Chapter Eleven

Letters to and from Innisfree take far too long. It took over four weeks to hear back from Frankie, and spring buds are rising from the weakened frost by the time she finally receives word from Aster.

Dear Mari,

I miss you more! Do not argue with me about that, stubborn sister. I see you have forgotten my favorite flower. What else have you forgotten in our time apart? I shall remind you: My name is Aster Claude, I am your favorite sister, and my favorite flower is an azalea.

Regarding what I am up to, I am excited to tell you that I have taken a bit of interest in Mr. Woodrake. We met as Father was giving him a painting lesson. He later asked me to pose for a portrait. It was not the best, but not the worst. Hopefully, his skills will improve throughout our courtship. Maybe you could cast a spell to advance his talents when you visit! It's just a thought. I'm not quite sure what your new abilities entail but know that I am proud of you beyond measure.

I imagine it will be spring by the time you receive this letter. Since you have now been reminded of my favorite flower, I expect a pressed azalea with your response. We all miss you dearly and truly. Frankie is claiming to be uninterested in any courtship, but I think he lies. He is having a difficult time finding a connection with a gentleman, but I can tell that he longs for love. Father didn't paint for some time after you left, but he seems to be finding inspiration again as spring returns. We are eagerly awaiting your company and the tales of your adventures.

All my love,

Aster

PS You should write to Mother. She's not furious, but she has been awfully mopey since "the ordeal." (That's what we call it now: the ordeal. Mother didn't like Frankie's use of the term "spooky ritual.")

From what Marigold remembers, Mr. Woodrake is kind enough. He is years younger than her, so it's not as though she has ever spoken to him at length, but she trusts Aster's judgment. Poor Frankie, though. He has always been a romantic, ever since he was a child, but he has never courted anyone. He's awfully picky, but he should be. He's too good for most of the rakes in Bardshire who pursue heartbreak for the sake of art. Her eyes are falling over the last sentence when there is a knock at the door, and she has never been so excited at the sound. Anyone and anything would be better than pondering her mother. She runs to the door with the broadest grin she can muster and twists the handle.

And, because the universe has its own sense of humor, the person standing in her doorway with a red-lipped smile is June Fairmon. This time, she's with a tall ginger-haired man, so the lipstick must have worked.

"Oh, hi! Marigold, right?"

"Right," she says, forcing her smile to stay wide. An awkward pause stretches between them until June finally says, "May we come in?"

She laughs softly and motions for them to enter. "Of course, my apologies. And you must be Mr. Ayles," she says to the man on June's arm.

"Yes, I'm Lachlan. How did you know?"

"Call it a witch's intuition," she says in the same cadence that Althea often spoke, and she winks at June behind Lachlan's back.

"Lachlan and I got married! I'm June Ayles now!" June wraps her arms around Lachlan's waist, plants a bright red kiss on his cheek, and brings her hand up to his chin. "Look at my handsome cuddle duck."

"And my perfect little love dove," Lachlan says as he touches his nose to his new wife's. Marigold swallows to ease her nausea as she watches the couple. There was a time when she thought that the most annoying couples all hailed from Bardshire, but the new Mr. and Mrs. Ayles seem to be vying for the title of the most vexatious lovesick pair she has ever met.

"Congratulations," she says. She turns to close the door behind them and relishes the opportunity to roll her eyes.

"Where's Althea?" June asks as she peers into the living room.

The mention of her grandmother's name feels like a sudden pinprick. "Oh, June. You may want to sit down."

June gasps. "Did she—?"

She nods. "About eight months ago, right at the end of the summer."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" June wails as she wraps Marigold in a hug. She awkwardly returns the embrace and reminds herself that Althea would expect her to be polite.

"Thank you, June. I appreciate it," she says, though her voice is muffled by June's shoulder, into which her face is being smushed. June lets go so quickly that Marigold almost falls onto her chair, and June collapses into Lachlan's arms.

"My love, I am heartbroken by this news. Althea was a saint. A saint among us! What will this world do without the Honey Witch?"

Lachlan holds his wife, strokes her hair, and whispers comforting words in her ear. Something twists in Marigold's stomach as she watches them. It's not jealousy—the last thing she wants is a husband like that. Seeing their interactions makes her all the more grateful that she will never be in the position of being a wife. It looks like they are both putting on a constant performance for each other and the people around them. She cannot imagine a more exhausting task. However, she would not object to having long-term company. A companion. Someone who isn't just a customer. Someone, something, anything to feel a bit less lonely.

"Well, you have me as your Honey Witch now," she says.

June wipes the tears from her face and says, "But can you do all the wondrous things that Althea did? I don't mean to be rude, but Lachlan and I came here with quite an ask."

"June, be kind. We don't want to be turned away by our only hope," Lachlan scolds. While Marigold appreciates his defense of her, she fears that June may be right. She may love being a witch and have a natural inclination toward spellwork, but she is far from an expert. She has worried that every customer can see this and sense her lack of experience, but something about June's immediate assumption that she cannot manage a request inclines her to prove the woman wrong.

"I assure you, I will do all that I can. What do you require?"

Lachlan and June take a deep breath and say in unison, "We want a baby!"

She lifts her brows. "So soon?"

June crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, we've been married for three months now."

"Exactly," she says reflexively, and she hears her grandmother's voice in the back of her head saying that it is not her place to judge others, regardless of how nightmarish their choices may seem to her. "I mean to say: You want my help so soon? Surely you would wish to… you know… try on your own?"

Their smiles sink. "We have been," June says, her crossed arms tightening around her.

"Oh," Marigold says, immediately wishing she could undo the words she just said. "I'm so sorry; I was being rude and insensitive. I can absolutely help."

