“Do it!” she yells to Lottie. “Now!”
“You need to get out first!” Lottie screams.
“There’s no time! Start it!”
“You have to get out,” she sobs. Arms outstretched, palms open, she starts to summon her magic, holding it back until Marigold escapes.
Versa howls as she pulls herself across the floor by her arms. She slips in the oil every time she tries to stand. She meets Marigold’s gaze with death in her eyes. Her wicked face contorts into that familiar crazed smile, and she summons a bolt of fire in her palm.
“If I burn, you burn with me,” she growls as she throws it onto the floor. The flames move like water, smooth and merciless, and theentire room ignites in seconds. The smell of salt and smoke burns Marigold’s nose. Thick black smoke makes it impossible to see.
“Mari!” Lottie screams from outside. She tries to follow the sound of her voice.
“Lottie,” she yells with the last of the breath in her lungs before the smoke takes hold.
Marigold’s tallow-soaked dress catches fire as she reaches the window. The flames feel like knives slicing through her feet. She fights for air as she claws her way out. Her arms reach out the window, and Lottie rushes to her with a look of horror across her face.
“Get away,” she yells, but Lottie doesn’t listen. She takes Marigold’s bloody hands and starts pulling her out, but Versa grabs her by the ankles. Looking back, Marigold sees that the Ash Witch’s body is consumed by flame. Glowing embers stick to her face and eat away at her skin like maggots.
“Burn with me!” she shrieks, and the whole cottage shakes. Pieces of the ceiling start to fall. A wooden beam lands on Versa’s legs, crushing them flat. The witch’s head snaps back, and her hair ignites. Marigold kicks her in the jaw, feeling the bone split beneath her heel. Lottie pulls the rest of her body from the window. The remnants of the broken window stab into her legs. The skirt of her dress is still burning, and she cannot stand. Lottie starts dragging her body far away, screaming something Marigold cannot make out. It feels like her limbs are being torn off her. Her lungs are heavy with thick smoke. Her mouth drips with hot blood. She keeps her eyes on the flames, though blackness creeps into the edges of her vision.
There it goes.
Her home.
Her grandmother’s home.
Her favorite place in this world. The cottage groans and creaks as it gives way to the flame, as if it, too, is screaming out in pain.
Versa’s fingers are curled over the windowsill until they burn away. The last thing she sees is the cottage crumbling into nothing but ash.
Chapter Forty-Two
Marigold wakes in a field of yellow flowers. She lies still in the soft petals as the pink light of the sunset warms her skin. The wind tangles with the sweet song of the birds. As she stands, her body is unusually light and she feels no pain. Her skin is not burned, and her bones are not broken. Her white dress is no longer stained with ash and blood. Everything is calm and beautiful in an uncanny way. Why don’t the flowers move in the wind? Why are the wispy clouds so stagnant? It’s too still, too placid. It cannot be the real world.
She clears her throat. “Hello?” She touches her neck. How is her voice so smooth and effortless? She stretches her hands before her—no cuts, no calluses, not even a speck of dirt under her nails. Palming her forehead, she runs her fingers through her hair. It feels clean and it’s tied up with her favorite yellow ribbon. She walks forward. The yellow flowers part before her with every step. From behind, she hears a voice say, “Hello, Mari.”
She knows that voice, and it’s not possible. That voice has been dead for more than a year. But as she turns, she sees her grandmother Althea standing in a flowing white dress, her gray hair perfectly pinned and bright red rouge across her lips.
“Grandmother?” she whimpers. The reality of this world starts to set in. She’s dead. That’s what this is. She was killed. She waits for the panic to set in, for her heart to beat against her bones, and for her limbs to start tingling, but it doesn’t happen.Perhaps that is not possible here. What is there to fear, here, when the worst has already happened?
“Come here, darling girl,” Althea says, running to her faster than her knees should allow.
She falls into her grandmother’s arms. “I missed you so much. I don’t have the words for this moment,” she says.
“You need not speak, Mari. Just rest. I am so proud of you.”
“I lost,” she says, weeping. “I failed you.”
“You did not fail me. You are the most magnificent Honey Witch the world has ever seen.”
“How can you say that when I am here?”
She pulls back, gripping Marigold’s shoulders. “It is not over. You get to decide if you want to stay here with me, or if you want to try again.”
Wiping her face, she says, “I can go back? How?”
“I’ll show you.”
