“I remembered,” he says, his heavy tears falling onto Marigold’s crown.
“Mr. Benny,” she whimpers as he holds her hair. Althea told Mr. Benny yesterday that he would need to come back today—her grandmother knew then that her time was almost done, and in this moment, Marigold has never been more grateful to not be alone. She begins to calm down in his arms, but she cannot turn to look at her grandmother again.
“I know not what to do now,” she cries.
“I remember everything,” Mr. Benny says softly. She does not have the breath to ask what he means. They cry with each other, the strength of their grief holding the sun still so that time did not pass them by. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours, but it did not matter. It was their time to grieve together, and the world would wait for them to catch their breath.
“I spoke with your grandmother before she left to see you,” Mr. Benny says, “and she told me that she knew her time was near. She left me with instructions on what to do.”
Marigold nods. “Tell me what you need from me.”
“Not a thing, Marigold. Go somewhere peaceful, and I will take care of everything the way your grandmother told me she wanted,” he says. Marigold wraps her arms around him tightly in another embrace.
“Bless you, Mr. Benny. Thank you,” she says as she pulls back to see his sweet smile. She leaves the cottage without looking back.
She walks outside into the apiary, where she is greeted by the sound of bumbling bees and a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Slowly, she walks past each hive and knocks lightly as she whispers the news to them. The bees tumble out of their hive and fly around her body. It’s as if the little creatures can sense her grief and want to help her find peace. They lead her back to the oasis, where she lies down on the soft green grass and rests in the presence of a clear, still sky.
Innisfree will weep without Althea, and Marigold doubts that she will be able to fulfill the obligations that her grandmother once did. She has been training for this, of course, but it all still felt far away until this morning. Now she alone is the Honey Witch of Innisfree, and she cannot allow herself to fail. Tears drip down her face and into the grass that frames her. One small bee waddles up her arm and flies to the tip of her nose. It buzzes and tickles until it earns her smile, and then it flies away. She sits up and takes in a deep breath of floral-scented air, and the wind stings her tearstained cheeks. The breeze ripples through thegrass and trees, and then it begins to grow in strength. Marigold stands to witness the dancing trees, and suddenly, all around her, yellow flowers start to spring up. In a matter of seconds, the trees are covered in bright yellow blooms, and the petals float lightly in the air like impossible snowflakes in summer. They swirl around Marigold and beckon her to dance, and she spins wildly through the meadow. Every place that she steps earns another yellow flower that blooms as soon as she steps away. The entire meadow becomes a sea of soft yellow, and Marigold knows that her grandmother’s presence is here with her.
“If you can hear me,” Marigold starts, but the tears find her again. She thinks herself a fool for speaking to the wind, but she stifles her sobs and perseveres regardless.
“If you can hear me, Grandmother, know that I love you and I will not let you down,” Marigold says. She waits for a moment until a flower begins to glow at her feet. She smiles, but she leaves the flower unpicked, the glow unharmed. In the light of the setting sun, Marigold and the bees start their journey back to the cottage.
When they arrive, the bees return to their hives, and Marigold meets Mr. Benny sitting on the front steps.
“Hello there, Miss Marigold,” he says kindly.
“Hi, Mr. Benny,” Marigold replies, unable to hide her nerves. He wastes no time with idle chitchat as he offers her his hand.
“Would you like to see her?” Mr. Benny asks, and Marigold accepts his hand. He leads her around the cottage, to the open yard that sits across from the apiary. There, in the middle of the grass, is a spot of freshly tilled soil adorned with the same yellow flowers that Marigold watched bloom in the meadow moments ago. Beside the spot where Althea is buried, there are heavy copper wind chimes that sing in the breeze. There is no headstone, but there needn’t be one. This is the final resting place of Althea Murr—it is something that is sensed, without the aid of a marker. The landvættir all gather behind Marigold, offering their calming presence and promises to keep this ground safe no matter what.
Even if the world were to cave in, they would shield this spot with their sun-bleached bones.
“It’s perfect,” Marigold whispers.
“I’m glad you like it,” Mr. Benny says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring that Althea wore on days when she wasn’t working in the apiary. It’s gold with lots of little swirls holding on to tiny emeralds. His hands are trembling.
“She wanted you to have this,” he says.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, placing it on her ring finger. It’s a bit dirty and it’s too big, but it’s perfect. It’s the most important thing she owns.
“I’ll leave you now, Miss Marigold. I am sorry for your loss. Please forgive me if I take a little longer to return to you. I’ll be back soon, but I need some time. I need to make sure I remember it all.”
Marigold smiles and nods, understanding the desire to commit every moment with Althea to memory. She intends to take that time as well, to fill her journal with their stories. As Mr. Benny leaves her, she spends the night beside her grandmother’s resting place and weeps.
Part Two
It is the winter of 1831, and Marigold Claude celebrates her twenty-second birthday alone.
She fills her day with her favorite things—summer fruit, Earl Grey tea, spell casting, and honeybees. Fresh sunflowers, yellow ribbons, daydreams, and lullabies.
She thinks of the excuse of youth—the thing that makes it okay to be so lost—and how it is slipping through her fingers with every passing year. She ruminates about her last birthday and how much her life has changed. Althea’s emerald ring hangs from a silver chain around her neck, reminding her of everything she has and everything she lost.
The honey cake in her hand glistens from the light of the single candle held upright by the icing. One candle for her one wish: to not spend her next birthday alone.
Chapter Ten
Marigold continues her work in the months that pass, picking up right where her grandmother left off like an overture into a melody. She wrote a letter to her father to send word of her grandmother’s passing—she did not have the strength to address the letter to her mother. They have not written or communicated in any way since she left Bardshire, and maybe her mother intends to keep it that way. She continued making seasonal brews until she was well stocked, and then she began playing with other curious concoctions. There are few customers at the moment. Mr. Benny says they are trying to give her time to grieve before asking too much of her. This allows her plenty of time to experiment. So far, she has made a spell to keep a fire safely burning through the night and one to make the entire house smell like fresh lemon.
