Beside Versa stands Lottie, chained by the wrists and thoroughly bruised. Her clothes are tattered and covered with powdery ash. The ends of her hair are singed, and her skin is wounded with countless cuts and burns.
“Marigold,” Versa taunts. Her breathy, ragged voice drags out the vowels. It’s the same voice that Marigold heard on the night that they went swimming. The harsh features of the witch become clear as she comes closer. Her old skin is pale and paper-thin with inky black veins spidering over her body.
Her widened gaze moves to Lottie, who will not meet her eyes. She knew the Ash Witch would be horrific, but the sight of Lottie in such a state of pain—knowing that she sent her away—breaks her heart into pieces.
“Get away from her.”
“She is my blood. My granddaughter. I will do with her as I wish.” Versa strokes Lottie’s hair as if she were a dog. Lottie winces every time the witch’s hand rises. Marigold’s fist shakes with rage. She reaches back slowly, wrapping her fingers around a healing honey.
“She is my heart. If you want to live, you will let her go and you will leave this land.”
Versa laughs behind her thin, tight smile. “This”—she waves her arm over the land, her tattered black sleeve whipping against the wind—“is mine.” Pulling on the chain around Lottie’s wrists, she drags her forward. “It is ours.” She grins, though it does not reach her eyes. It’s one of those smiles from a nightmare, from a monster watching through the small crack in the wardrobe. The witch, her crazed smile unmoving, takes a deep breath and shrieks. It’s inhuman, like metal screeching against metal. The cottage windows all shatter at the same time, and slowly, the lake starts to bubble up.
It’s boiling.
Versa raises her hands, pulling Lottie’s chains up with her so her arms are forcibly stretched out. “Look how this land listens to me. It will restore me,” she says, weeping with madness. She steps forward.
“Do not come any closer,” Marigold shouts over the wind, but Versa pays her no mind. She keeps walking, pulling Lottie alongside her.
“The last time I was here was the day I lost you,” she says to Lottie. “Your wretched mother refused to help me reclaim this land that should have always been ours. She paid her price, her and your weak excuse of a father. But you, my little Lottie, you are a survivor like your grandmother. You fled that fire because you were stronger than them. You were born to take what is ours. This cottage. This land. Eternal life. We will have it all.”
Marigold snarls, summoning thunder and lightning to crash above her. “Innisfree belongs to me.”
“You lost it the minute that Lottie let my magic back in. All it took was one bad dream.”
Lottie is visibly shaking with sickness and rage. “Mari, I didn’t know…” she cries, but Versa raises her hand, and Lottie’s words get stuck in her throat. Every time she tries to speak, Versa’s magic tightens around her neck, and Lottie’s words turn into chokes. Marigold starts to run to her, but Versa’s other hand rises. The hard earth beneath Marigold’s feet turns to sticky mud that slows her to a stop.
Versa’s magic loosens against Lottie’s throat, and her gaze snaps to Marigold. “Look,” she says, reaching out and bearing her wrist. She drags her long yellow fingernail down a black vein of her arm. “Ash can keep you from dying, but—” Her skin parts, but there is no blood. There is only powdery ash that peppers the wind. “—it cannot keep youalive. Don’t you see? Your grandmother forced me to do this to myself. I want my life back. Only Innisfree can give me that, and it can grant me that forever.”
“Do not speak of my grandmother,” Marigold snaps. “You have burned yourself from the inside. It is too late for you.”
Versa grabs Lottie by the chin and presses her cheeks together. She has the same red hair as Lottie, though it tapers into darkened and burnt ends. Her eyes are a similar shade of green, but more wicked. “My granddaughter will continue my legacy, and she will use this land to restore me.”
“You could not keep Innisfree alive long enough to save yourself. Your magic would destroy it.”
“So then you will stay. Your magic will keep this land alive for us, and you can have Lottie. If she completes the ritual, I will lift the curse. All she has to do”—she turns, grabbing Lottie by the hair and throwing her to the ground—“is say yes. I have not been able to get it through her little head.” Versa smirks up at Marigold. “Maybe you can change her mind.”
The words splinter off Versa’s tongue, their sharp snaps echoing in Marigold’s ears.
“Unless, of course,” Versa continues, “you do not love her.You tortured her, you know. For weeks, she burned for you, and you never came. I would hear her calling for you, screaming your name in the night.” She turns to Lottie. “Why didn’t she come for you?”
Lottie is allowed to speak for the first time, her voice broken, her words rehearsed. “Marigold does not love me.”
“Good, pet. Say it again.”
“Marigold does not love me.”
“Who is the only person who loves you?”
Lottie does not respond, and Versa raises her hand as if she is about to slap her across the face. Lottie winces and says, “My grandmother.”
“Exactly.” She turns back to Marigold with a wicked smile. “At least she knows the truth now.”
“Lottie, that’s not true,” Marigold says as she fights back tears.
“Isn’t it?” Versa says.
“No.”
