Rowan and Heather

(continued)

By Eilis O'Neal

"Only because she has such a full life," he said. "I admire her ability to make so many friends."

"She's always been that way. Empathetic. Easy for people to like."

He watched her put away the groceries after she assured him that he need not help, since he didn't know where anything went.

"She admires your skill with cosmetics," Rhys said, his voice giving nothing away.

I wonder how much of my "skill" she told him about, Rowan thought as she strained to put some chips in her tallest cabinet. A cool hand touched her wrist, and Rhys gently took the bag from her and placed it on the shelf.

He paused and regarded her. "You don't wear much makeup, for someone so good with it."

That's because it doesn't work on me, she thought. Indeed, she had never been able to alter her own face. One set of desires, one soul, did not seem to be enough to make the magic work.

"Well, I spend so much time around it, it's no wonder," she said with forced lightness.

He was standing too close. She could smell him; he smelled of earth and leaves, with no hint of cologne. She felt dizzy, as if she had stood up too fast.

"I'm like those who work at McDonald's. They can't eat fries."

He didn't seem to hear her. "You're much more difficult than your sister."

"What?" She felt as if drowning. She gulped for air, standing with her back pressed against the counter.

In the hall the doorbell rang. Rhys gazed at her for a second longer, then turned and went to the door. The dizziness, the feeling of being caught in a trap, went with him.

Two weeks later, her mother came to visit. Predictably, Lydia did not knock but let herself in with a cheery, "Hello, sweetie!"

"Hi, Mom," Rowan called from her bedroom. She hung her work clothes up and went to find her mother.

She stood arranging three pots of herbs on the window ledge above the sink. Rosemary, clover, and thyme. Though Lydia was one of the leading professors of botany at the university, she did not look it. As usual, she wore a long broomstick skirt, this one a startling orange, with a bit of mud clinging to the hem. Glasses with red frames poked out from the curly hair that surrounded her face and then falling wildly to the middle of her back.

Rowan smiled and walked over to her mother. "You have something on your cheek."

She blinked and turned her face so that Rowan could rub the spot away. "Probably dirt," she said.

"I went to the herb show today. Look, I brought you some."

"I'll just kill them. I think I drowned the last bunch you brought over."

"Well, those were succulents," Lydia said, as if that settled the matter. "I'll mark on your calendar when to water these."

The watering schedule for the herbs for the next two months written out, the two went into the living room to drink some tea. "Your sister is quite enamored of her new beau," Lydia said as she sipped her drink. "Have you met him?"

Rowan nodded. "Haven't you?"

"No. She's usually so good about trotting them by my office when she's on campus." Lydia shrugged. "I guess she's just busy."

Or she doesn't want you to meet him, Rowan thought. But no, Heather was always eager to show off her new boyfriends to her family and vice versa. Maybe he wants to meet as few of us as possible, she thought, though she didn't know why.

"Well, next time you see her, mention that I'd like to meet him," Lydia said, and turned the talk to the new lab they were building on campus.

After her mother left, Rowan got ready for bed. In a fit of responsibility, she decided to put the tea things away before getting under the covers with her book. She took the cups and saucers into the kitchen and had begun rinsing them off when she noticed a book on the counter. The Folklore of Plants, the cover read. It must be her mother's. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was too late to call and tell her that she had forgotten it.

I'll take it to her before work tomorrow, Rowan thought. Instead of putting it with her purse, however, she picked it up, sat down on her bed and let the pages slide through her fingers. Two dog-eared pages caught her attention; their mother had always chastised her daughter for turning down the corners of pages.

The dog-ear marked the middle of the H section, each entry containing a short description of each plant's folklore. The entry for heather was underlined in pencil.

HEATHER: Heather is often considered lucky, an idea popularized by the Victorians. It is also said to grow over the final resting places of faeries, to ignite faery passion, and to open the doorways between the human realm and the land of faery. Its medicinal purposes include . . . .

Frowning, Rowan stared at the entry for a moment. The words perhaps not as normal as you think lingered in her head, and though she could hear them, she couldn't seem to remember who said them. She flicked to the other marked page and found herself looking at the entry for her own name.

ROWAN: Rowan is said to offer powerful protection against such forces
as fire, evil spirits, and many forms of enchantment. The Irish often used crosses made from rowan wood as protection against faeries. Many churchyards contain a rowan tree...

She went no further. That's weird, she thought; Mom named us after plants, but plants that have things to do with faeries? Rhys's face, with his twilight eyes, filled her mind.

"You're much more difficult than your sister."

The words were so loud in her head she thought she might have heard them out loud. The book fell from her hands and thumped onto the ground. The impact cracked the spine.

Don't be stupid, she thought, leaving the book where it was and pulling the covers over her head.