Lachlan and June take a deep breath and say in unison, “We want a baby!”
She lifts her brows. “So soon?”
June crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, we’ve been married for three months now.”
“Exactly,” she says reflexively, and she hears her grandmother’s voice in the back of her head saying that it is not her place to judge others, regardless of how nightmarish their choicesmay seem to her. “I mean to say: You want my help so soon? Surely you would wish to… you know… try on your own?”
Their smiles sink. “We have been,” June says, her crossed arms tightening around her.
“Oh,” Marigold says, immediately wishing she could undo the words she just said. “I’m so sorry; I was being rude and insensitive. I can absolutely help.”
June’s demeanor softens as Marigold turns to her kitchen and begins to gather ingredients for a potent fertility spell—acacia honey, dandelion seeds, cinnamon, rose essence, and basil. She grinds the dry ingredients into a powder, then adds them to the wet ingredients in a small jar. She twists the lid onto the jar and hands the spell to June.
“Put a little bit of this on your belly before bed, and keep trying.”
The couple eagerly accepts the spell and says their polite goodbyes as they bow out of the door. She watches them through the window—Lachlan’s hand on the small of June’s back, the way their steps are in perfect time with each other, their excited kisses between every few steps.
Perhaps she is a bit jealous, or maybe this dull ache is something else. Her eyes focus on her reflection in the glass window. Her face surprises her because she thought she was scowling this whole time, but she’s not—she simply looks sad. Flat eyes, frowny, frumpy. She should take a bath or at least go for a swim, but who does she need to freshen up for? Most of the people who come to her for aid are in far worse shape than this. Customers and proper company are two different things.
August did visit once before he left. He came by himself a few months ago in a handcrafted blue boat that he made with his father. He stayed for tea and expressed his sympathies for Althea’s passing. He spoke of Edmund’s poetic pursuits and how frustrated he has been with Lottie for mocking them, wounding Edmund’s fragile ego. Marigold snickered at that. Maybe that would be something she and Lottie could one day bond over—amutual hatred of bad poetry. Then, a few weeks later, Marigold went into town to see him off on his business trip. She brought a huge basketful of baked goods, a jar of black sage honey for healing, and a bunch of flowers from Innisfree that will never wilt. She saw Edmund there, who was feigning heartbreak and reciting insufferable sonnets about absence making the heart grow fonder and whatnot, but more notably, she saw Lottie. Her red hair looked aglow against the snowy backdrop, and her eyes matched the evergreens. Lottie was made for winter. Marigold could hardly take her eyes off of her, especially as August sailed out of sight. But then, Lottie started acting completely different, and not in a good way.
“I will miss him so much,” Marigold said, and Lottie laughed in her face.
“You hardly know him.”
Taken aback, she said, “We’ve known each other since we were children.”
“No, youmetwhen you were children, and then you stopped knowing each other because you left. You did not miss him for those fifteen years that you were gone, and you do not get to miss him now.”
Edmund patted Lottie on the head and looked at Marigold. “The witch of the wood hath poked the fiery beast.”
Lottie shoved his hand away. “I do not have to pretend to like either of you while August is gone. I came here to see him off, and I have done so.” Without a goodbye, she left them both shivering by the sea.
Marigold replays that interaction over and over in her mind. Everything was fine as they waved goodbye to August, but she made the grave error of touching her shoulder to Lottie’s. As soon as she got too close, Lottie made a face as if a monster had overtaken her. Marigold’s touch repulsed the woman, which was both hurtful and embarrassing. She cringes when she thinks of it. What did she do that left Lottie so disgusted? Was Lottie simply that rude to everyone, or was Marigoldthatintensely unlikable?
Despite what Lottie said, she does miss August, and quite a bit. His visit to the cottage lasted for hours. They reveled in their nostalgia, finding old memories and making new ones. They have one of those friendships that always picks up where it leaves off, and they will do so once again when he returns. She has no doubts about that. She and August are forever. Unfortunately, the same can be said about August and Lottie, so they’ll all have to find a way to get along someday. She has contemplated seeking Lottie out, confronting her until she admits that Marigold is actually quite nice, but that is a bad idea born out of pure loneliness. There is a better solution for that—a spell.
