Letters to and from Innisfree take far too long. It took over four weeks to hear back from Frankie, and spring buds are rising from the weakened frost by the time she finally receives word from Aster.
Dear Mari,
I miss you more! Do not argue with me about that, stubborn sister. I see you have forgotten my favorite flower. What else have you forgotten in our time apart? I shall remind you: My name is Aster Claude, I am your favorite sister, and my favorite flower is an azalea.
Regarding what I am up to, I am excited to tell you that I have taken a bit of interest in Mr. Woodrake. We met as Father was giving him a painting lesson. He later asked me to pose for a portrait. It was not the best, but not the worst. Hopefully, his skills will improve throughout our courtship. Maybe you could cast a spell to advance his talents when you visit! It’s just a thought. I’m not quite sure what your new abilities entail but know that I am proud of you beyond measure.
I imagine it will be spring by the time you receive this letter. Since you have now been reminded of myfavorite flower, I expect a pressed azalea with your response. We all miss you dearly and truly. Frankie is claiming to be uninterested in any courtship, but I think he lies. He is having a difficult time finding a connection with a gentleman, but I can tell that he longs for love. Father didn’t paint for some time after you left, but he seems to be finding inspiration again as spring returns. We are eagerly awaiting your company and the tales of your adventures.
All my love,
Aster
PS You should write to Mother. She’s not furious, but she has been awfully mopey since “the ordeal.” (That’s what we call it now: the ordeal. Mother didn’t like Frankie’s use of the term “spooky ritual.”)
From what Marigold remembers, Mr. Woodrake is kind enough. He is years younger than her, so it’s not as though she has ever spoken to him at length, but she trusts Aster’s judgment. Poor Frankie, though. He has always been a romantic, ever since he was a child, but he has never courted anyone. He’s awfully picky, but he should be. He’s too good for most of the rakes in Bardshire who pursue heartbreak for the sake of art. Her eyes are falling over the last sentence when there is a knock at the door, and she has never been so excited at the sound. Anyone and anything would be better than pondering her mother. She runs to the door with the broadest grin she can muster and twists the handle.
And, because the universe has its own sense of humor, the person standing in her doorway with a red-lipped smile is June Fairmon. This time, she’s with a tall ginger-haired man, so the lipstick must have worked.
“Oh, hi! Marigold, right?”
“Right,” she says, forcing her smile to stay wide. An awkward pause stretches between them until June finally says, “May we come in?”
She laughs softly and motions for them to enter. “Of course, my apologies. And you must be Mr. Ayles,” she says to the man on June’s arm.
“Yes, I’m Lachlan. How did you know?”
“Call it a witch’s intuition,” she says in the same cadence that Althea often spoke, and she winks at June behind Lachlan’s back.
“Lachlan and I got married! I’m June Ayles now!” June wraps her arms around Lachlan’s waist, plants a bright red kiss on his cheek, and brings her hand up to his chin. “Look at my handsome cuddle duck.”
“And my perfect little love dove,” Lachlan says as he touches his nose to his new wife’s. Marigold swallows to ease her nausea as she watches the couple. There was a time when she thought that the most annoying couples all hailed from Bardshire, but the new Mr. and Mrs. Ayles seem to be vying for the title of the most vexatious lovesick pair she has ever met.
“Congratulations,” she says. She turns to close the door behind them and relishes the opportunity to roll her eyes.
“Where’s Althea?” June asks as she peers into the living room.
The mention of her grandmother’s name feels like a sudden pinprick. “Oh, June. You may want to sit down.”
June gasps. “Did she—?”
She nods. “About eight months ago, right at the end of the summer.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” June wails as she wraps Marigold in a hug. She awkwardly returns the embrace and reminds herself that Althea would expect her to be polite.
“Thank you, June. I appreciate it,” she says, though her voice is muffled by June’s shoulder, into which her face is being smushed. June lets go so quickly that Marigold almost falls onto her chair, and June collapses into Lachlan’s arms.
“My love, I am heartbroken by this news. Althea was a saint. A saint among us! What will this world do without the Honey Witch?”
Lachlan holds his wife, strokes her hair, and whispers comforting words in her ear. Something twists in Marigold’s stomach as she watches them. It’s not jealousy—the last thing she wants is a husband like that. Seeing their interactions makes her all the more grateful that she will never be in the position of being a wife. It looks like they are both putting on a constant performance for each other and the people around them. She cannot imagine a more exhausting task. However, she would not object to having long-term company. A companion. Someone who isn’t just a customer. Someone, something, anything to feel a bit less lonely.
“Well, you have me as your Honey Witch now,” she says.
June wipes the tears from her face and says, “But can you do all the wondrous things that Althea did? I don’t mean to be rude, but Lachlan and I came here with quite an ask.”
“June, be kind. We don’t want to be turned away by our only hope,” Lachlan scolds. While Marigold appreciates his defense of her, she fears that June may be right. She may love being a witch and have a natural inclination toward spellwork, but she is far from an expert. She has worried that every customer can see this and sense her lack of experience, but something about June’s immediate assumption that she cannot manage a request inclines her to prove the woman wrong.
“I assure you, I will do all that I can. What do you require?”
