Chapter One

By the time the divorce was finalized, I’d learned two things about myself. First, I cried quietly. No sobbing or theatrics. Just a steady, humiliating trickle that made my eyes burn and my head ache and left me feeling like I’d sprung a small, private leak I couldn’t quite seal.

Second, everything I owned that mattered fit into my car. That part still felt rude.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom—which technically had stopped being my bedroom three days earlier—and stared at the box in front of me. It was medium-sized, reinforced at the corners with old packing tape, and labeled ‘Photos’ in my mother’s handwriting. The capital P leaned slightly to the right, like it was trying to escape.

Clothes were folded into neat piles behind me. Books were stacked in uneven towers by the door. The box sat between them like an accusation.

Forty years old. No job, no house, no husband, no kids. And one box of proof that I’d once belonged to something that felt permanent.

My fingers itched to open it, but that would derail me. I didn’t have time for nostalgia when I needed to find work, a place to live, and a way to explain to my parents—again—that yes, I was fine, thank you for asking in that tone that suggested they could stop asking me now.

I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the box. The judge had called the settlement equitable. My ex had called it clean and smiled when he said it. I called it devastating, but only in my head, because saying that word out loud felt melodramatic. I’d spent my entire marriage learning how not to be that.

I stood up, brushed imaginary dust off my jeans, and reminded myself that people survived worse. People rebuilt and reinvented themselves at forty all the time. There were articles about it. Blogs. Entire motivational industries.

I just hadn’t planned on becoming one of those people.

___

The letter arrived the next morning—a cream-colored envelope with my name written in looping script I didn’t recognize.

I stared at it from my kitchen table, coffee cooling untouched beside it. The return address said it was from the Don’t Kiss the Frog Apothecary in Midnight Crossing, Tennessee. “What a joke,” I muttered.

I slit it open with a butter knife, because I’d already packed the scissors, and unfolded the letter once. Then again. Then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable if I gave them enough chances.

They did not.

Dear Marlowe,

Your presence in Midnight Crossing is urgently required. We apologize for the shock, but time has made cowards of us, and now we are out of it. We are your aunts, Juniper and Thalia.

P.S. Margaritas will be provided upon arrival.

I read it again, then laughed. Not because it was funny—because it wasn’t—but because laughter felt safer than the alternatives.

Aunts. Plural.

I had grown up with two parents, no siblings, and a very clear understanding that our family tree was short, tidy, and free of surprises. My parents had no siblings, either.

And they were not secret-keeping people—they were values people. They believed in honesty, hard work, and staying far away from things that invited trouble.

We don’t dabble in that. We don’t invite that kind of chaos. We don’t associate with people who make those choices.

Were these so-called aunts troublemakers?

I flipped the letter over, searching for fine print, a website, a phone number. Any clue that this was a scam, a joke, or an elaborate grief hallucination brought on by stress and insufficient sleep.

There was nothing. Just my name, their signatures, and the unsettling certainty that someone, somewhere, believed this made sense.

I took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Cold.

“Okay,” I said to the empty house—Daniel had given me a week to clear out while he was at another work convention halfway across the country. “What now?”

I spent the next hour arguing with myself like a woman who had lost a great deal of credibility in her own decision-making. Midnight Crossing sounded fake. The letter sounded fake. Surprise aunts sounded fake. The margarita bribe was frankly insulting, because it implied I could be bought with citrus and salt when everyone knew tequila was the real motivator.

And yet, I looked up the town.

It existed. Small, tucked away, and hard to find, which I immediately interpreted as a red flag. The town’s website featured a grainy photo of a welcome sign, a diner, and a gas station.

I told myself my parents would have mentioned sisters and that grief did strange things to people. I told myself I was not the kind of person who chased mysteries when her life was already on fire.

Then I glanced at the box of photos. I knelt and lifted the lid just enough to peer inside.

Faces stared back at me—some familiar, some not. Decades-old snapshots of women who looked vaguely like me with smiles that felt half-known. A group shot at a picnic I didn’t remember, with two women standing far in the background as if they weren’t allowed to join the fun.

My stomach dipped. My parents had never lied to me outright. They just… curated.

With my marriage over, my job gone, and my future reduced to a stack of résumés and polite rejection emails, the idea that there was something—maybe two someones—I didn’t know felt less threatening.

It felt…possible.

A weekend away, I reasoned. Midnight Crossing was only forty miles north. It would be a distraction. A place to lick my wounds where no one knew me well enough to feel sorry.

I had nowhere else to be, so why not Midnight Crossing?

I folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table. “Just a weekend,” I said, firmly. “That’s it.”

The silence didn’t argue.

Which, in hindsight, should have been a big fat red flag.

____

The drive north took less than an hour. I kept waiting for the scenery to change dramatically—to tip me off that I was crossing into something unusual—but it didn’t. Trees thickened. The winding road narrowed. My phone lost signal somewhere between a hand-painted barn sign and a stretch of fog that appeared without warning or explanation.

“That’s fine,” I told the dashboard. “I didn’t need GPS anyway.”

Midnight Crossing announced itself with a wooden sign that read Welcome Home. Someone had added a small painted crescent moon in the corner, like an afterthought. The population claimed there were two hundred and ninety-nine people.

The town squatted on a crossroads intersection. A handful of buildings clustered together along each of the four forks of the roads as if for comfort.

People noticed me, staring as I drove down Main Street just a fraction of a second too long before they looked away, as though I’d walked into the middle of a conversation they’d paused for my benefit.

I told myself I was projecting. Grief did that. So did exhaustion. So did driving into a town you’d never heard of to meet two women who claimed to be related to you.

Still, I rolled my shoulders and drove on, following directions printed out from my laptop like it was 2006, and I trusted paper more than instinct.

The house was impossible to miss. It sat at the edge of town where the road curved toward the woods, three stories of Victorian elegance, with tall windows framed by climbing ivy that looked a little too healthy for late autumn. A wraparound porch hugged it like an embrace, and two rocking chairs invited one to sit a while.

I parked at the curb and stayed there longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel, keys still in the ignition. A lace curtain moved in an upstairs window. A bat circled around the peaked attic. “This is not a haunted house,” I told myself. “It’s just…old.”

The front steps creaked when I climbed them. Loudly. The front door opened before I could knock. I froze, halfway between stepping back and pretending I’d meant to do that.

The house seemed to exhale. Warm air spilled out, carrying the scent of herbs, citrus, and something I couldn’t immediately identify but felt oddly comforting.

The woman who greeted me was smaller than I expected, her gray-blond hair pulled back in a loose knot, her cardigan soft and worn in the way of things that had been loved for a long time. Her eyes—my eyes, I realized with a jolt—warmed the moment they met mine. “Marlowe,” she said, gently, taking my hand. “We’re so glad you came.”

Something in my chest shifted, sharp and unwelcome.

She gently pulled me into the foyer. “I’m Juniper. Your Aunt Junie.”

Behind her, a voice boomed. “Well. You exist.”

Her counterpart was taller, broader, and dressed like she’d lost a bet with subtlety. Colorful scarves, jangling bracelets, boots that had clearly seen action. She took me in with a sweeping glance and grinned.

“Good bone structure,” she announced. “You get that from us.”

“This is Thalia,” Juniper said.

“I—” I started, then stopped, because I wasn’t sure which version of myself I was supposed to be right now. Polite guest? Skeptical stranger? Woman on the verge of crying?

Without asking, Juniper wrapped me in a hug. I stiffened out of reflex. Then, to my irritation, relaxed. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome?” I managed.

Thalia clapped her hands together. “You look exhausted. We’ll fix that.”

“Good luck with that. I’ve been chronically exhausted for most of my adult life.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled knowingly. “First, you should say hello to the house. It hates being ignored.”

I laughed, a quick, startled sound. “I’m sorry—what?”

Juniper smiled again, just a little too knowingly. “We’ll explain.”

That was when the door swung shut behind me.

The house sighed. And for reasons I didn’t yet understand, I had the unsettling sense that I was meant to be here.

In the kitchen, sunlight streamed through tall windows over a wide farmhouse sink, catching on hanging bundles of dried herbs and the copper bottom of a pan that looked older than the stove beneath it. The table was scarred and sturdy, the kind that had seen arguments, laughter, and probably a few spilled secrets.

Juniper guided me into a chair without asking, pressing a gentle hand to my shoulder as if she were afraid I might drift off if she let go. “You must be starving,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I replied automatically.

Thalia snorted. “That’s what women say right before they fall over.”

She crossed the room in three strides and began pulling ingredients from the fridge and cabinets with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing and did not require commentary. A lime. A bottle of tequila. A blender that looked like it had survived at least one electrical fire.

Juniper set a bowl in front of me—soup, steam curling up to fog my glasses. Chicken noodle. Thick, hearty, real.

My stomach betrayed me immediately. “Oh,” I said faintly. “That smells… incredible. But I have questions.” So many questions.