June's demeanor softens as Marigold turns to her kitchen and begins to gather ingredients for a potent fertility spell—acacia honey, dandelion seeds, cinnamon, rose essence, and basil. She grinds the dry ingredients into a powder, then adds them to the wet ingredients in a small jar. She twists the lid onto the jar and hands the spell to June.

"Put a little bit of this on your belly before bed, and keep trying."

The couple eagerly accepts the spell and says their polite goodbyes as they bow out of the door. She watches them through the window—Lachlan's hand on the small of June's back, the way their steps are in perfect time with each other, their excited kisses between every few steps.

Perhaps she is a bit jealous, or maybe this dull ache is something else. Her eyes focus on her reflection in the glass window. Her face surprises her because she thought she was scowling this whole time, but she's not—she simply looks sad. Flat eyes, frowny, frumpy. She should take a bath or at least go for a swim, but who does she need to freshen up for? Most of the people who come to her for aid are in far worse shape than this. Customers and proper company are two different things.

August did visit once before he left. He came by himself a few months ago in a handcrafted blue boat that he made with his father. He stayed for tea and expressed his sympathies for Althea's passing. He spoke of Edmund's poetic pursuits and how frustrated he has been with Lottie for mocking them, wounding Edmund's fragile ego. Marigold snickered at that. Maybe that would be something she and Lottie could one day bond over—a mutual hatred of bad poetry. Then, a few weeks later, Marigold went into town to see him off on his business trip. She brought a huge basketful of baked goods, a jar of black sage honey for healing, and a bunch of flowers from Innisfree that will never wilt. She saw Edmund there, who was feigning heartbreak and reciting insufferable sonnets about absence making the heart grow fonder and whatnot, but more notably, she saw Lottie. Her red hair looked aglow against the snowy backdrop, and her eyes matched the evergreens. Lottie was made for winter. Marigold could hardly take her eyes off of her, especially as August sailed out of sight. But then, Lottie started acting completely different, and not in a good way.

"I will miss him so much," Marigold said, and Lottie laughed in her face.

"You hardly know him."

Taken aback, she said, "We've known each other since we were children."

"No, you met when you were children, and then you stopped knowing each other because you left. You did not miss him for those fifteen years that you were gone, and you do not get to miss him now."

Edmund patted Lottie on the head and looked at Marigold. "The witch of the wood hath poked the fiery beast."

Lottie shoved his hand away. "I do not have to pretend to like either of you while August is gone. I came here to see him off, and I have done so." Without a goodbye, she left them both shivering by the sea.

Marigold replays that interaction over and over in her mind. Everything was fine as they waved goodbye to August, but she made the grave error of touching her shoulder to Lottie's. As soon as she got too close, Lottie made a face as if a monster had overtaken her. Marigold's touch repulsed the woman, which was both hurtful and embarrassing. She cringes when she thinks of it. What did she do that left Lottie so disgusted? Was Lottie simply that rude to everyone, or was Marigold that intensely unlikable?

Despite what Lottie said, she does miss August, and quite a bit. His visit to the cottage lasted for hours. They reveled in their nostalgia, finding old memories and making new ones. They have one of those friendships that always picks up where it leaves off, and they will do so once again when he returns. She has no doubts about that. She and August are forever. Unfortunately, the same can be said about August and Lottie, so they'll all have to find a way to get along someday. She has contemplated seeking Lottie out, confronting her until she admits that Marigold is actually quite nice, but that is a bad idea born out of pure loneliness. There is a better solution for that—a spell.

She opens her grimoire until she finds what she is looking for, but there is a significant problem; the spell to cure loneliness requires moonflower honey. It is challenging to create, even for a Honey Witch who can aid the bees in their search. Moonflowers are rare, blooming only in perfect conditions of cool air and a full moon. Even then, the blooms only last a night. The moon is set to be full tonight, so she must find where the moonflowers will bloom before the sun sets; otherwise, she will not be able to inform the bees.

She scours the lake isle. Without their white blooms, moonflower trees look like short, stubby pines that gave up on the idea of being tall. They are not the easiest things to spot, but still, she is having exceptionally bad luck. After hours of searching to no avail, she returns to the cottage, smelling of wet grass and metallic sweat. Heavy with defeat, she explores her spell book for a solution. Twenty pages later, she finds one—a finder's spell, able to locate anything from a lost hair ribbon to creatures that the rest of the world thinks are a myth. Its ingredients are simple: sage, clover honey, bellflower petals, and a white string. She still has more than a bouquet's worth of bellflower from her travels with her grandmother, and she pressed some of them to preserve the memory. In her kitchen, she mixes and muddles together the wet ingredients of the spell, and then she lightly dips the string in the solution until its white threads are rich with the pink dye from the bellflower petals. When the string emerges, she smiles as she holds it to the light.

"Lead me to a moonflower tree," she commands, and the string begins to move. It sways intentionally against the wind in a manner that would be impossible without the magic. She walks in the direction indicated by the string, and it leads her all the way down the stone pier. Her feet balance upon the edge, but the string indicates that the tree is farther away. It must require her to proceed through the lake, but to what end?

Odessa swims past her feet and urges her backward. She trusts the spirit much more than the string, and Odessa is warning her not to leave. In the Hazelwood Forest, the flicker from before remains, though it is stronger now. Marigold can see it directly. A sense of unease floods her body, effectively muting all feelings of loneliness with something much stronger—fear. Marigold returns inside, troubled, and recites her incantation of protection again. She also flips through the grimoire to find any other ingredient that may be useful for protection. With new knowledge, she salts each corner of the house and falls asleep with a sprig of rosemary in her clenched grip.