The honey coats the back of her throat and soothes the burning sensation. Minutes tick by as her breathing calms and her heart settles into another rhythm. Sitting up, she says, “You made that look much easier than it was.”
Althea helps her stand. “It will get easier. Practice a little at a time every day and always replenish your strength with honey after you’re done. One day, you’ll be creating mighty oak trees with a snap of your fingers.”
She laughs in disbelief. “You have great confidence in me.”
“Yes.” Althea smiles. “Yes, I do.”
Marigold’s first month as a witch nears its end, but she still has much to learn, and much to explore. Time seems to pass differently here—it is not a line or a circle. It moves like a memory, a mirror, a door. There have been moments when Marigold feels too small for her own body, like she should be larger, taking up more space in the world. And then she finds herself shrinking into a child again, mesmerized by the sun and frightened of the dark. But tonight, she feels her own age—her mind yearning for more wisdom, her body reaching for more adventure.
As she catches a glimpse of the moon outside shining down upon the lake, she cannot deny the pull she feels from the water. It reminds her of the last ball she attended, during the blue moon. How she could not wait to escape the night and find her way to her meadow. At that point, she had been so thankful for Mr. Notley that she pondered a life with him, having no idea that herdestiny awaited the very next day. On this night, the pull of the lake feels even stronger than the pull of the blue moon. Wearing only her robe, she steps silently out of the cottage and closes the door. She runs down the stone pier and leaves her robe behind as she jumps into the sparkling lake.
The water wraps around Marigold like a lover, and for a moment, she pretends that it is. The current feels like soft arms holding her, rocking her. She lets herself sink until she is hovering equally above the floor of the lake and below its surface. When her breath begins to run out, she gives her scalp a quick scrub before floating back up to the surface. The cold night air brushes up against her face as she pulls herself out of the water and shakes out her hair. Pulling her robe back on, she turns to look at the lake. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flicker. It is so small and so fast that it could have been her imagination. When she stares directly at the same spot, there is nothing but the black edge of the coast. But should she turn her head slightly to the side, the flicker appears again. No matter how hard she tries, Marigold cannot catch the flicker with her eyes trained on it. A sour, smoky smell carries on the wind. Dread fills her belly, and she runs up the stone path, through the cottage, and to her grandmother’s bedside. Water drips from the edges of her curls onto her grandmother’s face.
“Grandmother, something’s wrong,” she says as she gently shakes Althea awake.
Althea gasps, pushing herself up. Frantic, she wipes her face and examines the wetness on her fingers as if she fears it may be blood. “What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just know it’s not right. Come see.”
She helps Althea out of bed and waits for her to pull on a dressing gown before they walk outside together. Her steps are slow and cautious as she is still learning the twists of the stone path down to the water. As quick as the night will allow, they are there at the edge of the isle, looking deep into the black.
“Do you see it?” Marigold asks.
“See what? What are you speaking of?”
“The flickering thing across the lake,” she says desperately, her finger pointing at seemingly nothing. She squints and stretches and bends, trying to fit that strange light back into her vision. It’s there, or itwasthere. She is certain. Right? It was there. Across the lake, it was there.
“I swear I saw something, Grandmother. It was this little light, sort of blue and green at the same time. It flickered like a flame. I swear it. Should we take the boat out to investigate?”
“Never go there, Marigold. That’s the Hazelwood Forest, and it is as ancient as it is dangerous. Let me look for a moment.”
Althea stares for much more than a moment. The steady sound of her grandmother breathing makes her realize the rapidness of her own. She calms herself as best she can while she waits for Althea to make the worry go away with her infinite knowledge. But Althea turns and says, “I see nothing, darling.”
Marigold chokes on her gasp. “You don’t believe me?”
It feels exactly like when she was a child, when she tried to tell Aster of Lunasia in the meadow. Then she tried to tell Frankie. Then she tried to show them the things she saw. No one else could see, so no one would believe her.
Althea sighs and takes her hand. “I didn’t say that. It’s likely simply another spirit of the forest.”
“What if it’s something harmful?”
“What would make you think that?”
“It’s just a feeling. You don’t think it could be an Ash Witch, do you?”
Althea immediately shakes her head. “No, impossible, Marigold.”
“But what if an Ash Witch did try to harm us?” Marigold takes a moment to assess the security of their abode. The doors have weak locks, and the windows are always open. She wonders if she would have time to secure the premises if she spotted an Ash Witch on the pier. Horrific scenarios play out in her mind until her grandmother interrupts her obvious spiral.
“As long as the runes have not been disturbed, she won’t be able to come near. Take comfort in knowing that our protectionhas been renewed. We are completely safe. Let’s go back inside,” Althea says, and extends her hand to Marigold. They walk up slowly, and Marigold takes every opportunity to twist back around, as if she’s trying to sneak up on whatever she saw before. It’s still not there. Perhaps it never was.
They spend the entire next day harvesting honey from their hives. It is a lengthy and taxing process that involves a myriad of gadgets and tools, but the work is peaceful, comforting. Althea gives instructions from her seat in the garden, but it comes naturally to Marigold regardless. In one hand, she holds a frame thick with honey, and in another, a blade that she has warmed in the fire of a candle. Once the blade is steaming, she glides it across the honeycomb and melts the beeswax caps that hold the honey inside the striking hexagonal mold. When it drips free, she places the frame into a holder that will catch the honey as it drains. She does this frame by frame from sunrise to sunset. And it is still not enough to finish the task. At the end of the day, she has successfully harvested honey from only one full hive. There are eleven more to go.
It is a challenge, but an enjoyable one. For eleven days, Marigold rises with the sun, has a quick breakfast, and goes to work in the apiary. Her grandmother stays with her the entire time, telling her stories and teaching her the ways of the witch. There almost seems to be a correlation between the honey harvesting and Althea’s state of being—the closer the harvest is to being complete, the weaker Althea becomes. But the truth lies unspoken between them. Marigold allows them both to have these days untainted with the knowledge that Althea is slowly slipping away, and soon, she will be gone.
They now sit at the kitchen table, steaming mugs of coffee in hand, trying to recover from another hard week of work. Recovery is cut quite short by a light knock on the door.
Althea takes a long sip of her coffee. “A witch’s work is never done,” she says as she stands and walks toward the door. The moment she twists the handle, a breathless woman hurls herself into the kitchen.
