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occurred to her: when she was just a teen. Not that she would have called it a metaphysical shop, because she didn’t know what that meant at the time, or how it would work. All she knew was that this magical stone that she hoped to God would bring her mother to visit had broken to bits and she needed another one.
    Which isn’t to say that the crystals and stones were the only things of interest to her in the trunk. There were cards, not just the tarot cards that Marie had first pointed out, but beautiful cards decorated with fairies and flowers and positive messages, like happy fortune cookies. There were candles, too, that still smelled nice but were melted into lumps, and whose purpose Prinny would never know.
    For a long time, through three more nannies, Prinny kept the chest a secret. No one else ever went up to the attic, and she didn’t want anyone growing alarmed at the contents and deciding to remove it “for her own good.”
    That was exactly the kind of thing grown-ups did.
    But she did eventually take the books down to her room, one by one, and read them at night, trying to understand the workings of the occult. Except she didn’t like to think of it as “the occult” because that sounded so devilish, and everything she’d found in the box—as well as everything she remembered about her mother—was just so fun and kitschy and even frivolous. Cards with fairies on them, bright-colored candles, sparkling gems and crystals …
    When she was sixteen, five years deep into her ever-strengthening interest in fortune-telling, she broached the subject with her father.
    â€œWhat was Mama like?” she asked him one night as they sat, just the two of them, eating his favorite meatloaf and mashed potatoes—prepared by the new cook he’d given his mother’s old recipe to—for a late dinner.
    He looked taken aback. “What do you mean, what was she like? You remember her!”
    â€œNot so well, Dad.” She shrugged. “She’s been gone for nearly two-thirds of my life.” The words hurt, not so much because she remembered and missed her mother, because she really didn’t remember her very well, but because she hadn’t had a mother long enough to mourn her properly. All she had was the few remnants her mother had left behind, and her own imagination, which was putting together a picture that might or might not be accurate.
    â€œNot that long,” he said, frowning. “Surely not so long. It’s only been”—he thought about it—“nine years now.”
    â€œI’m sixteen.”
    A pained look crossed his face. It was as if he’d never considered the impact on her before. Then his expression softened, and he said, “You look very much like her, you know.”
    Prinny felt her cheeks grow warm. To be told she looked like the truly beautiful, sophisticated blond woman in the pictures was like being told she looked like Grace Kelly—someone had said that about her mother once. Prinny had had to Google the name, but when she did, the images took her breath away. To be compared to a woman who was said to look like her was a nice compliment, to be sure, but the kind of thing that was embarrassing to acknowledge graciously because then it sounded like she agreed.
    But coming from her father, it was a different thing. Maybe he really meant it. “Did you know her when she was my age?”
    â€œVery nearly. I met her when she was twenty. Imagine. Just a little older than you are now.”
    The fact that she’d died less than a decade later hung in the air, a sad little bit of dust floating between them, unacknowledged but fully known.
    â€œWhat sort of things did she like?” Prinny went on carefully. “I found a book on tarot cards upstairs on one of the shelves a few years ago, and I guess it was hers, because that sure doesn’t sound like you.” She smiled, but something