Lizzy studied her. She looked young in her bare feet and braids, startlingly vulnerable. “It does, actually. Or it will, in time. She needs to know that she can trust you. So do I, though I’m not sure that’s actually possible.”

“You can trust me, Lizzy. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. Before, when I said I owed a lot of people—I was mostly talking about you. I’m not asking for anything but a chance.”

“And you’ve got one,” Lizzy said evenly. “But only one. Screw up and you’re gone. Now, let’s get this show on the road. I’m tired.”

They worked in silence for a while, divvying up the various parts of the process and settling into a rhythm. Lizzy measured out the sodium hydroxide, then held her breath as she stirred the crystals into a beaker of distilled water, eyeing the thermometer as the chemical reaction between the two began to generate heat. Rhanna melted the shea butter on the hot plate, then measured out the oatmeal, vanilla, and lavender oil.

Lizzy couldn’t help stealing an occasional glance while she waited for the lye solution to cool. In a million years she couldn’t have imagined working side by side with Rhanna to make soap—or anything, really. Her mother had always had a knack for disappearing anytime there was work to be done, which on a farm was pretty much always. Now, here she was, earning her keep as promised, and making a surprisingly good job of it.

“I think the lye’s cooled down,” Lizzy announced. “How’s it coming over there?”

“Good. And it smells fantastic.” Rhanna took the pan off the hot plate and walked it over to Lizzy. “I think we’re ready to mix. You’re going to pour the lye water into the oil mixture. Go slow, though, and pour it down the shaft of the spatula. You don’t want air bubbles.”

Lizzy followed Rhanna’s instructions, then set the empty measuring cup aside. “Are you sure this is right?” she asked, scowling at the bowl of gelatinous slop. “It looks like breakfast gone terribly wrong.”

Rhanna answered with a snort. “It’s fine. Now we mix.” She leaned in, careful as always to avoid contact. “That’s right. Slow and easy. No, don’t scrape the sides. Just stir, and watch.”

Lizzy cocked an eye at her. “What am I supposed to be watching?”

“This.” Rhanna dropped in a spatula of her own, then lifted it out slowly. “You want the dribbled batter to lie on top instead of sinking the way it did just then. It’s called trace. It’s how you know the soap’s ready to cook. It may take a bit, though. We’re doing this old-school method. They use stick blenders now. And Crock-Pots. Once we hit trace, it goes back on the hot plate. The oatmeal goes in after that.”

Lizzy looked at Rhanna in wonder as she took back the spatula. “How do you know all that? I don’t remember you ever taking an interest in what happened out here.”

Rhanna shrugged. “I didn’t back then. I was too busy being a brat. But life has a funny way of giving you what you need. Even if you don’t know you need it. I moved to Half Moon Bay for a while, with this guy I met. Actually, I liked the name of the place more than I liked the guy, but that’s a story for another day. I took a job at an herb farm. Grunt stuff mainly, but when I had a break, I’d hang out where they made the scrubs and soaps, and watch. If I closed my eyes, it was like I was back here. It helped a little.”

Lizzy looked up from the pot, the spatula still. “You were homesick?”

“Didn’t expect that, did you?”

“I didn’t. No.” Lizzy went back to her stirring, letting the quiet spool out as she tried to reconcile this startling revelation with the Rhanna she used to know, the one who’d gone out of her way to make tongues wag. “Why’d you do it?” she asked finally. “That day in the coffee shop, why did you say all those terrible things—the stuff about cursing the whole town, making sure Salem Creek got exactly what it deserved—when you knew what it would mean for Althea? For all of us?”

“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.