“You speak as if that decision belongs to you alone.” Marigold steps on his toes and does not pretend that it is an accident. “I am not married because I have yet to find someone who makes me feel seen.”
He steadies himself on his throbbing toes. “You don’t believe that I could see you?”
“No. You see only springtime. What happens when I am winter? I will tell you, Mr. Notley. When winter comes”—she leans in close so their noses are almost touching—“you will freeze.”
Heat lingers on her lips, and surprisingly, Mr. Notley smiles.
They dance through six songs, enough to fill an entire dance card. Aster makes eye contact with Marigold, her eyes full of apology as they flit between her and George. Marigold bites the inside of her cheek and shakes her head as she makes her final curtsy to Mr. Notley. She begins to walk away from the floor, fighting against an ocean of tears behind her eyes. It gets easier with every step, and so it is decided—she will walk through the whole night if she must, for she will not shed one more tear for that man. He is not worth the energy, and neither is anyone else. As soon as she reaches the door, her elbow is caught, and Mr. Notley pulls her around to face him.
He looks at her as if he thought his hand might pass through her, as if she were only a wish. “Are you leaving, Miss Claude?”
She swallows the last of her sadness. “Yes, I’m afraid all thatdancing has left me feeling quite faint. I must rest,” she says breathlessly, hoping to make her story more believable.
“Might I help you to your carriage, then?”
Her eyes widen, for there is no carriage waiting. She intends on escaping on foot, through the gardens.
“That will not be necessary. I feel that the fresh air is just what I need,” she says as she attempts to turn back toward the door.
“Have I done something wrong? I must admit I thought we were having a lovely time,” he says. His words are kind enough, but nothing he says can change the fact that there is somewhere else she would rather be. Her skin starts to burn underneath his unwavering grip.
“My haste has nothing to do with you. I simply have somewhere I must be. Have another honey cake for me,” she says as she yanks her arm away and then shakes his hand firmly in the same manner that she has seen her father do many times to end a meeting with a patron that has dragged on for too long. He holds her hand there, still seeming somewhat dazed and confused at her rush.
“Is there someone else, Miss Claude? Another man waiting for you out there?”
She cannot help but laugh wildly. Since George, Mr. Notley is the only man in Bardshire she has been able to stand speaking to for more than five minutes, so the idea of having two men who she would want to spend an evening with is a hilarious joke that seems to be entirely lost on him.
“There is no other man. I can assure you.”
“Then why must you leave me so suddenly? I will not let you go before I understand.”
She lets out a sigh of frustration. “Mr. Notley, I intend to run out to the meadow barefoot and soak up the blue moonlight. I intend to sing loudly, to dance freely, maybe even scream if I wish. I intend to ruin this dress with the mud and the rain. And if I don’t go now, then I will miss the brightest hour of the bluemoon, which only happens once a year. Now, if you will excuse me,” she says. She looks back at him as he stares at her with absolute bewilderment.
“You are a wild creature, Miss Claude. I hope to see you again,” he calls after her. She waves goodbye and then takes off in a run, knowing that she will not allow herself to be tamed.
Chapter Two
Marigold runs until she trips over a rogue tree root that has curled up out of the earth, and the hem of her dress sinks into the muddy ground. As she kneels in the grass, far away from the rest of the world, she is finally at peace. No suitors, no expectations, no one here but the stars and the trees.
She takes off her shoes and her stockings and lets the grass tickle between her toes. Breathing in the scent of an impending storm, she knows she must hurry if she is to reach the meadow before the first rainfall. She undoes her fanciful updo and lets her hair fall down her back. Her brows sink when the tension is released, and she scrunches her face to wake up the muscles that were pulled tight through the evening. Picking herself up, she gathers her shoes and stockings and the bottom of her dress into her arms and runs again. Her feet have carried her over this path countless times, and now they recognize their surroundings. This feels like home—the wet ground her bed, the breeze her blanket. The trees begin to thin until there are none left, only an open meadow, begging her to center herself inside of it. She runs until she is directly beneath the moon, its blue light shining down on her like a guide to another world. She would gladly follow this path of light, if only she knew how.
Her brow furrows as she strains to see through the darkness that separates the trees. Nothing yet, but soon. Once a month, on the full moon, she receives a visitation.
Perhaps she is imagining it all, and her visions are merely a manifestation of her desperation to feel special. If that is the case, then so be it. Her mother loves to remind her of her age, as if it is a reason to stop believing in magic. She rolls her eyes at the thought—yes, she is a grown woman, and is that not magical in itself? To have survived this long, despite the world’s penchant for beautiful dead girls? Marigold has grown up surrounded by the poets who propel the narrative—how romantic to die young, unstretched, unsullied, without ever outgrowing the part of the ingenue. But what happens when the girl keeps living, when she ages proudly and defiantly, without abandoning imagination, or stories, or that secret wish to find magic wherever it hides?
Well, then the poets would call her a witch.
It is better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped in a dim reality. Still, there must be some truth to what she sees, some explanation beyond wistful yearning. This meadow is the only place where she can conjure that feeling of belonging that she once felt during those Innisfree summers before it all went dark.
Like her grandmother, Marigold’s heart belongs to the wilder world. It is as if she is an extension of nature, a season of herself—summer, winter, spring, autumn, and Marigold Claude. When they were children, Marigold had hoped Aster or Frankie would understand her strange visions, her undying need to be out in nature, but she has always been alone. Her sister used to tease her and say she was making up magical stories to feel better about not being able to sing. All she knows for sure is that she feels more connected to the characters in her grandmother’s folktales than to the people around her because no one else in Bardshire believes in magic.
At her back, between the tallest trees, there is a light blue glow. The light reaches her hair and prompts her to turn around.
“There you are.” She smiles as she walks forward. Close enough to tickle her nose is a large butterfly with an aura of bright blue starlight. She pulls the sticky honey cake from thereticule and offers it to the creature. It lands on top of the dessert and uncurls its ribbony tongue to lick the honey from the top. As it eats, its light glows brighter.
“Whatever you are, you sure love honey.” This is the creature that Marigold has felt connected to ever since she was a young child. On the nights of full moons, she would feel this relentless call from the woods, and an insatiable desire to answer. The first summer in which they did not travel to Innisfree, she found a way to sneak out of their estate and follow the feeling that tugged at her heart. She met the creature she came to call Lunasia, and ever since, she has thought herself able to speak the language of wild things that no one else can hear.
Tonight, Lunasia seems to flash and buzz with energy. The clouds dance between them, weaving in and out like ribbons between Marigold’s shiny blond curls. When Lunasia moves, the clouds move with her and transform into thin wisps of light. Sparks fall around her like lightning bugs. Marigold watches the world glow, and the message seems clear: A new era is dawning. A new life is beginning. Maybe a new love is coming.
