“I’m Evie,” the girl told her.

Eve. Now there was a name that didn’t go out of fashion. Not like Harriet. Or Freda. Mina had always been the only Mina anyone had heard of, except for every once in a while when vampires came back into fashion and people remembered the Mina who, despite Count Dracula’s attentions, had been saved and gotten married, as if that were preferable to an eternity of pure passion, forever and ever with no “death do us part.” Mina wondered where she’d put her copy of that book. She wouldn’t mind reading it again.

“I had an older sister, too,” Mina said, and wondered why on God’s green earth she’d offered that up.

“I didn’t know that.”

Well, of course she didn’t. Annabelle had moved in with Mina a few years after the girls next door went off to college. Then—for what? Six years? No, eight—Mina and Annabelle been widowed sisters living in the house in which they’d grown up. And even with Annabelle gradually fading, like those early colored photographs in the album that lost their vividness even though they were rarely exposed to light, life was quite lovely really. So much simpler and less fractious without men around to make a mess and have opinions.

Annabelle had been growing increasingly forgetful, even difficult at times, when the doctors confirmed their worst fear. Dementia. Progressive and unstoppable. Mina had been so determined to take care of her at home. All that changed a few years later when Mina was woken up in the middle of the night by a knock at the door. The nice young fellow who’d taken over running the store was standing on the step with his arm hooked in Annabelle’s, like he was escorting her home from a dance. Only instead of a prom gown, Annabelle was wearing her thin nightgown with a white lace collar. She was also barefoot, her toes blue with cold.

Finn said he found Annabelle shivering on the store’s front steps. It was a miracle she hadn’t gotten lost, or worse.

The next day, Mina had started looking into nursing homes. She found one that was just a twenty-minute drive away. Annabelle lasted there for two years more, finally succumbing to pneumonia. Mina was so grateful she’d been there when Annabelle passed, holding her hand.

“Did you call my sister?” the girl asked, bringing Mina back to the present.

“Yes. Your mother asked me to. She said to call Ginger and tell her . . . tell her . . .” Mina frowned. She had repeated the words Sandra Ferrante asked her to convey, over and over to herself. Written them down, even, on the same slip of paper where the EMT wrote Ginger’s phone number.

But when she made the call, Ginger hadn’t been there. She’d called again and still no one answered. Mina usually refused to talk to machines—it made her feel ridiculous and unseemly—but she’d swallowed her distaste and left a message, telling Ginger that her mother had been taken off in an ambulance. She took so long explaining what happened that before she could repeat Sandra Ferrante’s message the phone gave a long, insulting bleat. Even Mina knew what that meant. Time had run out.

Now she had no idea where she’d put that little piece of paper, and just as she’d known they would, Sandra’s words had slipped from her grasp.

“Well, I’m sure your mother will tell you herself, won’t she? God bless her. How is she doing?”

“I’m going over to the hospital later today.” The girl gave her a twisted, shaky smile. “I’m so sorry. Must be difficult living next door to all this.” She gave a helpless wave toward her mother’s house.

“I try not to notice,” Mina said. The Ferrantes’ had never been House Beautiful, but lately it had become especially run-down. Though Mina often lost track of time, it seemed to her that it hadn’t been in nearly this appalling of a state even two or three months ago. No wonder the girl was chagrined.

To make her feel better, Mina added, “Fortunately, if I take off my glasses, everything looks lovely. When you can’t see dirt, it makes cleaning so much simpler. Just like when you can’t see your own wrinkles.”

The girl gave her a thin smile. In return, Mina offered a sympathetic cluck and added, “It must be overwhelming coming home to this.”

“Completely. Honestly, I don’t know where to begin. I’ve been here all morning, and I’ve barely made a dent. I never thought it would be this bad.”

The poor thing in her tight jeans and leather boots did seem spectacularly out of her element, like a prairie chicken washed up on Coney Island. Clearly she was overmatched to the task at hand. Well, who wouldn’t be?

“I know you’re not asking for advice,” Mina said, “but that’s never stopped me from offering it. Take one thing at a time.” She poked her cane into the tall weeds that began just past her property line, pushing aside a tangle of knotweed and a burgeoning tree of heaven, then waded over to the girl. Reaching up and putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, she said, “You know, anything looks less daunting after a sit-down and a nice cup of tea.”

Chapter Eight

Are you a good witch or a bad witch? Evie had been tempted to ask as she let herself be shepherded into Mrs. Yetner’s house. She and Ginger had always called Mrs. Yetner the white witch because of her white-white hair and skin the color of parchment. She still wore the same cat’s-eye glasses she had when Evie was younger, satiny-white plastic frames with a sprinkle of rhinestones at the corners. Now that vintage look had come back in style.

Mrs. Yetner had been a severe presence who sucked in her cheeks and stared down her nose at any neighborhood kid who dared to mouth off to her. But she’d also been kind, in an unobtrusive way, except when Evie trampled her hydrangea and Shasta daisies en route to rescuing a soccer ball.

But for all the years Mrs. Yetner had been their neighbor, Evie had never actually been inside her house. Now Evie looked around in awe at the spotless kitchen with its black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor, two-basin porcelain-over-cast-iron sink standing on legs, and pair of pale-green metal base cabinets with a matching rolltop bread box sitting on a white enamel countertop. Spatulas and spoons hung from hooks on the wall, all with wooden handles painted that same green. The utensils had the patina of old tools, used for so long that they bore the imprint of their owner’s hand. Evie felt as if she’d stepped into a 1920s time warp. These days people replaced their belongings long before any of them acquired the dignity of age.

One of the few newish items in the room was a recycle bin, shoved against the wall and filled to the brim with neatly folded newspapers, cat food cans, and glass. Even Mrs. Yetner’s garbage was clean, Evie thought, recalling the abysmal mess at her mother’s house.

Mrs. Yetner left her cane resting in a corner and picked up a kettle. Bright, mirror polished with a pair of brass cylinders over the spout, like mini organ pipes, it at least was not old. She tipped back the cylinders and filled the kettle with water, then set it on the front burner of a green-enamel stove. The stove’s white-and-chrome dials were spotless, as were the porthole windows in the oven’s two doors.

A fluffy white cat brushed against Evie’s leg as Mrs. Yetner struck a match and lit a burner. There was no tick-tick-ticking like a modern gas stove, just a whoosh as the flame caught. Evie lifted the cat and buried her face in its warm back. The cat draped itself, languid and boneless in her arms, and purred like a wheezy truck engine.

“Ivory doesn’t take to most folks,” Mrs. Yetner said. “Cats know their people.”

“I never knew I was a cat person,” Evie said, setting the cat down. “How can I help?”

Mrs. Yetner pointed to a wooden corner cabinet with glass doors. “There’s tea and china in there.” Her arm trembled and she glared at it, balling her hand into a fist and lowering it to her side. Evie noticed that she was wearing two wristwatches on her arm, and her fingers were gnarled like tree roots. “And there’s milk in the icebox.”