Chapter Twenty-five

Margo wandered the streets of Rio until she found the familiar marketplace—at least she thought it was the right one. A year had passed since she’d purchased the Root of Passion. So much had happened—because of that.

Joseph had married Ainsley, and they were expecting a child. Grace and Penny were living in Grace’s bungalow, nesting and building a life together. Margo had never seen her so happy.

She sighed. While the potion had greatly improved the lives of her friends and brought momentary joy to the one person she’d loved, it wasn’t powerful enough to reverse death.

Rose had died four months ago. On her deathbed, she called Margo and asked if she was able to fly into New York—the first time she’d ever requested her presence. She cancelled her next flight and was at her bedside for the last few days of her life.

Her family only asked a few questions, but the hand-holding and frequent references to “my darling, ” or “my love, ” must have given them a clue. When Rose finally slipped away as the sun set one evening, they invited Margo to the service, but she declined. She did, though, visit the cemetery each time she flew into New York.

The worst part had been the silent grief. She realized that since she’d excluded Grace and Joseph from celebrating her love for Rose, they must remain ignorant of her death. Otherwise they would be hurt and offended that she’d kept something so important from them. So she wept in private, determined to revel in their newfound happiness—that she had created for them. While each day was punctuated with constant thoughts of Rose, she recognized her emotions weren’t as raw, and plodding through life was growing easier.

She stopped walking. Lost in her thoughts, she’d paid no attention to where her feet directed her, and now she found herself standing in front of the green door.

“Shit.”

She glanced about the alley, recognizing the bizarre black-and-white drawings in each of the windows. When she took a deep breath, vanilla filled her senses. Indeed, it was the same place. She put her hands on her hips and sighed, unable to fathom how she’d arrived here. Just that morning she’d thought of the marketplace and tried to remember the route to the store—and she couldn’t.

Maybe you just needed to see it, or maybe your conscious mind isn’t at work here.

She stepped into the shop and glanced at the walls of potions. Nothing had changed. As she studied the beautiful bottles and carafes, she saw potions she hadn’t noticed the first time. She’d been in awe of the discovery and unable to notice the details. Also, it was much different now that she was a believer. Did all of the potions have the same power as the Root of Passion?

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she closed her eyes, hoping.

“I see you have returned.”

She smiled and faced the goddess, Chayna. Her voice wasn’t as Margo remembered, but her incredible face and figure could have been cast in bronze.

“I’m not really sure how I got here, and I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t intend to buy any more potions.”

“You don’t need to. You are, what would you say, a satisfied customer.”

“I guess, ” she replied, but she thought of Rose’s grave, and tears pooled in her eyes. She looked away, staring at a tiny glass box labeled, Anger Control. When she’d collected herself, she said, “Um, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I should be going.”

“Do you want to know why you’re here? ” Chayna asked before she could move.

“I thought it was an accident.”

“No.”

Chayna went to a shelf and removed the familiar tire-like bottle. “Do you remember this? ”

“Yes, you asked me to drink it, and I did. You said you wouldn’t give me the second Root of Passion if I didn’t.”

Chayna nodded and handed her the bottle. “Raise it up and read the label on the bottom.”

She squinted, barely able to make out the tiny letters. “Revolution. For a safe return.” She shook her head. “I’m a little thick. I don’t get it.”

“The bottle is a circle, equaling three-hundred and sixty degrees—”

“It starts and ends in the same place, or one revolution. You gave me this potion so I could come back.”

“Exactly.”

“Why? ”

Chayna didn’t answer. She replaced the bottle and led Margo into the back room.

What she found was a simple living area with a small kitchenette and a bed. Across the room was a stuffed sofa, facing an easel. Chayna stood next to it, motioning to the tablet perched on the easel. She went behind her—and dropped her purse. Staring at her was a charcoal portrait of Rose.

“How do you know her? ”

“I don’t. She came to me in a dream, and the image was so strong that I jumped from my bed and ran to the easel. The next day you walked into my shop.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You drew this picture before you even knew me? How can that be? ”

“It is not for us to understand. I only knew that this person was important. When you showed up and started talking about your friend, Grace, at first I thought it was her. Then, after you requested the second vial, and so readily drank the black potion, I knew this wasn’t Grace. This was someone much more important to you.”

She stared into the charcoal eyes. Chayna had completely captured Rose’s most important feature, and her knees went weak. Chayna set her on the stool before she fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you grief. I hope the Root of Passion helped. Did it? ”

“Yes, ” she said softly. “She felt things she’d never felt before… before she died.”

Chayna touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought that might be the case, but you must focus on the joy she discovered—that you helped her to find. You enriched her life in a way no one else could.”

A thought occurred to her. “I’m still confused. You said that you knew she was important to me when I came into the shop. But how did you know she belonged to me? How did you know me? ”

Chayna smiled slightly. “That’s a very good question.”

