“Althea,” Mr. Benny calls, “do you see what I see?”
“My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” she says.
“We’re right by a whole field of bellflowers. Are they still your favorite flower?”
Althea gasps and smiles wide. “Of course! Marigold, let’s go pick some. They’re beautiful,” Althea says as she slides gracefully out of the carriage.
Marigold follows, landing with a thud behind her grandmother. She doesn’t recognize the flowers in the field around her. They look to be a cross between a tulip and a peony, ranging between shades of yellow and pink. As Althea steps forward into the field, she extends her arm outward. A striking bird descends from the bright sky and lands on her forearm. The weight of the creature should be too much to bear, but it is not just a bird—it is a spirit. Marigold can tell by the way it moves, and the soft purple glow around it.
“Hello, Dovelyn,” Althea says. “Marigold, this is another landvættir.”
Marigold walks toward them and runs her hand down the softfeathered spine of the spirit. “Nice to meet you.” She looks to her grandmother and whispers, “Is this how I am meant to speak to spirits?”
Althea laughs. “Speak however you wish. The landvættir do not communicate the way we do. They rely on their empathy and ability to sense true intention. They speak in hopes, dreams, and wishes.”
Althea gives Dovelyn a taste of honey from one of the tiny vials that she has on her at all times. Her grandmother also always keeps small jars with her so she has somewhere to put all the delicate ingredients she collects. Marigold takes note of this and considers sewing larger pockets into her dresses so she might one day be exactly like her grandmother, carrying around clinking bottles of hidden treasures. Dovelyn flies from Althea’s arm and begins to circle the sky above the field, and something uniquely magical happens: The flowers all begin to glow. They look like candles, or fireflies dancing together in a meadow. She follows her grandmother, entranced by the glow around them.
“How is this possible?” she asks in awe. Her grandmother stops and takes her hand.
“We’re Honey Witches, darling. We find beauty where others may not. Spirits guide us to it. We bring marvelous things to life,” she says. Marigold sinks to her knees and smells the flowers around her.
“We will use these flowers in many different spells and potions. Their petals house a solution that aids greatly in the process of falling in love,” Althea says.
Marigold purses her lips. “When will people stop caring so much about love?”
Her grandmother pauses and shrugs. “When something better comes along, I suppose.”
“Like magic?” she says, wiggling her brows up and down.
Althea giggles. “Precisely.”
“Well, that’s fine. I do not mind making others fall in love. I know it works for some people. I do find new romantics to bequite annoying with all their wooing and swooning, so I’m sure that playing matchmaker for them will remind me why I chose the curse.”
“To be clear, we cannot force love upon anyone. Our magic can only lead someone to their true love, and I promise you, that is even more beautiful than finding love for yourself. You will see,” Althea says.
“You need not attempt to convince me. I have no regrets and no desire for love.” She begins to pick the flowers, and with each snap of a stem, the glowing petals dim until they meet their original colors again.
“I do wish they could keep their glow after being picked, Grandmother. They are so beautiful.”
“Think of it like a metaphor of sorts. The Honey Witches are much like the bellflower. We hold this magic inside us, and when we use it, we help people. It comes at a price, but the price is so worth it,” Althea says as she bends down to pick flowers alongside her granddaughter.
“I think that is lovely,” she says. “It could be rewarding to help someone else find their soulmate. Soulmates are real, right?”
“Of course soulmates are real. Your mother and father are soulmates, in fact,” Althea says.
The mention of her mother stings, but at the same time, these are the stories she has always longed to hear. She knows her mother as Lady Claude very well, but she hasn’t a clue about the nature of Raina Murr, the once-magical daughter of the Honey Witch. In her mind, those are two vastly different people.
She clears her throat. “How do you know?”
“Who do you think brought them together? After Raina chose to forgo her magic, I used a spell to help lead her to her soulmate. The next thing I knew, your mother felt compelled to travel to Bardshire. The second those two locked eyes, they were in love. It was as quick as the sting of a bee,” Althea says with pride.
All children must believe, at least for a small time, that their parents are soulmates. It is nice to be right about that. At least hermother had a very compelling reason for giving up her power; love is one thing, but finding your soulmate is another. “Does she know that your magic brought them together?”
“I think so. On their wedding day, she made a quick comment that only I would catch, but it has stuck with me forever. She said, ‘When I saw him for the first time, it was as if I recognized him from another life. Every other life, in fact. He was beside me through them all. We are bound to each other, aren’t we?’ And I simply nodded to her. She was right, of course. That’s how soulmates are. They find each other, life after life,” Althea says, though she trails off slightly, as if her mind is beginning to wander somewhere else, her gaze falling back to the carriage.
“So I am assuming that Honey Witches do not have soulmates like that,” Marigold says, not that it matters. Even if she did have a soulmate who was destined for her, she would find some way to mess it up. Perhaps it was George and she already ruined it. Oh well, ruining it was worth it—being a witch is so much more fun than being a wife.
“I don’t know if I would say that,” Althea says. “We have something that finds us, too, life after life, and that is power. We are power, in its truest form.”
