When she opens her eyes, the glade starts to glow. It’s not unlike the field of bellflowers that they visited on their journey, but it’s much stronger, and the light feels alive. The glow heightens around them as they continue to chant the spell. As the glimmer touches Marigold’s skin, it feels like warm water, like she’s moving through liquid gold. The corners of the isle hum inharmony, with a thread of dissonance in between the notes. The glow forms a dome over the entire isle, and shimmering stars fall over them like summer rain. As they chant, the golden light falls faster, harder. It bounces off the branches and splashes in the grass. The dome starts to fade after the entire isle is sun-dappled and safe. The last of the golden light sinks into the earth. The world fades back to darkness, but instead of being ominous, it’s a velvety darkness with singsongy winds and waves of lavender in the air. Peace lies against the ground, and the world goes quiet.
Althea hugs Marigold, who feels the wet cheek of her grandmother against her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Happy tears,” she says softly. “Proud tears. And tears of relief.” She pulls back, her hands still resting on Marigold’s shoulders as she says, “We’re safe now. Innisfree is safe. And all because of you.”
Chapter Eight
The following days bleed into one another, each filled with wonder and magic and spirits and honey. Innisfree is like a dream. A place hidden between here and there, where the lost can stay lost because being found would destroy the mystery of it all, and being lost is so much more romantic. Marigold spends most of her time following the landvættir around the isle, learning their names and their purpose. There is Talaya, an elegant blue snake who guards the apiary and keeps it free of potential predators. Yliza is the koi who guards the oasis. Odessa is a sleek white swan who circles the isle, protecting the coast. Chesha is a mysterious purple catlike spirit who brings warnings of imminent storms. The health of the landvættir is what Marigold may use as an indicator for the overall health of Innisfree. If a guardian seems weak, it is likely that their area of the isle needs some sort of intervention—be it a spell for rain, or lessening temperatures, or an energy-cleansing ritual. When they are all happy and healthy, the isle is constantly aglow with wondrous creatures of love and light.
Althea still handles most of the customer interactions, and Marigold takes notes. Most people do not seem to know exactly why they are here or what they are asking for. Althea is excellent at being a shoulder to lean on for people who need it, and then being able to recommend spells that can help them. Many of the customers are women seeking some sort of cure, refuge, orfertility-control spells. It brings Marigold great joy to know that she can save another woman from being trapped in a life that she does not want, for she was so close to a similar fate. She narrowly escaped the life of a wife and mother, and she will always help another woman do the same. A Honey Witch provides women with choice—something they are all too often denied.
She has also been quick to take over all the strenuous labor that the isle requires: the gardening, the watering, the honey harvesting. From dawn until dusk, she works; her hand covered in soil, her dress soaked with sweat, her lips constantly sticky from tasting the honey that she helps create.
When she is thoroughly exhausted from a hard day of witchwork, she carries her heavy legs back inside. From the back of the cottage comes a strong floral and earthy scent that spices the whole house. She walks alongside her grandmother toward the door until Althea gestures to her to open it. When she does, she is greeted by thousands of hanging flowers of every imaginable color, the scents of the pinks and the blues mixing into a cold lavender mist. There is a massive iron cauldron in the corner filled with a waxy, milky substance. The long dining table is covered in tiny jars filled with crushed petals. The scent, while lovely, is so strong that it makes her eyes itch. She blinks back tears and turns her face toward the hall.
“That’s normal. You’ll get used to it,” Althea says as she pats Marigold on the shoulder and walks inside without a hint of a sniffle. She taps a light finger on the lids of the jars, creating a tinkling rhythm that drums through the room.
“The flowers love music,” she says with a smile. It does seem to be true; the flowers seem bolder, brighter, happier when the soft thrum meets their petals. Marigold braves the strong aroma and follows close behind her grandmother, who seems to be a new sun to the greenery around. Althea moves to a wall that is covered with wild vines. She places her palm flat against the leaves and takes a long, deep breath. The space between her hand and the greenery glows bright gold, and as she pulls herhand away, bright purple blooms emerge, tangling new petals with green leaves. It takes her breath away. She moves to sit on a tall stool and braces herself against the table. With her blue dress sleeve, she wipes the sweat from her forehead. “I used to be able to raise entire gardens without breaking a sweat. Now creating a few petals will drain all my energy.”
“I didn’t know you could make plants grow like that. Can you show me how?”
“It’s simple enough to describe. Visualize your intent, imagine the plants growing bountifully before you, and let your magic pour from your open hand so the plants can drink it up. But I must warn you, it will probably take a bit of time to master it completely. When I first became a witch, bringing a bouquet of flowers back to life knocked me out for two days.” Once she’s caught her breath, Althea stands again and picks the new flowers off the wall, bringing them back to the table.
“What is this room for?”
“Enfleurage,” Althea says as she picks up a jar with a soft purple ribbon tied around it. “It’s the oldest and best technique to extract the essence of a flower. The scent, the oils, the color—everything a witch needs for a spell.” She grabs a tiny jar and goes to the large cauldron, scooping up the milky stuff inside. “This is tallow, but you can use any unscented fat for this. We’ll take some of these fresh petals and put them into the jar. Then,” she says as she holds up the odd-shaped lid, “this part of the lid presses the petals into the fat, which extracts the essence.” As she twists the lid, light purple inky lines bleed from the petals inside. “Replace the petals every other day for a month, and there you have it: floral essence. You’ll use it in almost every spell.”
Althea hands Marigold the newly filled jar. She twists the lid, allowing the concave insert to twist farther into the jar and smear some of the muddled petals.
“What does it look like when it’s done?”
Her grandmother grabs a jar from a different table. The fatinside this jar has a light pink hue with bright vibrant petals torn throughout. Althea twists off the top, and the powerful scent of summer rose escapes from the jar.
Marigold takes her finger and scoops out a pea-size amount of the essence and smudges it between her fingers. It feels buttery and smooth and smells absolutely divine the more she adjusts to its strength.
“It’s a little messy, but it’s worth it. A tip for you: Put a smear of it behind your ears, between your breasts, and on the back of your knees for a scent that will follow you anywhere,” Althea says as she takes her own small sample and places it where she instructed.
“You are brilliant,” Marigold says as she puts the jar back in its place.
“And you are my granddaughter, which makes you brilliant as well.”
She smiles, staring at the wall lined with plants. There are a few vines with crunchy brown leaves, and she runs her hand over them. “Can I try to revive these?”
Althea places her hand on her hip. “By all means, but do so sitting down. It’s safer that way.”
She pulls a stool in front of the wall, and her grandmother holds her shoulders. “Lift your hands. Breathe deep. Visualize their growth and release your magic.”
Her palms hover a few centimeters away from the leaves. Eyes closed, she imagines curling vines ripe with soft green leaves. Her fingers tingle and her hands start to heat.
Althea squeezes her shoulders. “Good. Keep breathing.”
As her magic pours from her body, her back tenses and her head starts to pound. The muscles in her arms ache and tremble with exhaustion. Her grandmother tightens her grip on her shoulders.
“That’s enough, Mari,” Althea warns, but Marigold cannot stop it. Her magic keeps pouring, keeps bleeding. Pain rips through her body as sweat drips down her face. Heat building, itfeels like the whole room is on fire and her skin is burning up. She falls back against her grandmother, who helps guide her to the cold floor. Her back arches against the ground as she tries to catch her breath. Althea pulls a vial of honey from her pocket and pours it into Marigold’s mouth.
“You’re okay, Marigold. Breathe and stay calm. Everything is okay.”
