“I’d choose power in my veins over a ring on my finger any day.”
Once Althea and Marigold have picked as many bellflowers as they can possibly carry, the two shuffle back into their carriage and move on. The rest of their journey is filled with the sweet citrusy scent of the flowers, which somehow do not wilt, even after being pulled from their roots. They stop to find little blue fruits from short trees that line the sides of the road. Apparently, they are to be used for both healing and protection spells. Althea spends hours talking Marigold through good and bad omens that she must be able to recognize—crows mean death, honey turning black means that winter will be longer than it should be, and a night without stars means that someone is about to have their heart broken. If a bee flies into the home, an important visitor iscoming. When the sun shines through the rain, someone is pregnant. If an ivy leaf with six points is found in the garden, someone is about to fall in love. She commits these to memory as best as she can, but thankfully, there is a massive grimoire waiting for her at the cottage where they are all recorded. That book has been passed through generations of witches, of both Honey and Ash. It can answer anything.
Well, almost anything. But not curses. Evil witches don’t like to share what could be their undoing.
They arrive in the early morning in the town of Lenox, which unfolds before Marigold like a familiar blanket. There are warm, sunny seams where the trees meet the clouds, where the sea meets the sky. She remembers this place, though it seems so much smaller than it did when she was a child. The streets are filled with music—a symphony of children laughing, wheels drumming over tiny pebbles, and dozens of harmonic hellos for Althea. Artisans are selling trinkets and baubles along the high street while some offer trades for what they need.
She is quickly overwhelmed by the strong sense of community. She has never lived in a place where it was not considered shameful to ask for something. Bardshire had no spirit of generosity, no neighbors jumping at the chance to lend a cup of sugar. But here, everyone is reaching out their hand. It almost makes Marigold nervous to be surrounded by such goodness. She’s always been around people who wouldn’t like her anyway, so it never mattered to her how she was perceived. Now she finds herself questioning her own decency. Is she worthy of such treatment? Is she good enough to live among such grace? She is terribly worried that in the painting of this world, she will be a blemish instead of a bloom.
“Are you all right, Marigold?” her grandmother says after noticing her pout.
She shakes her head and smiles as wide as she can. “Oh, fine! Fine, sorry.”
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she says with a sigh. “This place is beautiful. The people are so lovely and warm. I can only hope to earn my keep with them. I worry I could let them down.”
Her grandmother places a hand on her knee and says, “They’ll love you! Have you forgotten that you already have a friend here?”
She parts her lips. “I do?”
Althea gestures west of the carriage, where a strapping young man is walking toward them alongside two others. He’s incredibly tall, with dark brown skin and curly black hair, and his cream linen shirt is tucked poorly into his tight trousers. Marigold watches his approach with confusion until he finally comes close enough to where she can clearly see his round wire glasses, which enlarge his bright brown eyes.
“August, my dear!” Althea says as he helps her descend from the carriage. They are hugging and chatting as Marigold slips out as well to stand beside her grandmother. When Althea and August pull apart, Althea says, “Do you recognize this young lady here?”
Marigold and August eye each other up and down until they’re both grinning with recognition. This is the boy who held her hand during the attack-not-storm. The one who helped her make castles out of mud and ribbons out of weeds. The boy she once dared to drink make-believe potions of lake water and browning petals. He is not a child anymore, which shouldn’t be surprising, but seeing him now as a man is almost painful, like she half expected him to still be three feet tall and waiting for her with a mouthful of stories. Still, it is enchanting to see what all has grown from the memories she buried here. He’s obviously grown quite a bit, now towering over the people at his side—a young blond man with a sunburned face who looks a little like Frankie, and a beautiful red-haired woman who is making it very hard forMarigold to pay attention to anyone else. She looks to be slightly older than August, or at least she certainly carries herself with more resolve. She has pale white skin that is mostly covered by an overly modest dress that does not fit the summer season at all. The dark green fabric is too heavy for this heat, and her face is noticeably uncomfortable.
“Marigold Claude! My, how many years has it been?” August says, hugging her.
“Fifteen, I think?” she says.
“Fifteen too many,” he says as he hugs her. She meets the gaze of the redheaded woman over August’s shoulder. The girl forces an awkward smile, curling her raspberry lips so that her nose scrunches, distorting her freckles for a moment. When they separate, August moves to the side and gestures to her.
“Lottie, this is Marigold. We used to play together as children on Innisfree. We would spend entire summers together, joined at the hip.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lottie says plainly as she tugs a red ringlet behind her ear. She doesn’t seem too thrilled to be here, though Marigold can’t figure out why. Everyone else she’s encountered has been exceptionally welcoming.
“Marigold, this is my best friend, Lottie Burke. She hates just about everyone but me.”
“And I only like you sometimes,” Lottie replies in a low, monotone voice.
“And this,” August says as he puts his arm around the other young man, “is my partner, Edmund.”
“A pleasure,” Edmund says. He adjusts his ruffled white collar and smooths his hand over his blond beard. His nose is pointy and sloped upward, as if the fates knew exactly how much he would enjoy turning it up at everyone he thought was beneath him. She has seen many young men like this in her life. Bardshire has an annual contest where up-and-coming artists from every country can perform before the royals, and the best will be granted residency. The auditioners were often even more cruelthan those who already lived in Bardshire. They had too much to prove and it made them arrogant and unkind. Edmund seems like the type who writes shallow poetry and paints ugly landscapes that his family begrudgingly hangs on their wall.
Lottie’s green eyes squint upon hearing Edmund’s name out loud. It’s clear she does not like him very much, or at the very least, she doesn’t like him with August. Perhaps it’s jealousy that is making Lottie less warm to her. Lottie doesn’t seem like the type to share her best friend—not with Edmund, and certainly not with Marigold.
The interaction is growing a bit awkward with Lottie’s standoffishness and Edmund’s lack of interest in speaking to anyone else.
“It’s wonderful to meet you all!” Marigold says, bringing her arms over her stomach and making herself small, hoping she could disappear from the interaction altogether.
“The three of you should make your way to Innisfree soon,” Althea chimes in. “Marigold will be taking over my work, and she could use some company.”
“Yes!” August says with a loud clap. “It would have to be sooner rather than later. I’m to accompany my father in one month on an extended business trip. We’ll be gone for a few months, but I would absolutely love to return to Innisfree sometime. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
“Hardly,” Lottie mumbles under her breath, quiet enough for Marigold to wonder if that was just her imagination.
Edmund seems equally unenthused, though their reactions do nothing to deter August’s excitement, and Marigold very much appreciates that about him.
