There is another of her playing with Cindershine in the living room. Another of her in the apiary, surrounded by a halo of bees.
Then, there are drawings of Innisfree. The trees, the birds, the night sky with striking constellations.
Then, the spirits—Odessa, Talaya, Chesha, Yliza.
“You drew the spirits,” Marigold says, her voice soft with surprise.
Eyes wide, Lottie says, “I thought they were merely strange animals native to the isle.”
“They’re called landvættir, and they protect the isle. Somehow, you can see them.”
Lottie takes her sketchbook back. “Am I not supposed to?”
Marigold shakes her head. “They live beyond the veil. Perhaps it’s exceptionally thin on Innisfree, and you are quite perceptive. Still, it’s strange.” It’s equally strange to witness Lottie react with calm curiosity toward anything magic. Normally, the woman would’ve been rolling her eyes the entire time.
“Well, I’m happy I can see them. They’re lovely to draw,” Lottie says.
“You captured them perfectly. You are such an incredible artist, Lottie. I’ve never seen anything so perfect.”
Lottie blushes, unable to handle so many compliments. “Shall we return? God knows what August will get up to if he is left alone too long.”
“Right, of course.”
With a final parting glance at the meadow, Marigold leads Lottie back to the house. Before they go inside, Lottie stops.
“What was your grandmother’s name? I only know her as the Honey Witch, but she was so much more than that, wasn’t she?”
Marigold sighs, smiling. “Her name was Althea.”
“Beautiful,” Lottie says.
“She was.” She looks at the ground, and right at her feet, there is an omen. An ivy leaf with six points; someone is about to fall in love.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The carriage ride through Bardshire is smooth and sunny. There are tall, colorful shops selling anything imaginable, and the air smells of too many horses. Marigold points out various sites to Lottie and tells her the most salacious stories of the people they pass by.
“That is Lady Covington,” she says, pointing to an older woman in a bright orange gown and a very dramatic feathered hat. “She’s been married three times, as her husbands kept mysteriously dying.”
“She’s a killer?”
“We’ll never know for sure. But now she’s extraordinarily wealthy and enjoying her fourth marriage—this time, with a woman. See?”
Another woman in a bright teal dress comes beside Lady Covington and takes her by the arm. They wear each other proudly as they stroll through the streets.
“They make a beautiful couple. If she is a husband killer, I cannot say I blame her.”
Marigold jokingly flicks her fan against Lottie’s hand. “Now, Miss Burke. We cannot condone murder.”
“But it’s so romantic, Miss Claude.” She lays the back of her hand against her forehead and pretends to swoon. She exaggerates a breathless voice when she says, “All is fair in love and war. The poets say so.”
“I’ve met enough poets to know that they are all afraid of a real fight.” She keeps her eyes peeled for George. He must be around here somewhere, parading his wife.
Shaking her head, she says, “As you can see, this whole place is rife with gossips—”
“Yourself included,” Lottie adds.
She giggles and bumps Lottie with her shoulder. “Oh, I haven’t gossiped in so long. Allow me to indulge! They make it too easy with their love affairs and gambling debts and the like. But as I was saying, there are many gossips, and word travels fast. We must be careful keeping our tattoos hidden.”
