Chapter Ten

Marigold continues her work in the months that pass, picking up right where her grandmother left off like an overture into a melody. She wrote a letter to her father to send word of her grandmother's passing—she did not have the strength to address the letter to her mother. They have not written or communicated in any way since she left Bardshire, and maybe her mother intends to keep it that way. She continued making seasonal brews until she was well stocked, and then she began playing with other curious concoctions. There are few customers at the moment. Mr. Benny says they are trying to give her time to grieve before asking too much of her. This allows her plenty of time to experiment. So far, she has made a spell to keep a fire safely burning through the night and one to make the entire house smell like fresh lemon.

Whenever the rare customer does come, she delivers a perfectly rehearsed monologue about her grandmother's passing. They are kind and caring, but they never linger. Some bring gifts to offer as condolences—pickled vegetables, eclectic teacups, and one man brought a handwoven blue blanket. This day marks four whole months since her grandmother's death. Marigold's grief moves with the seasons. It blooms and rots and shrinks and grows, and just like the winter, it cannot last forever. She becomes more and more confident in her role every day. With Mr. Benny's help, she has been rearranging the cottage to her liking, so there is even more room for guests, should she ever have any. It took her weeks to be able to return to her grandmother's former room, but when she did, it was not the same. Not only did Mr. Benny take care of her grandmother's burial, he also transformed the room into a completely different space. One that held no memories of grief. No remnants of death.

Now it is a library.

The walls are lined with shelves overflowing with Althea's books that were once shoved in random storage spaces throughout the cottage. There are books on almost everything imaginable—some classics, some fairy tales, endless romances, and of course, Althea's journals with spell-stained recipes inside. Her desk sits by the big bright windows. Against the center of a wall, flanked by two white bookshelves, is a new bed about half the size of the old one, made up with fresh linens. Everything is in its perfect place. Althea would have liked the look of it, though she may have complained about the bookshelves. Marigold can hear her now: "I had my books organized in my own way and I knew where everything was."

She finds herself scribbling at her desk when the idea strikes to write another letter home, though she has yet to hear back after the first.

Dear Aster,

I miss you dearly. I think you would quite like it here if you fancy a visit. Grandmother's old room is now a study and a library with a spare bed. I've set up the guest room with new bedding and fresh flowers. Of course, there would be different flowers by the time you got here. What is your favorite flower again?

I know you hate breakfast tea, but might I recommend adding both lavender and honey? You might enjoy it then, and it might soothe your throat should you ever find yourself trapped in one of Sir Kentworth's experimental operas. I've found it to be the perfect drink to calm down after a long day of work. Speaking of work, it is constant here, but it is lovely. I tend to the bees and the butterflies. I feel my magic strengthening with every use. And the customers I meet are always so kind.

Please write back and tell me everything you have been up to back home. Tell me of Frankie's antics and Father's latest paintings. And tell me of Mother. Is she still furious? Do NOT tell her that I asked.

I miss you. I know I already said that, but it is worth repeating.

All my love,

Marigold

She folds the letter and drops it into an envelope before sealing it with a beeswax crest. Mr. Benny will be the one to pick it up and send it off for her. He has been like the grandfather she never had, and she has yet to find the words to thank him for being in her life. He checks on her at least once a week when he brings food from the farm. They often have tea—Earl Grey with lavender syrup—and talk about Althea. Marigold spent years not knowing her grandmother, so hearing stories from someone who knew her feels like making up for the lost time. She would very much like a visit from August, ideally without his unpleasant boyfriend and his wicked redheaded friend. She can understand his infatuation with Edmund enough, for she is no stranger to falling for a self-important man. It is a wonder, though, that someone as kind as August could be such close friends with a woman like Lottie. Perhaps there is more to her than Marigold saw upon their first meeting, but first impressions are usually correct. Lottie is, more likely than not, mean.

A breeze flows through the open window and brings cold air into the cottage. As she walks toward it, she is taken aback by the sudden entrance of a small orange… thing.

No, not a thing—a cat. Not like Chesha, the spirit guardian. A real cat.

Her grandmother mentioned that she had a cat, a magically old cat of thirty years. He has retained most of his color, save for a bit of white around his nose. Now, she must remember its name…

Cindy? Moonshine? Nothing feels quite right, and her memory fails her. The orange cat approaches her and meows loudly when it realizes that she is not Althea.

"Hi, kitty kitty," she says, her voice shaky with nerves. "I'm Marigold. I'm your owner's granddaughter. Oh, well, I guess I am your owner now."

The cat does not respond because it cannot talk, which is a little disappointing. With so many other magical features of this land, it would not be impossible. But alas, the cat merely stares at her until it decides she is at least nice enough to sniff. Slowly, she pets the cat's head, and it nuzzles into her. Now that she is closer, she can see that the cat has a navy blue collar and a name tag.

"Cindershine!"

The cat happily meows at the sound of his own name. She sits in front of him and allows Cindershine to climb into her folded lap and purr as she continues to pet him.

"Aw, I like you, Cindershine. You're a good boy."

After a lengthy process of trial and error, she fashions a makeshift toy to entertain the cat. She spends longer than she intends playing with him, for she did not realize how lonely she has grown, and even this tiny company leaves a great impact. She makes vegetable stew for dinner and shares some with Cindershine as they dine by the fire. Most nights, after dinner, she goes out for a nighttime stroll. This time, Cindershine follows, and the two lightly pad down the snow-covered path and watch the sun melt into the lake. When darkness falls, she witnesses the newly lit stars and waits for messages. The world has been far too quiet as of late. At this point, she even misses the sounds she used to hate.

Slamming carriage doors.

Teaspoons tapping porcelain cups.

Her family calling her by the nickname she despises. What she would give to be Mari, for a moment.

But she is only Marigold, and she is alone.

"You know," she says to nothing and no one except the cat at her side, "I cannot remember the last time I went this long without a proper conversation with someone my own age. The customers are kind but always too quick to leave. At this point, I would settle for simply someone with whom to argue. Or some backtalk from the sky." She stands up on the edge of the dock. "Hello, spirits! Can any of you talk?"

There is a splash from the swan Odessa across the pond, a hiss from Talaya far behind her, and a nuzzle from Cindershine at her side, but there are no words from anyone or anything.

As she turns to go inside, she sees an eerily familiar sight—that small flicker across the lake, deep in the Hazelwood Forest. Her toes curl beneath her. Intuition tells her that something is wrong, but she remembers Althea expressed no need for worry. She returns to the cottage and goes to bed for the evening, hoping that her grandmother was right.