The tulips had all dropped their petals, but pink and white dogwood blossoms were unfolding on bare branches that raised them, like an offering to the sun. Laurel was feeling panicky because May Day was only a week away. Scanning the first floor of the library, she hurried up the steps of the tower. Her hand froze as she reached for the antique book, because its title was upside down. Laurel was compulsive about replacing books correctly, as her mom had been. She looked around, but the stacks were silent.
Was it Tara or Nicole? she wondered. She shook the book gently, but nothing fell out. The ribbon was still marking Violet’s name, so she moved it to another page. Settling in at a desk, Laurel turned to the list of flower meanings and got to work. She made a wish list for Miss Spenser, but she had no idea what was blooming.
Before she left, she looked up one more flower: Cicely, Grandma’s name. She found it under “sweet cicely, for gladness and comfort.” She almost snorted, because Grandma’s name was so wrong. Hugging the book to her chest, she crept around the tower and slid it underneath a stack of yellowed newspapers. They won’t find it again, she thought.
As Laurel hurried down the stairs, a set of old-fashioned portraits near the checkout desk caught her eye. She stood under the couple and gazed up. Gladys du Valle, said one card. 1878 to 1932. Avondale Founder and Benefactress. Gladys’s red hair reminded her of Miss Spenser, but Gladys was young in the portrait and held her head high. She was holding a bouquet, a blur of bright colors, in her hand.
Laurel stepped sideways and met the gaze of a handsome man with a kind face. Edmund du Valle, 1868 to 1924. Founder of Willowlawn and Benefactor of Avondale. A hundred years earlier he’d built Gladys a conservatory and a school and filled her life with “bright blossoms and sweet scents.”
“Psst.”
Laurel turned toward the sound. Rose’s friend Mina waved to her from behind a pile of books. She had a few violets stuck behind one ear. They were blooming all over the quad, but Laurel couldn’t remember their meaning.
“Whassup?” said Mina.
“Nice flowers,” Laurel whispered. “Hey, have you ever been in the conservatory?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“What’s it like inside?”
“It’s soooo beautiful. Flowers bloom there in winter, and it’s always warm.”
Laurel hesitated, but she could never ask Rose. “What about the ghost? I heard—”
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. “This is not social hour,” said the assistant librarian. “Please stop the chatting.”
“Sorry,” Laurel and Mina said in unison. Mina stared down at her book, and the ghost question hung unanswered between them. Frustrated, Laurel gave Mina a quick wave and headed out to the library steps. With a glance at the waning sun and a shiver of indecision, she ran toward the cedars.
Every time Laurel saw the gaping gargoyles and Gothic tower, she thought of foreign lands and fairy tales. She half believed that anyone who stepped into that fanciful building would be transported into another world. She knocked on the glass door and felt a wave of relief as she saw Ms. Suarez walking toward her.
“Laurel.” Ms. Suarez smiled warmly. She was wearing old jeans and a stained apron. Her hair was pulled back, but dark wisps hung loose through her silver hoop earrings. “Come in. I’ve been thinking about you.”
Finally. Laurel breathed in the heavy moist air. Plants, vines, and small trees were hanging from hooks and rods, stacked on shelves, and even winding through a wrought-iron circular staircase that led to the central tower. She couldn’t wait to explore.
Ms. Suarez leaned against a table. “Did you come for your tour?”
Laurel wanted to phrase this just right. “Sure, and I want to make another tussie-mussie—like I did for my presentation—but I don’t know if the flowers I want are in bloom.”
“What do you have in mind?” said Ms. Suarez.
Laurel took out her list. According to the antique book a flower called cape jasmine was for “ecstasy and transport.” “What I really want is some cape jasmine,” she said.
Ms. Suarez’s eyebrows drew together. “Cape jasmine?”
“Is it really rare?”
Ms. Suarez shook her head. “Not at all. It’s the old-fashioned name for gardenia.”
“Really? That’s great!” Laurel knew that scent. Her dad had given her mom a huge gardenia every Mother’s Day, and her mom always acted surprised. “I need just two.”
