“Then what changed? Why are you here now?”
Althea takes a deep, dry breath and clears her throat as best she can. “I’m dying, darling. I am not strong enough to keep Innisfree on my own. If we are to keep our land and our line, I need you to complete the ritual and join me,” she says as she holds the vial of honey toward Marigold with her trembling hand.
She takes the vial and rolls it in her palm. “But what of Versa? She still lives?”
“Versa is weakening as I am, and she will not die quietly. I have seen the omens.” She grabs Marigold’s wrist and squeezes. “And so have you. She will try to take Innisfree again before her end. But there is only one of her, and she alone is not a match for two witches. I need you to help me keep the isle safe. I have created a veil of protection over Innisfree, but I am no longer strong enough to maintain it on my own. With our power combined, we could make Innisfree safe for centuries.”
Marigold places her palm and the vial over her heart. All her life, she wondered what her destiny could be, what talent she could hope to possess. She wondered what that burning power in her heart would lead to, and now everything is beginning to make sense. She may not be a painter or a singer or a violinist, but she is gifted in other ways. For the first time, she has a purpose. She has meaning. She has a future. But with that comes sacrifice.
“If I do this, I can never have a love of my own. How am I to continue the line? How did you come to bear a child?”
“You don’t need someone to love you to have a child,” Althea says.
“Well then, who is my grandfather?”
Althea stiffens with that same sad look in her eyes as if she is about to say something disappointing. “You don’t have one. Your mother was born from my own magic. And if you elect to have a child of your own, you can accomplish it in the same way. Easy as lemon drop pie.”
Marigold’s jaw falls to the floor. “I could be that powerful? I could create life?”
Her grandmother does not respond while Marigold paces and thinks. It’s a lot to take in all at once—the magic, the attack, the sudden and terrifying idea of one day having a child by herself. She finally returns to her grandmother’s side and says, “There were others there on the day of the attack. I remember a boy who was my age. What happened to him?”
Althea smiles. “August Owens. He still visits, albeit less than before. His father is a ship carpenter of great skill, and August travels with him to work. But when he’s not sailing, he lives in Lenox. It’s the town across the lake.”
“So he wasn’t harmed that day?” Marigold says with relief, and Althea nods.
“And I’m sure he would be thrilled to see you again,” Althea says, placing a spotted hand on Marigold’s knee. “You belong there, Marigold. You know this to be true.”
Marigold smiles but shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can leave Aster and Frankie. I’ll miss them terribly.”
“Once we strengthen the veil together, you may travel as you wish. There is a whole world out there that I would love for you to see,” Althea says.
“Mother will never allow this.”
“It is your life and it is your choice, Marigold. Completely your choice. Just because she chose a life of love and marriage does not mean you must. I beg you, darling,” she says as she grasps Marigold’s hands. “Put away all thoughts of anyone else’s expectations. Only you have the right to decide your own fate.”
A sense of empowerment blooms in her chest like nothing that Marigold has ever felt before. Suddenly before her there is so much freedom, and that is all she has ever wanted.
“I wish I could give you more time to think, but death is too close to wait.”
With one deep breath, Marigold’s decision is made. “Then let us be quick. I am ready to become a witch.”
Chapter Three
What her mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Well, that’s not entirely true. She’ll be furious when she finds out that Marigold and Althea did the ritual without speaking to her, but that is a problem for another hour. Now their focus is on sneaking off to Marigold’s meadow without a confrontation. Aster is in Marigold’s room packing her things for Innisfree. Frankie is leading the way, checking that each room is clear before they enter. Every step is a risk. Every click of a heel, every creak of a stair, could be their undoing. It’s not that her mother would be able to stop them completely, but she would do that thing that all mothers do where they stare for a very long time with their brows raised and jaw clenched until they get their way. Marigold has lost to that look many times before—when she tried to stay home from the last ball, when she asked to go back to Innisfree every summer, when she begged to know why her grandmother had disappeared from her life. She does not yet have the confidence to stand up to that look. Most people live their lives in the pursuit of happiness, but she accepted long ago that happiness was out of her reach. So she lived her life in pursuit of her mother’s happiness instead but still managed to fall short. No dress or hairstyle or poorly sung lullaby could ever change the fact that Marigold was meant for something more, something magical.
Frankie leads them around a corner, toward the small side exit in the kitchen. “Aster said that if she finds Mother before we’veescaped, she’ll pretend to faint so she can keep her distracted,” he says.
“She is quite theatrical,” Althea says.
Marigold laughs and says, “She was born for the stage, in every sense. That’s why she’s Mother’s favorite.”
“Hey!” Frankie whines.
“What? Aster is Mother’s favorite, and you’re Father’s favorite, and I’m—”
Suddenly, Frankie collides with a figure standing in the doorway: their father.