Juniper’s smile softened. “Eat first. Then we’ll answer your questions.”

“That seems…manipulative,” I murmured, but I picked up the spoon.

Thalia glanced over her shoulder. “Of course it is. That’s how families work.”

The first bite nearly made me slide off the chair in a puddle of delicious heaven. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone had cooked for me without expecting something in return.

My throat tightened, which was inconvenient because I was trying very hard not to cry in front of two women who claimed to be my aunts and had clearly planned for this moment.

Thalia hit a button on the blender. It roared to life, loud and unapologetic.

“Salt?” she asked Juniper.

“Just a pinch,” Juniper replied.

The cabinets rattled. A spoon slid an inch across the counter on its own.

I froze.

Thalia didn’t. She poured the margaritas into mismatched glasses and angled one toward me. “Drink. It helps with the shock.”

Juniper took the chair across from me, folding her hands on the table. She watched me with an expression I couldn’t quite name—hopeful, anxious, relieved.

“You have questions,” she said.

I examined the margarita warily, then her. The soup was warm and comforting in my stomach. I slurped another spoonful and swallowed. “That’s an understatement.”

She nodded. “We didn’t tell you sooner because we were wrong. And afraid. And because your parents made it very clear they wanted nothing to do with us.”

Full-on suspicion made me narrow my eyes at her. “Wrong about what? And why?”

“They think what we do is…dangerous,” Thalia added. “Evil, if you want to use their word. They always have.”

The soup soured suddenly in my stomach. I glanced at both of them, the kitchen, and the green drink in front of me. What had I gotten myself into? “What exactly do you do?”

Juniper waved a dismissive hand. “We help people. At the apothecary. We carry herbs, potions, tinctures, that sort of thing. All natural and organic,” she added brightly.

“Potions?” My voice came out an octave higher than usual. “Like…witchcraft?”

Another dismissive wave. “Magic is life, dear. It’s all around us if we choose to see it.”

Magic. Right. My hand automatically scooped up more soup. If it was poisoned—or bewitched—I guess I’d find out. “Mom and Dad never mentioned you at all.”

Juniper’s gaze flickered. “That’s not a surprise.”

The pictures in my box seemed to whisper against the edges of my mind.“Why now?” I asked. “Why send me a letter after forty years of silence?”

Juniper hesitated.

Thalia didn’t. “Because we’re out of options.”

Juniper shot her a look. “Thalia—”

“It’s true,” she insisted. “And she deserves the truth we can give her.”

I wrapped both hands around the margarita glass, grounding myself in the cool condensation. “Which is?”

Juniper met my eyes. “Something is wrong. With our family. With me.”

A quiet settled over the kitchen, the kind that pressed in rather than drifted.

“I’m not well,” Juniper continued softly. “And it isn’t something doctors can fix.”

My chest tightened. “You’re sick?”

“Yes,” she said. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

Thalia leaned against the counter, arms crossed. For all her bravado, something sharp and worried lived in her eyes. “We believe it’s connected to something old. Something unfinished.”

“And you think I can help?”

Juniper’s smile trembled. “We think you’re the only one who can.”

I stared down at the soup, the herbs hanging above us, the sunlight warming the table. At the ordinary things layered over something that felt anything but.

“I don’t even know you,” I said carefully. “And you don’t know me.”

“That’s all right,” Juniper said gently, patting my forearm. “We’re not asking you to believe. Not yet.”

Thalia lifted her glass. “We’re just asking you to stay long enough to eat, drink, and let us explain.”

I looked around the kitchen again. At the table. The light. The way the house seemed to lean in, listening.

I took a sip of the margarita. “Okay,” I said. “You have my weekend.”

The blender clicked softly, shutting itself off.

Juniper smiled.

And the house, I was almost certain, approved.

___

The apothecary was attached to the house in the same way a secret is attached to a family—technically separate, emotionally unavoidable.

Juniper led the way through a narrow hallway that smelled faintly of beeswax and something green and alive. Thalia flipped on the lights with a flourish.

“Welcome,” she said, sweeping her arm wide, “to Don’t Kiss the Frog Apothecary.”

I stopped short.

Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with jars, bottles, bundles, and things I couldn’t immediately categorize. Candles flickered even though I couldn’t see a draft. Handwritten labels stared back at me in looping script.

Truth Tea. Protection Sachets (Mild).
Protection Sachets (Do Not Taunt).

“That one is humming,” I said, pointing.

Juniper nodded. “Yes.”

“…Why?”

