Crocus stands in the doorway, wearing a stained apron and heavy gloves over her pink gingham dress. Her long white hair piles in a messy bun, threatening to topple as she tilts her head. “Are you coming in or what?” Crocus demands, stripping off the gloves. “If you stand out there for too long, you’ll grow mushrooms for toes.” Relief crashes into Yarrow, followed swiftly by primal dread. His mother is fine—and Yarrow is inadvertently visiting.