She opens her grimoire until she finds what she is looking for, but there is a significant problem; the spell to cure loneliness requires moonflower honey. It is challenging to create, even for a Honey Witch who can aid the bees in their search. Moonflowers are rare, blooming only in perfect conditions of cool air and a full moon. Even then, the blooms only last a night. The moon is set to be full tonight, so she must find where the moonflowers will bloom before the sun sets; otherwise, she will not be able to inform the bees.
She scours the lake isle. Without their white blooms, moonflower trees look like short, stubby pines that gave up on the idea of being tall. They are not the easiest things to spot, but still, she is having exceptionally bad luck. After hours of searching to no avail, she returns to the cottage, smelling of wet grass and metallic sweat. Heavy with defeat, she explores her spell book for a solution. Twenty pages later, she finds one—a finder’s spell, able to locate anything from a lost hair ribbon to creatures that the rest of the world thinks are a myth. Its ingredients are simple: sage, clover honey, bellflower petals, and a white string. She still has more than a bouquet’s worth of bellflower from her travels with her grandmother, and she pressed some of them to preserve the memory. In her kitchen, she mixes and muddles together the wet ingredients of the spell, and then she lightly dips the string in the solution until its white threads are rich with the pink dyefrom the bellflower petals. When the string emerges, she smiles as she holds it to the light.
“Lead me to a moonflower tree,” she commands, and the string begins to move. It sways intentionally against the wind in a manner that would be impossible without the magic. She walks in the direction indicated by the string, and it leads her all the way down the stone pier. Her feet balance upon the edge, but the string indicates that the tree is farther away. It must require her to proceed through the lake, but to what end?
Odessa swims past her feet and urges her backward. She trusts the spirit much more than the string, and Odessa is warning her not to leave. In the Hazelwood Forest, the flicker from before remains, though it is stronger now. Marigold can see it directly. A sense of unease floods her body, effectively muting all feelings of loneliness with something much stronger—fear. Marigold returns inside, troubled, and recites her incantation of protection again. She also flips through the grimoire to find any other ingredient that may be useful for protection. With new knowledge, she salts each corner of the house and falls asleep with a sprig of rosemary in her clenched grip.
Chapter Twelve
At the start of her first summer alone, Marigold begins every day by talking to her bees and helping them find new flora to pollinate. She is working on a sunflower garden in an open glade, of which the bees and butterflies are growing quite fond. Recently, she crafted a mnemonic to remember which honeys are best suited for certain spells: lavender for love, clover for clarity, tupelo for truth, peach blossom for protection, black sage for betterment (really,healingis the correct word, but she needed something that started with aB), and acacia for all else. She spends her afternoons buried in a grimoire, studying. Her goal is to have the entire healing section memorized by this month’s end. She wakes with the sun—any later and she would miss her first customers. They tend to come at the crack of dawn or late in the evening, not so much in between. It is a rare treat that someone comes at a reasonable hour. After helping her first customer—a farmer who needed the tip of their finger reattached after an incident with a pocketknife—she then takes a look at her inventory. Her supply of lavender honey is running dangerously low. She slips into a white day dress to head into the apiary because bees do not like dark colors. It reminds them of big predators like bears who want to steal from them.
The bees welcome her happily with loud buzzes, and she greets them with a smile. She pulls a frame heavy with honey from the lavender hives and brings it inside to drain. There is enough honeyfor about two jars, which is a healthy harvest. When she returns the empty frame to the hive, she stretches beneath the light, allowing her skin to soak up every drop of warm yellow heat.
In the distance, a little blue boat approaches, and her heart soars. She could recognize that little blue boat anywhere. August is home, and finally visiting again. She runs to greet him, her bare feet burning against the stone path.
“August!” she screams from the edge of the dock as she waves her hands in the air.
“Hello, Marigold,” he calls from the boat. His voice is a little bit dull, like he’s trying to cover up bad news. She helps him tie the boat and step onto the isle.
“Everything all right?” She steadies him with her hand on his shoulder. His chipper facade starts to fade, allowing her to see the ache that lies beyond his surface. Swollen eyes, gaunt cheeks, chapped lips. He shakes his head and says, “Not quite, unfortunately.”
