This thought sends Marigold into a mild panic as she wonders if the message could mean that she is to be married. Perhaps Mr. Notley may call on her the next morning. They may promenade for all to see. He may ask for her hand in front of the crowd, and in the eyes of everyone else, they will be a perfect pair—of course the worst dancers in Bardshire are meant for each other. She would finally live up to everyone’s expectations. To be a wife, and then to become a mother soon after. It all sounds too… stifling. There would be no more running off through the garden at night. She would miss every blue moon from here on out. Every moment of her time would belong to someone else, and she would never again be alone here in the heart of the meadow.
Her mother would be thrilled, of course. There were days after George left her that she thought her mother might have been even more heartbroken than she was. The image of himproposing to Priya flashes in her mind, though it doesn’t sting as much as she thought it might. George was right to leave her. They got along fine, sure, but that was not why she cared for him so much. He was widely wanted, with his good looks, remarkable talent, and extravagant wealth. And hechoseher. He made everyone else be kind to her for the first time. He quieted those who had always teased her. But it didn’t last. Soon, he saw her for what she truly was—strange. And when he left her, it confirmed to everyone that she did not belong. She agrees, of course, but what now? What else can she expect for her life? She is growing older. She cannot continue to live with her parents, sneaking into the meadow at night, seemingly working toward absolutely nothing. That will not do—not for Marigold and not for the rest of her family. She must dosomething. And what is there to do for a talentless young lady in Bardshire, other than become a wife?
But this is precisely why she prefers to be alone now. No one would ever understand that the wilder world speaks to her, or how she sees visions in the ripples of the sea, or how she always knows when it is going to storm, days before it happens. She could never explain how she invariably can create the perfect kitchen-made cure to any ailment, or how her dreams have a miraculous way of coming true. No one here could ever believe any magical gifts to be real, and she cannot stand the idea of being called a liar or, worse, a charlatan.
After seeing the message of the stars on this night, Marigold feels the walls rising around her. She senses the sky lowering itself onto her shoulders. She may be leaving Marigold Claude in this meadow and emerging as the soon-to-be Lady Notley. The name feels wrong to even imagine, like stuffing herself into Aster’s awful lavender dress from last season.
Rain comes slowly. The first drops fall down Marigold’s skin, exploring the soft edges of her body. She dances through the mist until the weight of it compels her to lie down in the grass. She stays in the meadow until the sun begins to reach through the trees in the soft beginning of morning. She imagines theweight of a ring on her finger. It is too heavy, too cold, too tight. Sleep does not come to her—she cannot waste this time with sleep. She wants to savor every second she has to herself. She memorizes the exact shade of blue of the moon. She counts the blades of grass in her hair. She wishes upon the dandelions that pepper the meadow.
And now it is time to return home and face whatever future awaits her there.
She strolls through the rain-soaked woods and walks in time with the rising sun. Lunasia follows Marigold for as long as she can, but she begins to fade toward the edge of the tree line. Her home starts to emerge in the distance, complete with the flourishing gardens featured in her father’s paintings, and she sees something that makes her heart sink. The sky above her house burns red. She turns to find Lunasia glowing with that same ominous aura. The rest of the sky remains bright and clear. Another message—this time, Marigold is entirely unsure what it means, but she knows that it is not good. She runs onto the grounds of her home to the small side entrance and sneaks inside, following the distant sound of a heated argument. As she walks through the estate and comes closer to the sound, she recognizes her mother’s voice.
“How dare you,” her mother says, her words as sharp as a needle. “I am the one who has protected her. I have always protected her, above everything else.”
“You speak of this great protection and yet you do not even know where she is right now, Raina,” says the voice of an older woman. Marigold stiffens. No one ever calls her mother by her first name, except…
Marigold’s grandmother.
With even more care, she tiptoes toward the sitting room with her ear pressed against the door.
“I saved her that day. I did. By myself, without magic,” her mother says.
“And since that day, I have worked tirelessly to make Innisfreesafe again, but I cannot keep doing it alone. You must let her make her own decision. I gave you a choice. She is owed the same.”
“No. There is no choice to be made here. Your life and your world are dangerous. I will not allow you to take her. It’s cruel and it’s selfish.”
“What’s cruel and selfish is the fact that you are not willing to let her find her own fate.”
“The fate that you speak of is death.”
Marigold gasps louder than she meant to. Maybe they didn’t hear it? Seconds tick by. She hears her mother’s footsteps approaching. It’s too late to hide. Her mother opens the door swiftly, finding Marigold crouched behind it, frozen and unsure. She’s never been caught sneaking out before. Her father keeps her mother distracted for the evening, and she always comes home before sunrise.
Her mother’s brown eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and her blond hair is a tangled mess. She is still in her green gown from the ball, but the shoulders are sagging and the ribbons at the back are coming undone. She pulls Marigold into a punishing embrace.
“Where have you been?”
Marigold peers over her mother’s shoulder and meets her grandmother’s gaze. Althea is sitting on the plush couch, her small and spotted hands placed neatly in her lap. She smiles, pushing against the tension of the well-earned wrinkles around her mouth. It’s been years since they last saw each other, but she never forgot the warmth of her grandmother’s face. They have the same eyes—amber brown speckled with gold.
“Answer me,” her mother commands, her voice desperate and angry.
“The meadow,” she whispers, as if that will be enough to satisfy her mother’s raging curiosity.
“What meadow? Were you with someone? Sneaking off with Thomas Notley?”
She scoffs and says, “Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I was… alone.”
“Would it have anything to do with the full moon?” Althea says from across the room.
Her mother turns her head and says, “Do not speak to her about such things. I want no more words from you.”
“Mother,” Marigold gasps. She has never heard her mother speak so rudely, and to her own mother, no less. It is beyond shocking, especially considering that Althea is correct. Marigold turns to her grandmother and says, “How did you know?”
“Because we are the same, you and I,” she says as she begins to stand, smoothing out her rose-colored dress. Her mother turns her back to Marigold and extends her arms as if shielding her from Althea.
“Stop this! Stop this at once, Mother. I mean it. You are not to come near my daughter.”
“Your daughter is a grown woman. You cannot keep her from her destiny, and you cannot keep her from speaking with me if she wishes to,” she says as she leans to the side to meet Marigold’s gaze. “And I hope that you do wish to speak, Marigold. It is time for you to know the whole truth. You should have known years ago.”
