“Indeed, we do,” Marigold says. “The curse—”
“I have it all figured out,” Lottie interrupts. “I have feelings for you. I believe I have had them since the first time I saw you, because that is when all this started.” She speaks of her feelings academically like she is discussing an equation. “You got out of the carriage with your grandmother, and your face… it made me feel…”
Lottie pauses, waving her hands around like she is riffling through the air in search of the right word. Marigold’s very soul is on fire.
“Made you feel what?” Enchanted, perhaps? That is how Marigold felt.
“Nauseous,” Lottie finally says with a massive grin. “Absolutely disgusted. I could have been sick right then and there all over your dress.”
She crosses her arms, deflated. “How lovely of you to say.”
“No, this is good, Mari!” Lottie takes her hands.
“It is good that my face makes you physically ill?” she asks, brows raised.
Lottie’s lips press into a thin line. “It is not your face, you impossible girl. It is your curse. That is what it has been all along. When I try to act on my feelings, it is immediately followed by pain and the smell of salt and smoke. I know now that scent means magic. I could recognize it anywhere.” She is nearly leaping with excitement as she speaks.
“That’s not how it’s supposed to be,” Marigold says, throwing her arms up in frustration. “You shouldn’t be able to feel anything for me at all. Are you certain it’s not simply lust?”
Defensively, Lottie says, “It’s more than that. I know it.” She reaches for Marigold’s hand, sending shivers up her spine.
“It makes no sense,” Marigold says, palming her forehead in confusion. “It’s as if you are defying the curse, and it’s punishing you for it.”
“What else is there to understand? It simply doesn’t affect me the way you thought it would, and that’s a good thing.”
“But why you? How are you resistant to it?” Her mind wanders to the night she saw Lottie’s tattoo on her sternum—the rune of protection. Could that be it?
Lottie interrupts her thoughts and says, “Don’t you see, Marigold? Now that we know what causes it, perhaps we can outsmart it.”
“How might that work? We draw the curtains and blow out all the candles so that it cannot see us in the darkness?” she chides. “We cannot hide from this.”
“I know that. But you see, every time we try, we get a little bit further. Before, I could not look at your face without feeling like death. And now I am holding your hand and my head is only throbbing slightly!” She squeezes her hand and leans in. “Let us try, Marigold. Let us see how far we can go.”
“Lottie, that is so dangerous. I will not risk your safety. You did not see what I saw. You, lying on the bed, convulsing like you were being strangled. Your body looked broken.”
“It is my body to break if I so wish! Please, Mari. Please do not deny me. I want to try. For you.” She wraps her arm around her waist. “For this.”
She looks deep into Lottie’s green eyes as if she is trying to read a book while the pages are turning too fast. She takes a breath and touches Lottie’s hand at her waist.
“I cannot deny you. But will you allow us to wait until our return to Innisfree? I don’t want the curse to hurt you here when I don’t have all that I may need to heal you. It scares me.” Beyond that, Innisfree needs to be healed first. If the isle continues weakening, they could be vulnerable to an Ash Witch attack. She could lose everything and be forced to come back to Bardshire, powerless and alone.
“I’m not scared,” Lottie says, tightening her arms around Marigold. “I’m yours.”
As a light gasp escapes Marigold’s lips, a bell rings throughout the estate to signal dinner. She blinks, letting Lottie’s words echo in her mind. Squeezing Lottie’s hand that rests on her waist, she says, “And I am yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The table has someone at every seat; the Lord and Lady Claude sit at opposite ends. Frankie, August, and Mr. Woodrake sit along one side, while Marigold, Lottie, and Aster sit along the other.
“It’s so lovely to have you all here,” Marigold’s mother says.
“A toast,” her father says as he stands and raises his glass. “To my lovely daughter and her betrothed. May life award you years of happiness and peace. And,” he continues, turning to Marigold, “a toast to Marigold’s first return to Bardshire, and her new lovely friends. Thank you all for being here to celebrate with our family. We welcome you.”
Everyone raises their glasses and sips softly. It takes Lottie only a moment to catch on and replicate the movement. August seems to be acclimating quickly, and Marigold imagines that Frankie must have given him a lesson or two in high society behavior during their time together. She regrets that she did not do the same for Lottie, as this dinner will be very involved. At least six courses: a soup, a fish, and four entrées. And, of course, puddings. It would not be a Claude dinner without puddings.
“Father,” Marigold says, turning to him. “I should mention that Miss Burke is a fan of your work.”
Her father beams and clasps his hands together. “I am beyond honored to hear that.”