“Two whole plants?”
“Oh, no. Two flowers, and maybe some cabbage roses, too.”
“I’m curious,” asked Ms. Suarez. “Where did you learn about cape jasmine?”
“There’s this old language of flowers book in the tower,” Laurel explained. “I have a paperback, too, but it’s not so detailed.”
Ms. Suarez smiled. “It’s a lovely book, isn’t it? Quite rare and full of fascinating stuff.” She scanned the room around them. “Let’s see. I don’t attempt roses inside, and it’s too early outside. You know the scent of a gardenia?”
“Yes.”
“They’re here.” Ms. Suarez’s eyes twinkled as she swept her arm in an arc. “You find them.”
Laurel turned around in the mass of plants. “Here?”
“Think of it as a treasure hunt.” Ms. Suarez touched her nose and walked away.
“Oh-kay.” A citrusy scent hung on the air, and Laurel could feel a breeze stirring through the open windows. She turned in a circle and sniffed. Although few plants were labeled, her nose quickly found open gardenias. Ecstasy and transport. The scent was so delicious that she shivered wordlessly with delight. The professor won’t be able to leave her side, she thought.
Laurel considered taking a bloom now, but she didn’t have permission, and it would wilt before May Day. She opened her mouth to call Ms. Suarez, and then closed it. Stepping softly, she followed the whims of her nose up and down the aisles. She found strange and lovely blooms redolent of lemon, while others exhaled cinnamon or licorice. Her head swirled with the giddy mingling, and she felt like she was flitting, floating in a dreamy cloud. She was about to lean into a large white lily when she heard footsteps.
“That’s a lily,” Ms. Suarez said flatly. “Do you need some help?”
“No.” Laurel smiled blissfully. “I already found the gardenias. I’ve just been . . . exploring.”
“Oh.” Ms. Suarez’s red lips parted in surprise. “Please show me them.”
Laurel turned toward the circular staircase to gain her bearings. She retraced her steps and leaned into a creamy gardenia, but the teacher’s hand pulled her back.
“Not too much,” Ms. Suarez said. “Remember the wild orchid? Gardenias are potent, and I don’t want”—she paused—“you to feel dizzy again.”
Laurel straightened. “Oh.”
Ms. Suarez reached for some drooping petals and pulled them off. “You’re fourteen now, right?”
Laurel nodded.
“I know this is personal, but I assume you’ve started your period?”
Startled, Laurel took a step backward but nodded.
“I thought so,” said Ms. Suarez. “Your sense of smell has improved, hasn’t it? The world is rich with scented delights, and you’ll come to—” She tapped her fingertips on her mouth. “But maybe it’s not my place to say,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Your place to say what?” asked Laurel.
Ignoring her question, Ms. Suarez took small scissors from her apron. “Have you ever heard of the Hupa?”
Laurel shook her head. “No.”
“It’s a tribe of Native Americans in northern California. They’ve lived in the same, isolated canyon for thousands of years,” said Ms. Suarez. “When a girl of the Hupa tribe becomes a woman, the tribe holds a Flower Dance for her. Their dancing and flowers and singing summon the Spirits to welcome her womanhood.”
Ms. Suarez snipped off a gardenia. “Welcome, Laurel, to your blooming.”
Laurel flushed red as she took the flower. “Uh, thanks.”
“And I have another idea.” The teacher motioned for Laurel to follow her to a desk in a corner. Crouching, she took a colorfully woven purse from the lowest drawer.
“We don’t know each other that well, but I’m going to trust you,” Ms. Suarez said as she unfastened the purse’s flap. An ornately wrought silver key fell to the bottom of a chain. She held the chain wide, and Laurel bowed her head as she slipped it over her hair.
“It’s a key to the conservatory,” said Ms. Suarez. “An original. But tuck it under your shirt. I don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”
The key hung cold between Laurel’s breasts. “Thanks,” she said, although she had no idea whose were the “wrong” hands. “Does this mean I can come whenever I want?”
