“I do not understand these headaches. I’ve never had them before, and they only last for a moment.”
“Well, I cannot speak for every headache, but this one is likely because you are drunk.”
“We’re both drunk.”
She hands the cup to Lottie. “We are.”
There is a pregnant pause. Lottie starts to reach for her hand. “And we were just…”
“Talking,” Marigold interrupts, stiffening her hand at her side. “We were simply talking. And now we are going to bed.”
Lottie shifts, then stands. “I suppose we have done enough soul sharing tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turns to leave, and Marigold’s gaze cannot let go of her until she enters her room and closes the door.
Marigold cannot sleep, so she lies still in the small bed of wildflowers close to her bedroom window. The isle in daytime is always alive with bright green grass and golden sunlight cracking through the sky as if it were made of glass. Even at night, when the moon leaves the sun speechless, the jewel-like stars consume the night. Cindershine is nearby, meowing about something unseen. The air smells of honey and forthcoming rain. She picks a flower by her eye and starts plucking away at the petals.
She loves me not.
She loves me not.
She loves me not.
Plucking petals is a bore when there is only one possible outcome. She tosses the stem and sits up with a sigh. Cindershine’s meowing grows stronger, and there is a sudden change in the air. It’s souring with scents of salt and smoke, tinted a sickly yellow that licks the corners of the evening. Marigold jumps up and turns to see smoke billowing from the other side of the isle. Cindershine is running away as the smoke grows stronger. She tries to run forward, but her feet do not move. The fire spreads, consuming the edge of the apiary and reaching for the cottage.
It is Versa. It must be.
She has worked to remember the first time the Ash Witch attacked her, but the one thing she could never quite recall, the thing that rested on the tip of her tongue that she could never fully taste, was the fear. What did it feel like to be so close to the flame, to certain death? She can see that day as clearly as a painting in her mind. She sees her grandmother’s determination, her mother’s terror, and her own vulnerability. How easily she could have been killed that day, how close Innisfree came to absolute destruction. She could see it, but now she feels it—the shock, the heart-stopping dread, the absolute bone-deep knowing that this is where it stops, this is how it ends.
She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. She is frozen, either by magic or panic, she cannot tell. Too powerless to defend, too weak to even move from her position.
Something heavy collides with her chest. She looks down and sees nothing there, only the grass at her feet, but the weight and warmth on her skin say otherwise. Her arms feel full of lead and she can barely lift them up, but she brings her hands to her chest and feels something soft. Taking a deep breath, she shuts her eyes tightly and tries to scream again. The sound rips through her throat like a creature with claws, and it tastes of blood. When she opens her eyes, the horrors dissipate, and the walls of her room form around her. She is in bed, screaming, with Cindershine in her grip. The world is as it was before she unknowingly fell asleep.
She relaxes her grip on her cat and opens the small window at her side, inhaling deeply—no scent of burning in the air. No yellow smoke billowing through. All is quiet, save for the echo of her scream. Her heartbeat is slowly settling into a normal rhythm. She runs her hands along her bedding, letting the softness remind her that she is safe in her own room. Bad things can’t happen to people in comfy beds.
Sounds of movement—rustling in the bushes, splashes in the water, stepping over sticks—drift through the window.Normally, Marigold would take comfort in this, presuming it to be the music of wild things. But now, after the nightmare, she cannot let the noises go unchecked. Pulling on a dressing gown and lighting a candle, she silently slips through the cottage’s front door. The air is calm and clear, but she is not alone—footsteps sound from her left. With her candlelight guiding her path, she approaches slowly, careful to keep her steps quiet. The flame pulses in time with her heart. The glow illuminates the trees, then the beehives, then an open sky. Nothing out of the ordinary—yet. She pushes onward toward the edge of the isle where the fire of her nightmare began.
There, there is movement. A shadow skirting the brink, each step louder than the last as it comes closer. An outline emerges from the shapeless form. It’s a person, a woman. The candlelight bounces off her bright red curls and illuminates her sleepy green eyes.
It’s Lottie. She walks right past Marigold, moving in a wakeless daze.
“Lottie?” she calls after her, but the woman does not turn. Marigold catches up to her and walks by her side. “Lottie, you’re dreaming. You must wake up.”
Her words go unheard, and Lottie maintains her stride.
Marigold stands in front of her and says, “Stop!”
Lottie moves to sidestep her, so she grabs her hand, noting that it is warm and sticky. “Wake up!”
Marigold’s touch seems to work. Startled awake, Lottie gasps, jerking her hand out of Marigold’s grasp and bringing it to her chest. She looks around in a panic, finds the light of the candle, and finally meets her concerned gaze. “What are you doing?” Lottie says.
Marigold’s brows pinch together. “I had a nightmare and woke up to strange noises coming from outside. What were you doing out here?”
Lottie shakes her head. “I was having a nightmare, too.”
“What did you see?” The candlelight pulses, punctuating the silence.
Lottie eyes the flame and shudders. “Fire.”
She inhales sharply through her nose. “Me too.” She takes hold of Lottie’s hand again. “Why is your hand sticky?”
