The next morning, Marigold thinks herself the first to wake, but as she goes outside to see the spirits paint the sunrise, she finds Lottie sitting in the gardens with a sketchbook.
“Hello,” she says, her voice startling the pencil out of Lottie’s hand.
“Sorry!” she says quickly, raising her hands innocently. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s fine,” Lottie says as she gathers her things and stands up next to her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was drawing for a little bit. I always draw when I can’t sleep.”
The grass is dewy and warm as she steps forward. “Can I see some of your work?”
Lottie flips through the pages and shakes her head. “Maybe when I finish this next one. I don’t want to show you anything undone.”
“All right, then. I will leave you to it,” she says as she turns to walk back inside.
“Hey, Marigold?” Lottie says.
She freezes. That is the first time she has heard Lottie say her name. It’s melodic, almost haunting, like it could lure her into the sea.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for yesterday,” she says, and she smiles again.
“Of course,” Marigold says, their eyes locked on each other.She nearly turns back to go inside, but she pauses. “Can I ask you a question?” Her curiosity regarding the woman has been gnawing at her since she arrived. What is her story? What are her secrets? What more will Marigold discover if Lottie’s walls keep coming down?”
“I can’t promise an answer, but go ahead.”
“Before you met August, what was your life like?”
The woman is taken aback. Sorrow flickers in her bright green eyes. “It was lonely,” she finally says. “Very lonely.”
Marigold nods in understanding. She was lonely before August came back, too. But there seems to be more to Lottie’s loneliness, another layer of hurt beneath it. To her surprise, Lottie continues speaking without her having to press the woman for more information.
“My parents died when I was very young. I was an orphan living on the streets of Lenox, then briefly at an orphanage, and then I met August in school. The two of us became so close so fast, and his parents had always wanted a daughter. So, one day, they asked me to come home with them. And I did.” An incredulous smile blooms across her face, as if she still cannot comprehend their kindness. “It was the best day of my life. I’m so lucky to have him.”
Marigold basks in the warmth of that smile for as long as she can before she nods. She is actually doing it—she is breaking down the walls of Lottie Burke.
But there is something else happening in her heart. Every time Lottie smiles, every time she stands too close, every time they are alone in a room together, something in the air changes. It feels like having a cool drink on a summer day or a warm fire in the middle of winter, like suddenly everything she needs is right there with her, and she can sink into a sense of peace.
It’s a heartbreak waiting to happen. Marigold cannot give in to it.
“He’s lucky to have you, too,” she says before going back inside to make breakfast.
The table is set for three and includes fresh coffee, scrambled eggs, and pancakes with honey. Lottie, August, and Marigold take their respective seats before it all gets cold.
“Do you eat honey with every meal?” Lottie says in her signature dry tone. August shoots her a look.
“Well, yes,” Marigold says with a laugh. “It’s the one thing I’ll never run out of.”
“Do you ever get tired of it?” August chimes in.
“Not at all. You two might think of honey as one flavor, one color, one note. But I know honey to be a magical thing, with so many different variations that it would be impossible to tire of them all in a single lifetime. Would you believe me if I told you that some forms of honey are not even sweet? They can be quite strong and bitter, almost like coffee.”
“Imagine trying to sweeten your drink with honey like that. You’d be in for a cruel surprise,” Lottie says with a laugh, and Marigold smiles. Lottie is starting to soften around her, although that may not be a good thing. Her heart is precariously placed on her sleeve, and with Lottie warming to her, she fears her heart may leap before she can stop it, and that would be tragic for all of them.
“Are there other types of witches?” August says.
“There are. It’s a law of nature that everything has an equal opposite. There are Honey Witches, and then there are Ash Witches.”
“What makes them opposites?”