“Yes.”
“And may I take any flowers?” Laurel stared down at the single gardenia.
“No,” Ms. Suarez said solemnly. “I cultivate many for their seeds, so the flowers shouldn’t be cut. But you wanted gardenias, right?”
“Yes, but not for me.”
“Who?” Ms. Suarez’s voice cajoled. “Who needs gardenias?”
“Miss Spenser.” And Kate, Laurel added to herself. She didn’t want Ms. Suarez to think she’d take too many flowers.
“Sheila?” Ms. Suarez’s eyes scanned Laurel’s face. “You gave her that bouquet you made in class. Have you given her anything else?”
Laurel nodded. “A few weeks ago when she went to the professor’s for dinner.”
“Which flowers?”
“Red tulips.”
“To declare love,” Ms. Suarez whispered. “But they just met, and you . . .” Crossing her arms, she gave Laurel a look resembling the Probe. “To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this—not so quickly. You seem more . . .”
“Quiet and well behaved?” Laurel finished for her. “Shy and boring? Everyone thinks that, but it’s not who I am.”
Ms. Suarez lifted her eyebrows. “Then I’m excited to know the real Laurel.”
If I could only figure out who that is, thought Laurel. I used to know. “So, can I have gardenias for Miss Spenser? The book says they’re for ecstasy and transport.”
“Yes, but the book won’t tell you everything,” Ms. Suarez said.
“Then how do I find out more?” Laurel asked.
Ms. Suarez pinched off a few browning petals. “You have to study and spend time with the blooms to learn names and scents. It will take time, Laurel. And patience.”
But May Day was looming. “Don’t you want me to give her flowers?” Laurel asked. “You left some outside my door.”
Ms. Suarez pursed her lips. “I wish this could be simpler, but you shouldn’t rush things. You need to know the blooms better . . . and yourself.”
Laurel couldn’t bear Miss Spenser being empty-handed on May Day. “Can’t I have just a few more gardenias? Or even one? Please. It’s practically an emergency.”
Ms. Suarez looked at her skeptically. “A flower emergency?”
Laurel nodded. “Really. And I need them to be fresh on Saturday.”
“That’s May Day.”
“Yes. The professor’s coming back for it.”
Ms. Suarez exhaled audibly. “All right. Leave a note in my box to remind me, and I’ll set a gardenia plant near the front door on Friday. But be careful who you give them to, okay?”
“Thank you sooo much,” said Laurel. “You’re awesome.” She headed for the door, but then spun around and retraced her steps. She couldn’t let go of an image from her dreams—of flowers falling into a grave.
“Excuse me, Ms. Suarez?”
The teacher was opening a cardboard box. “Yes?” she said without looking up.
“Do you know my grandma?” Laurel asked.
Ms. Suarez pulled the flaps apart. “I met her when I was a student here. Why?”
“I had this dream,” Laurel said softly. “About you and Grandma throwing flowers on my mom’s grave.”
Ms. Suarez’s head snapped up, and she dropped what was in her hands. “What?”
Laurel took a step back. “It was just a dream.”
Ms. Suarez shook her head. “No, it wasn’t. We threw Cicely’s flowers onto your mom’s grave. You must have seen us.”
Laurel shook her head. “I didn’t see you there. I left when my dad did.”
“Dreaming can be a way of seeing, too. You have to tell Cicely. She’ll—”
“She won’t care. She never talks to me, and my dad said she torched her garden.”
Ms. Suarez’s hand covered her mouth. “Nooo,” she whispered.
Laurel nodded. “After the funeral, she set it all on fire.”
Ms. Suarez leaned heavily against a table. “I’ve been too out of touch.”
“I just found out,” Laurel said. “I’ve tried to call her, but she doesn’t answer me or call back. I think she wants to die.”
Ms. Suarez rubbed her forehead. “There are ways to die even while your body lives on. But, Laurel, we can’t let her slip through our fingers.”
“I sent her a letter,” Laurel said.
Ms. Suarez nodded pensively. “Then I will, too.”