“I believe it comes from the fact that when bees encounter smoke, it inhibits their ability to attack. Burning things until they turn to ash is part of the art of beekeeping for most, though I have the ability to calm them without the aid of anything else. As far as magic is involved, an Ash Witch enchants the remnants of what is burned, while a Honey Witch enchants the honey that is made. There is a long and complicated history involving anAsh Witch and Innisfree, but I will spare you the details. All you need to know is that she is dangerous, and my protection spells keep her away.”
“Wow, it sounds completely real and not at all like a bunch of mythcraft,” Lottie says.
Marigold does not acknowledge the insult. She simply sips her coffee and grins. “I want to take you both on a tour to show you how my magic works,” she says, her voice dripping with confidence. Today will be the day that Lottie sees the apiary. No one could deny the existence of magic from inside such a magical place.
“Wonderful!” August nearly leaps over to her side. His excitement is infectious; he reminds Marigold of herself when she first came to the isle. Every moment, every inch of the world around was thrilling and perfect—an entire life steeped in magic.
Even Lottie’s mood seems to lighten from August’s joy as Marigold leads them both outside to the apiary. As the door opens, the pink-stained sun meets their skin. The wind carries the sweet scent of honey and lilac, just above the notes of pine and rain.
“Actually, wait. Lottie, do you have anything else to wear?”
Lottie adjusts her long sleeves and tight collar. “What is wrong with this?”
“Besides the fact that it is summer and you are wearing a dress that is meant for the dead of winter?”
Crossing her arms, she says, “Yes. Besides that.”
“The bees do not like dark colors. That black dress will make them think you’re a predator.” Not that they would be wrong about that.
“Are they going to sting me?” she asks, stepping back slightly.
“You’ll be safe as long as you stay close to me,” she says as she leads them through the white gate. Hundreds of bees dance around their hives, their buzzes resolving into a soft melody. Marigold walks forward fearlessly, eager to greet them. The bees nuzzle up to her and bumble around like a living aura, a yellow halo around her frame.
“They’re attacking!” Lottie yells.
Marigold laughs. “They’re not attacking, silly. They’re simply saying hello.” She extends her hand outward and sends the bees gently in Lottie’s direction. Lottie jumps back and stumbles into August, taking them both down to the soft, warm grass. The bees float to the ground and bumble softly around the tangled pair, who have yet to let their guard down for the gentle creatures. Lottie at least pretends she is not afraid, while August’s fear is much less subtle. He clings to his shirt collar as a child grips their blanket in the dark.
“They won’t sting you. I promise.” The bees crowd in her palm.
“How do you know?” August whimpers.
“Because they listen to me, and I have told them not to,” she says. The bees begin to fly faster around her, turning their gentle bumble into an angry swarm. She flashes a wicked grin and says, “But don’t cross me, August Owens.”
She giggles as her friends drop their jaws in response to the bees’ performance. August and Lottie find their way to their feet.
“That’s incredible,” he says, marveling as the bees flit around them like snowflakes. “Hey, little guy,” August says as he opens his hand, allowing a bee to land in his palm.
“She’s actually a female bee. All worker bees are female.”
He examines the tiny insect in his hand. “What do the males do?”
Marigold shrugs. “They don’t do much; they merely hope to be the one who is picked to mate with the queen and then they die.”
“Harsh,” he says as he places a hand over his heart.
“It’s the truth. They’re called drones.”
August takes Lottie’s hand, and for a moment when she sees this, Marigold thinks she has been stung. She hasn’t, of course. But seeing Lottie hold someone else’s hand feels awfully sharp. She averts her gaze, and the feeling passes as she continues forward.
“So, welcome to the apiary. Each hive makes a different kind of honey. I work with the bees and tell them which flowers to pullnectar from, and they return it to the hive. When they release it into the wax, which they shape into hexagons to help stabilize the structure of the honeycomb, they flap their wings to dehydrate the nectar into honey. After I harvest the honey, that hive can make something new.” She takes the white wooden lid off the top of one of the boxes and props it up. Reaching in, she peels off a piece of the wax cap that covers the honeycomb, and she lets the honey drip onto her fingers.
“Would you like to try some?” she asks with a motion of her other hand. Lottie stays behind, still skeptical of Marigold’s power over the bees. August, however, releases his hand and comes up.
“I’m too scared to put my own hand in the hive,” August whispers.
“Here.” She dips her finger back into the honey and brings it up to August’s lips.
He tastes it and smiles wide. “It tastes like lavender.”