She moved to another part of the room, to an open cabinet filled with tablets. She randomly grabbed three of them and brought them to the bed.

“Please look.”

Margo flipped open the first book to a pen and ink sketch of a man sitting at a table. The second page, done in pastels, displayed a beautiful field of flowers.

“That’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

The third page was a wild pencil drawing with little form. She could tell it was a naked woman, lying on a couch. She was about to ask what these drawings had to do with her, when she randomly flipped deeper into the tablet—and saw the same picture, only with more form. The simple pencil lines were replaced with bold charcoal strokes, and the figure seemed oddly familiar to her.

Flipping ahead several pages, she saw more pastoral scenes and pen and ink drawings, but interspersed were pictures of the woman. Her face was always in profile and without form, but she was in different scenes—shopping, eating at a cafe and bathing.

She reached for the second book, which was much like the first, but she could see more detail to the woman’s face— particularly her eyes. Whereas most of the drawings from the first book showed her face at an angle, in the second tablet, she faced forward.

How do I know her?

While she admired Chayna’s talent, she was tired of the exercise. She picked up the third tablet and flipped to a page near the back—and froze. The haphazard pencil drawing from the first book was fully transposed to an incredible black and white charcoal drawing—of her. She lay on the very couch that sat five feet away, her body relaxed, but posed. One hand rested behind her head, while the other draped across her belly. She wore a slight smile, as if she was enjoying the attention. In the corner of the drawing sat a figure at an easel.

“What? How? ”

“Again, I can’t explain it. I’ve been dreaming of you for a long time. Look at the date on the back. I drew this picture three years ago. When I saw your friend in my dream, and then I met you, well, I knew everything was connected. And while I wanted to help you and your friends, I wanted to see you again. Perhaps that was selfish.”

She closed the tablets and returned them to the cabinet. Margo was speechless. Who was this woman? Should she be terrified or thrilled? It was too much to process.

“I need to go. I really can’t deal with this right now.”

Chayna nodded in resignation. “I understand. I’ve known of my dreams for quite some time, but you’ve had only this moment to grasp the unthinkable. I hope you will consider coming back in the future. I’d like to know the real you, not just the one I imagine.”

“Perhaps.”

Chayna’s smile broadened. “If you would agree to drink the potion again, your return would be guaranteed.”

She stiffened, unwilling to make such a commitment. She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t think I can. Perhaps the last dose will stay with me. That’s a possibility, isn’t it? ” She hoped she sounded optimistic.

Chayna looked away. “There are always possibilities.”

She left quickly, slamming the green door on the way out. She bent over in the alley, catching her breath. She felt light-headed, and everything seemed to be spinning. When she could walk a straight line, she headed back into the noisy marketplace, grateful to return to the chaos of real life.

That shop is a fantasy. It doesn’t exist. It isn’t real.

She wandered amid the buyers and sellers, their voices feverish to make a deal. Laughter and music were everywhere, but a flash of red caught her attention. An old woman sat on the ground holding a bright red bowl. She was apart from the vendors, and she gazed into a distance, ignoring everything around her. Margo moved closer and saw that her lips were moving, forming words she couldn’t hear. She wore an old brown dress that exposed her splintery arms. She held the bowl between her gnarled hands lovingly and carefully, as if it were the only possession in the world that mattered. Margo saw that other shoppers had dropped Brazilian reales and even some U.S. dollars into the bowl.

Moved by the image of true suffering, she pulled some reales from her purse and leaned over the bowl. The woman’s bad breath tickled her nostrils, and she heard pieces of the endless monologue, although she didn’t understand Portuguese.

As her money clinked against the ceramic, the monologue paused, and she thought the old woman said, “Go back, ” before she resumed her endless chatter.

She stood straight up as if she’d been bitten. Her heart pounded in her chest and she stepped backward, running into a display of pots. She apologized to the angry vendor and quickly headed down another aisle, away from the woman and her jibberish.

This is real, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

She leaned against the nearest wall and closed her eyes, allowing the sounds of the marketplace to wash over her. When she opened her eyes, she paid no mind to her feet and only listened to the music and laughter as she weaved through the endless aisles.

Minutes later she was once again in front of the green door. She pressed her hand against the wood. It was warm from the sun’s kiss.

This is real.

She found Chayna in the back room at her easel, her left hand holding a piece of charcoal. When their eyes met, she froze.

“I was hoping you would come back.”

“I guess the potion was strong enough, ” Margo said.

Chayna chuckled as she crossed the room. “I would hope so. I gave you a double dose.” She caressed her cheek. Her hand was warm and soothing. “I’d like to share with you another dream I had recently.”

“Yes.”

She pulled Margo to her and kissed her softly. And Margo knew it was real.