She nods, though she does not pretend to understand. “August, may I ask, why does it matter to you whether she believes in magic?”
He places a finger on his chin. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing. You are the one who proposed that we remain here until she admits defeat.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but the words do not come. She wants to prove herself, yes, but there is something more there, something buried deep. Even she is not entirely sure why she feels such a pull toward the impossible girl. She swallows and says, “I’m merely following your lead. You are the one who brought her here.”
He turns, staring out the window. His profile is strong and angular, and his long lashes cast a slight shadow on his cheeks as he squints. The sunlight highlights his strong jaw when he speaks. “She’s my best friend, and she needs to believe in something. Give her time to warm up to you. I promise that she will.”
She pinches the space between her brows. “I’ll hold you to that promise, August Owens.”
Day one of attempting to prove her magic involves a thorough tour of the house and an enfleurage demonstration. There are grander things that she can do, but why rush? The sooner she proves herself, the sooner they’ll be gone. She can take her time and try to get on Lottie’s good side so that the two friends do not disappear forever after all this is done. She begins to cook dinner as the others settle into their rooms.
It may not be the largest meal ever prepared in the history of this kitchen, but it is definitely close. Stew simmers in the pot over the open flame as Marigold opens her spell book and continues to try committing it to memory. It contains descriptions of some of the rarest and most valuable ingredients: snow from winter’s first storm, black sand, or a hair from someone of royal blood. She almost understands why Lottie might not be quick to believe any of this. Honey is a miracle in itself; when stored properly, it is the only food in the world that never spoils. There have been legends of honey being buried with the dead as an offering for spirits to guide the soul to the afterlife, and centuries later, the bones are all but dust while the honey is still good and sweet.
She turns the page and finds an unfinished letter to her mother that she used as a bookmark. So far, all it says is:
Dear Mother,
Aster said I should write to you, so if this letter does not find you well, please blame her instead.
What more can she say? Her mother’s face was so broken on the night that she did the ritual. Has enough time passed for theirrelationship to be healed? It’s been over a year, but it still feels like it has only been the blink of an eye.
I miss you, she writes.
I am so sorry for how things ended the last time we saw each other. I do not know if this will make you feel better or worse, but it’s the truth so I am going to tell you: I am where I am meant to be. Never have I felt so sure, so complete, and so happy. I still talk to Grandmother sometimes. Her presence is very strong on the isle. She told me to look for her in yellow flowers, and she meant it.If you’d like, you could visit
She crosses out the last line. Her mother made it very clear that she would never come to Innisfree again, so there is no point in bringing it up. It will only make things worse.
If you’d like, I could come visit. The isle is healthy and strong. I could spend some time back home. We could talk about everything. Only if you want, of course.
I’m sorry.
All my love,
Marigold
She finishes the letter and stares at the wet ink on the page. Lottie comes out of her room and runs into the kitchen, awakening Marigold from her trance. “Your pot is about to boil over,” she says.
Marigold turns bright red. She must look a true fool now, buried in a book of magical oddities, while her soup boils out onto the floor. She runs over to the pot and moves it out of the flame, forgetting to use any sort of barrier between her hands and the hotmetal. Once she releases the handles, the pain settles in, and she yelps loudly. Lottie runs over to her and takes her by the wrists.
“Let’s go to the water,” she says, leading Marigold outside and running down the pier with her wrists in hand. Once they reach the lake, Lottie pulls Marigold’s hands into the crystal blue water and comforts her as the coldness stings her burned skin.
“I know it hurts, but it’s the best thing for a fresh burn,” she says coolly, as if she has extensive experience treating such wounds. Marigold meets her gaze—it’s inexplicable, but she has not felt a moment of pain since Lottie took her wrists. All she can feel is Lottie’s soft skin on hers. It feels healing, and it’s not just the coolness of the water. Something is happening here between their touch, something she hasn’t felt since the first time George held her hand. She pulls away swiftly.
“Thank you,” she says quietly as she shakes the water from her hands and stands.
Lottie looks up at her from her crouched position, and she gives the softest smile. “I’m good with burns. I could make a healing poultice for you.”
Pain pulses in her hand. Really, she can make her own poultice—it would probably be more effective—but Lottie doesn’t seem like the type who offers aid often. This is a rare chance to bond. “That would be great. What do you need for it?”
“Aloe and agrimony. You have them in your kitchen.”
She pauses. “Were you snooping through my things?”
Lottie nods justly. “Checking for poisons before we eat your food.”
Marigold rolls her eyes and the two begin walking back to the house. She outpaces Lottie, careful not to end up at her side. Inside, Lottie makes herself at home in the kitchen and grabs the ingredients she requires. “Bowl?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Cabinet to your right,” Marigold says as she approaches the table and watches Lottie work. She’s fast—she must have made this poultice a thousand times before. It takes her less than a minute to bring it over and begin caking it onto the burn.