“It likes you,” Thalia said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Before either of them could answer, a low croak echoed through the room. I followed the sound to a mossy rock perched proudly on the counter.

The frog sitting there was… large. Green. Damp-looking. And staring at me with an expression I could only describe as judgmental.

“Is that—” I began.

“Fergus,” Thalia said. “Don’t mind him.”

Fergus croaked again. Louder.

“I think he’s minding me,” I said.

Juniper smiled fondly. “He does that.”

I stared at the frog. The frog stared back. “I don’t like slimy things,” I told them.

Fergus blinked. Slowly. Deliberately. He looked…angry.

“Oh, absolutely not,” I added. “Do not blink at me like that.”

Thalia laughed. “He’s decided you’re interesting.”

Interesting? “He’s a frog.”

“He’s a bit more than that,” Juniper said with a secretive smile, “but that’s a story for after a few margaritas in a midnight circle.”

I just nodded like I understood what that meant and wondered if my parents actually kept these two a secret because of their obvious drinking problem rather than their so-called magic.

At that thought, the candles flared violently, making me jump. A jar near the back shelf rattled, then stilled. The hum I’d noticed earlier deepened.

Juniper inhaled sharply. Thalia grinned as if Christmas had come early.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said automatically.

“No one said you did,” Juniper replied.

“That jar definitely moved.”

“Yes.”

“And the candles?”

“Also yes.”

“And the humming?”

“That’s new,” Thalia said. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

I backed up a step. The humming followed.

“This place is unstable,” I said. “You should probably call someone.”

“We did,” Thalia said. “You’re standing right here.”

I laughed. Briefly. Hysterically. “Okay. No. I’m overtired. I’ve had tequila, which I never drink, so it’s screwed me up. And now, I’m hallucinating a frog with opinions.”

Fergus croaked sharply, sounding offended.

Juniper reached for my hand. The moment our skin touched, the room went still.

Dead still.

The humming ceased. The candles dimmed. The jars stopped rattling.

Juniper’s eyes filled with tears.

Thalia stopped smiling. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Well, that explains a lot.”

I pulled my hand back. The humming resumed.

“What?” I asked. “What does it explain?”

The bell above the door chimed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A man stepped inside carrying a toolbox. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a flannel shirt dusted with sawdust and wearing the expression of someone who had walked into nonsense and was trying to be polite about it.

He was absolutely handsome as sin.

“Afternoon,” he said calmly. “Thalia, your back door hinge finally gave up. I—”

He stopped when his gaze landed on me. A muscle in his chiseled jaw jumped, and he let out a sort of huff.

His eyes were mesmerizing, a deep blue that reminded me of a midnight sky. As he blinked at me, I tried to smile. My lips twitched, but then practical, no-nonsense Marlowe rose up and snipped that idea off at the roots.

The hum spiked, causing all of us to flinch. The candles flared bright enough to sting my eyes, and a stack of papers slid off the counter and scattered across the floor at the man’s feet.

“Oh no,” I whispered, glaring at the frog. “That wasn’t me.”

The man blinked again. Then set his toolbox down, staring at the paper mess. “I’m Silas, and I’m guessing you’re new.”

“Just visiting,” I said.

He stepped closer—to the hinge, to the counter, to me, I wasn’t sure—and the room reacted like it had opinions about that too. The shifting jar began singing. The frog croaked aggressively.

Silas paused. “Is Fergus… angry?”

“Yes,” Thalia and I said together.

Juniper laughed softly, wiping her eyes. “It’s all right, Fergus. He’s not a threat.”

Fergus looked unconvinced.

The papers on the floor began vibrating as if they might lift off the ground and sail about. Another jar took up the chorus of the song its neighbor was belting out.

I stared at Juniper. Glanced at the frog. I even sneaked a peek at Silas to see his reaction. Juniper began tapping a toe along to the beat of the music. Fergus croaked in time with it, as well.

Thalia clapped her hands once, delighted. “Well, isn’t that something?”

“It’s…something,” I muttered, as Silas began gathering up the scattered papers. One of them reared back, while another flew up and smacked him in the face.

“What is happening?” I whispered.

Juniper squeezed my arm gently. “Marlowe, dear, I believe your magic just said hello.”

I laughed again. This time it came out a little breathless. “Right,” I said. “I don’t have magic.” I waved a hand at the jars, the papers, the frog. “This isn’t me.”

The frog croaked. Silas looked at me with something like curiosity—and also like concern.

The singing cut off. The humming softened. The papers went still.

And I had the distinct sense that my weekend had just become something so much more.