“Ms. Fletcher,” Abby said. “I’m not sure—” “Abihail? Don’t you recognize me?” The name, emerging from the ancient past, shocked Abby to the core. She leaned on the desk as if to steady herself. A memory flashed in her mind. A girl standing in a beautiful flower field, her arms folded, her cold blue eyes fixed on Abby. “This is my garden, and you’re not welcome.”
