There are sudden pangs in her chest when she encounters anything that reminds her of Lottie. It has been hard enough to spend so much time in the library where Lottie stayed during her time here. She nearly lost all composure when she saw Lottie’s favorite mug still sitting on the bedside table. If she thought she knew how it felt to miss someone, she was wrong. It’s different from grief—not worse, but not any easier.
When she retires to her room after a long day of learning and crafting the new spells that she and Mr. Benny discovered in the library, she finds herself completely incapable of sleep. Her bed feels impossibly cold, and positively miserable. Underneath the covers, she closes her eyes and reaches out her hand, pretendingthat she is back in the bed at the inn with Lottie. She keeps reaching, waiting for the back of Lottie’s hand to touch hers. She lets herself pretend that she feels a weight on the other side of the bed, that she is not alone, that she has nothing to fear, but it is all a lie.
She has everything to fear, and everything to lose. She sits up as her panic rises in her chest. When she turns her head, her vision collides with her reflection, and she truly witnesses her state for the first time since she returned. Her body looks weak and pale. Her plump cheeks have sunken in, and her eyes are ringed with dark red circles. There are teeth marks on her lips from biting them so much. Her hair is dulled and unwashed. But perhaps the most significant difference is in her eyes—they are dull, verging on lifeless. She sees herself, in all her failures, and all her mortality, and she weeps.
Death has never felt so close.
Love has never felt so far.
In case she loses a fight with the Ash Witch, and in case she loses her life, she finds a pen and paper and writes her goodbyes to anyone who may find them. Her last words are to Lottie:
My dearest Lottie,
I know not what to say except this—my heart left with you. I would be a fool to dream that this letter could ever reach you, but I cannot die with these words unsaid, even in this small way. I once believed that I was made for a life without love, but you have inspired defiance in me. I love you. All of my wants fall into the shape of you. If you ever forgive me, will you find me in another life? I will be there waiting for you.
All my love,
Mari
In her dreams, she sees the end, and all its ribbons untied. She dreams of herself trapped in a swirling storm of wind and ash,fighting its way into her very lungs as she screams. She hears a voice calling her name, but she sees nothing as her vision is filled with endless smoke.
Her mouth forms the name—Lottie—but there is no sound. She tries to run toward the voice, but her legs cannot move. Suddenly, she is sinking into the earth below, and there is no one to pull her out. Every omen that she has learned, she witnesses here. Every landvættir is at her side, sinking with her into ultimate destruction. When she has sunk down to Hell’s very edge, she finally sees the silhouette of her enemy looming over her.
Then Marigold wakes, and the knowing comes. Today is the day the Ash Witch will arrive. Anticipation burns in her throat and bubbles in her blood. She rushes to the library where Mr. Benny is sleeping, and she shakes him awake.
“Mr. Benny, I need you to go home.”
“What?” he says through a yawn. “Are you okay, Miss Marigold?”
“The Ash Witch is coming. It’s not safe for you here.”
He sits up immediately. “I am not leaving you here alone.”
“You have to. Please, Mr. Benny. I will not be able to live with myself if you get hurt.”
He places a hand on her shoulder. “I will not be able to live with myself if I do not stay and protect you.”
“Mr. Benny, you are not going to be able to keep your promise to my grandmother if you allow yourself to be killed now. I must do this alone. Please. We do not have much time.”
Tears well in his eyes, but he nods. “I hate this, Miss Marigold. It makes me sick to know that you will be in danger and I can do nothing to stop it.”
“But you have done everything in your power to make sure I survive. You have done your part. I am forever grateful for you.”
“My granddaughter,” he says softly. “I am so grateful for you, too.”
When he is ready, they walk to the dock together, and he sails into the fog.
Now Marigold must wait.
She is hungry for a battle.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The air hums with tension. The landvættir vibrate with rage. But Marigold is no longer afraid—she has been waiting for this, for an opportunity to fight for her freedom by any means necessary. All of her pain and losses have brought her to this moment. She is both a witch and a warrior.
As she stands close to the dock with an array of different spells and potions all fastened around her body in a makeshift harness, a black boat emerges from the snowy fog. It comes closer, carrying flames that are whipping in the wind.
No, not flames—bright red hair. The boat reaches the dock and a hideous old woman steps out, standing a few feet away from her.
