s ready to assume her new position as head of the hive.”

“And then what?”

“As queen, her sole responsibility is to ensure the survival of the hive.”

“You mean reproduce,” Lizzy replied matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Her job is to populate the hive, and eventually give birth to her successor. If she fails, the hive may wither and die—unless the beekeeper steps in.”

Lizzy took a moment to digest this, aware that their conversation had gone beyond beekeeping to something much closer to home. “Is that why you’re here? To step in?”

Evvie smiled sheepishly. “Something like that. Your gran hoped I’d be able to smooth things a bit when you came back.”

“What if I hadn’t come back? I wasn’t going to.”

“Silly girl. You were always going to come back. You just didn’t know it. She did, though. That’s why she wrote the book. Because she knew it would be hard. It was never easy for you here, growing up the way you did, with no friends and no real mother to speak of. And then those poor girls turning up dead. They blamed her, but you took your share of fire. Still, here you are, back in Salem Creek, thinking of kicking over a hornet’s nest. That’s brave.”

“Or maybe it’s just crazy.” She shook her head, staring off into the woods. “I could call Roger Coleman and tell him to forget it, just let the whole thing drop and go back to New York.”

Evvie’s brow puckered. “Could you?”

Lizzy struggled to find an answer. She wasn’t like Luc. She couldn’t just get on with it and feel relieved that it was finally over. Because it wasn’t over. And wouldn’t be until everyone in Salem Creek knew what really happened the night Heather and Darcy Gilman disappeared. But was she prepared—truly prepared—to pay the price for that truth? She wanted to say yes, to believe she was up for whatever the Gilmans or the rest of the town could throw at her. She wanted to, but she wasn’t sure.

As if in answer, the air around her seemed to ripple, the subtle breeze freshened with the scents of lavender and bergamot. The fragrance was unmistakable, like the brush of fingers against her cheek, and suddenly she knew what she needed to do.

. . . come back to the book when you are ready. Trust me in this, sweet girl. You will know when it’s time.

Bluebells . . . for truth.