“My help?” Marigold repeated with surprise.
Rosemary nodded.
“The whole family—and we are a big family—is gathering tonight, and I’m set to put on a big feast. I want to invite you to it—any traveller needs to stop and eat—but I also want to enlist your help. I’ve got so much to do, and Finn has to go to the market to sell our produce. My other sisters would help if they could, but they have their own duties on the farm to attend to. I’m the resident cook. Please. I’m desperate for another pair of hands.”
“Won’t I be in the way?”
“Marigold,” Rosemary warned, “I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s true,” Finn said gravely.
“It’s true,” Rosemary repeated frankly.
Marigold did not yet dismount from her horse, but she was showing some signs of softening, Finn thought.
“I—it was not my plan to stay here,” she explained. “I hesitate to change my plans.”
“You said you had no plans,” Finn said sharply, “no destination in mind.”
“To wander without a destination is still a plan,” Marigold snapped. “I have only been gone a few days now, and I meant to travel for at least a week before stopping in any place.”
“Wander here, then,” Rosemary said. “Do you not like the landscape?”
Marigold sighed deeply, then inhaled the air.
“I love it, actually.”
“Excellent,” Rosemary said, helping Marigold off the horse, tying him in the stable, and leading her back to the house. She turned around briefly to look at Finn, who made an exasperated expression. Rosemary mouthed the words “so thin,” and “in trouble.”
Finn stood still for a moment, watching them walk away. Of course, he hadn’t noticed that she was too thin or in trouble–she told him a story about being lovesick, of course. She was odd, to be sure. But now that he was able to stare after Marigold without fear of being caught, he realized his sister was probably right, as usual.
Still, these things Rosemary saw in Marigold: meek, thin, in-trouble—Finn hadn’t seen them at all. Rosemary was always right, but he was neverthiswrong. Because his impression of her was rather the opposite of Rosemary’s: he found Marigold brave, blunt, single-minded, secure enough to lose herself in nature; ancient, but incredibly young at the same time. Had he seen some version of Marigold that hadn’t yet come to pass?
Chapter Three
Marigold
Marigold wondered if she was making a mistake. But as she crossed the threshold after Rosemary into the rambling farmhouse, which smelled of solid wood and fresh cut grass, she felt entirely at home. Certainly, more at home than the palace she had lived in for years.
Rosemary grasped the loaf of bread on the table, cut a generous slice, and slathered it with butter. She handed it to Marigold and put a pot on to boil for tea. Then, thinking better of something, Rosemary took the bread from her, sliced several radish rounds, placed them on the bread and sprinkled all with salt and herbs.
Marigold took a bite.
It was bliss.
The crunchy radishes from their own farm, the warm, soft bread, the sweet butter, balanced by a sprinkling of salt, and the herbs that were sharp and bright green were so indescribably delicious. Of course, the palace food was good, but Marigold had never had anything like this. So simple, so pure, and the timing was perfect, as the sun was coming through the windows with force and the day began to heat. Rosemary bustled around the kitchen, leaving her free to eat in silence and muse out of the window. This woman had a way about her, Marigold thought. It felt as if Rosemary knew all about her, and accepted all, without an ounce of hesitation. It was true comfort.
“Thank you,” Marigold said. Rosemary slid a lemonade toward her then, topping it with the herb that was her namesake, Rosemary.
“It’s so refreshing,” Marigold said. “I haven’t had a proper thing to eat in awhile. Just a crusty rind of cheese.”
Rosemary barked out some laughter.
“Now,” she asked. “What do you know how to cook?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Marigold said.
Rosemary raised her eyebrows. “And how is that possible?”
