“Yes, it is,” Marigold sings as she skips over to Lottie and stopsin front of her. Her instinct is to take Lottie by the hand, but logic stops her from going any closer. “And we are all going on a picnic.”
“I am not in the mood for a celebration,” she says.
“Who said anything about a celebration? We’re just going on a calm, casual picnic. No strings attached.”
Lottie does not respond. She glares at August, who cowers behind Marigold.
“I told you she wouldn’t like it,” August whispers.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Lottie snaps, and then the room is all too quiet. The weight of the basket makes Marigold’s arm start to tremble. She and August keep their eyes on Lottie, waiting for what she might say next.
Finally, she sighs and looks down at her feet. “I do not like birthdays.”
August’s shoulders sink, as if he is already giving up, but Marigold refuses to yield. This picnic is happening even if she has to drag Lottie outside by her annoyingly perfect hair.
“Maybe we can call it something else,” she suggests. She hands the picnic basket to August, who can barely hold it, and walks slowly toward Lottie. “There must be a day where people get to celebrate having you in their life.”
Lottie almost smiles. “That’s silly. And I know that you have no desire to celebrate me coming into your life, Witch. We’re not exactly friends.”
She flinches. “No, but maybe we could be. And today would be a great time to start. The first annual Lottie Day,” she says, hope spilling into her voice.
“Lottie Day? Is that what you propose we call it?” She laughs softly as if she didn’t mean to.
August claps. “I love it. It has a nice ring to it. Lottie Day, Lottie Day, Lottie Day. It almost sounds like a song in itself.”
“It’s perfect,” Marigold says. “Now, who is joining me for a Lottie Day picnic?”
“I am!” August says as he drags the picnic basket toward the door. Lottie still does not move, and Marigold extends her hand.
“There’s fresh chocolate cake in the basket for you,” she says temptingly as she wiggles her fingers. At the mention of chocolate, Lottie finally relents. She rolls her eyes, takes Marigold’s waiting hand, and follows them out to the garden.
The sun is warm. The grass is soft. And when she takes a bite of her Lottie Day cake, Lottie Burke actually smiles. Not her usual defiant smile, the kind she wears when she knows she has won a battle of will or wit. A real smile.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Lottie says to Marigold, her smile faltering.
Her cheeks flush. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”
Lottie doesn’t say anything, so Marigold says, “It’s lovely. Your smile, I mean.”
Lottie’s spine steels and her eyes go wide. She scrunches her nose like she smells something sour.
Marigold sighs. “Apologies. I know you hate compliments from me.”
“It’s not that,” Lottie says quietly. Marigold and August look at each other, confused. The air is tense and awkward as Lottie wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. Her breath quickens like she’s frightened.
“You okay, Lots?” August says, placing his hand on Lottie’s shoulder.
She turns to them and says, “I’m sorry. I do not feel well. I need to lie down.” She stands abruptly, holding her stomach, and runs inside.
Marigold stands up and shades her eyes with her hand. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know,” August says. “But I was surprised she went along with it in the first place, so I’m counting this as a win.”
“Everything was fine a moment ago. I don’t understand. It should’ve gone better,” she says.
“Well, it could have gone much worse,” he counters, standing up and stretching. “We did a good thing, Honey Witch. That is all we can do.”
Chapter Seventeen
