Disbelief flickers in Lottie’s narrowing eyes. She opens her mouth to further protest, but August cuts her off as he says, “Oh my, Marigold. That’s horrible. Is there a way to break it?”
“No,” she says, her jaw clenched. “At the time, I had no qualms with accepting the curse. I wanted to run away from that life, from the balls and the courtships and the life of being a wife. I thought that maybe it was because I was always meant to be a Honey Witch, and my intuition knew that love wasn’t for me.”
“And do you still think that now?” Lottie asks, quickly and quietly.
She turns so their eyes meet. “Of course.” It feels like a lie in her mouth. “It would be a truly sad fate if I were to change my mind, because it is too late. It is far too late for me.” She throws the rest of her mead down her throat and refills the mug. Lottie does the same and then reaches for the whole bottle, taking a giant gulp before setting it down and placing her hand to the right of Marigold’s. Their fingers are barely touching, until Lottie moves her hand just enough so that they are intertwined.
“I…” Lottie says, and Marigold’s head turns sharply toward her.
“Don’t believe me? I know,” she says curtly.
Her pulse thunders where Lottie’s fingers meet hers. Lottie seems to lean closer, her eyes on Marigold’s lips, but that must be a drunken loss of balance. Marigold pulls her hand away and pushes her wet hair behind her ear.
“I do not know what to say,” Lottie says.
“Then say nothing.” She does not wish to talk about it anymore anyway. It hurts. It stings.
August reaches across the table and opens his hand for her. “How can I help you, Marigold? What can I do?”
She sits up, placing her hand in his. “Always be generous with your company, and never stop asking me for help. It is all I can give.”
The quiet air grows heavy and blankets over them. The mead is all gone. It is the middle of the night. Marigold is seconds away from crashing into herself, physically and emotionally spent.
August stands and stretches up high. He could touch the ceiling if he really wanted to. “My dearest friends, I am sufficiently drunk and I must go to bed, else I’ll be insufferable in the morning.”
“More than you already are?” Lottie says, and he shoves her shoulder.
“One day, you are going to meet someone who is a worthyopponent to your wicked mouth.” He looks to Marigold, eyes lingering. She’s too tired and too drunk to ask why. When he leaves the room, Lottie and Marigold are alone.
And it is so incredibly awkward. The room is spinning and everything is too hot. She is using the last of her energy to contain her imminent hiccups.
“So…” she says, trying to escape the silence. The word drags on longer than she intended.
“So?” Lottie replies, offering no small talk or pleasantries. She does, however, inch slightly closer to her so their legs are touching.
Marigold almost moves her hand to Lottie’s thigh—she cannot help the urge. This woman is a magnet for her touch, but she catches herself and lays her hand back in her own lap.
“So… what did you think about when you screamed your heart out? What were you letting go of?”
Lottie stiffens. “That’s what you want to talk about right now?”
“Um…” Marigold says, clearing her throat. “What else should we talk about?”
Their faces are so close. Closer, closer, closer still. Her heart throbs so much that it aches.
“Can I…?” Lottie says, staring at her lips.
Before she has the chance to react, Lottie shuts her eyes tightly and braces her head with her hands. “Agh, dammit.”
Marigold pulls back, breathing fast and deep. “Headache again?”
Lottie nods without looking up.
“Will you please let me give you something for it this time?”
Lottie nods again. It must be great pain if she is finally willing to try a magical solution.
She runs to the kitchen and quickly brews a cup of chamomile tea, flavored with lavender and a healthy spoonful of black sage honey. By the time she brings it over, Lottie seems fine.
