Chapter Nineteen

Tonight, for the first time, the curse is heavy. It tugs at Marigold's throat, wells in her eyes, and pinches her soft heart. No one can ever fall in love with her.

No one.

She thinks of Lottie, and how she warmed under the night sky. How they found each other in the pool, no barrier between them except water and want. How badly she wanted to find the courage to kiss her, to be one with her. To be… something impossible together.

August is the first to return, in a fresh sleeping gown and tousled hair. Mead fizzes in three colorful mugs that sit on the raw wood coffee table in front of the plush green couch.

"Well, that was interesting," he says as he sips his mead and looks at her through his dark lashes.

She clears her throat. "It was fun, wasn't it? There's a meadow near our estate that looks positively blue during a full moon. It was always such a gift to get to witness it."

"I would love to see that someday." He falls onto the sofa with a thud. "I must confess, Lottie never lets loose like that. I find her actions to be the most interesting occurrences of the evening." He takes another dramatic sip.

Blushing, she sips her mead to calm her mind. "Why is that?"

"You mean, why doesn't she ever let loose? Or, why is she only letting loose with you?" He smirks, but before she can protest, Lottie's footsteps sound from the hallway. She stands before them and assesses their position, wearing a nightdress that shows off her tattoos.

"What did I miss?" Lottie takes a seat next to Marigold, not August, and grabs her mead. The three of them continue to exchange awkward glances, each trying to have a conversation with someone else using only their eyes. The result is quiet chaos.

Lottie takes a sip. "This is lovely."

"Isn't it?" August says, gulping the rest of it down. "I've enjoyed it so much that I'm afraid I've outpaced you both, and I'm now feeling perfectly tired and relaxed. I shall retire for the evening and leave you two to chat." He stands to walk away and loses his balance slightly from drinking the mead too fast, and Marigold grasps his hand. It is not that she would not enjoy being alone with Lottie—far from it; it is that she knows Lottie cannot feel the same way, and therefore, it is unfair to both of them.

"Do stay," she says, her eyes pleading. August gives her a look of confusion, but he seems to recognize her discomfort.

"Maybe for a little while," he relents as he falls back into his seat. "Anyone up for a game?"

"Oh no, not one of your games." Lottie leans back onto the couch until she faces the ceiling, palming her forehead in frustration. "You know you are the only one who has fun during these."

"That's not true. You're just a sore loser," August says.

"What games are you talking about?" Marigold asks, and August gives a devilish smirk.

"One of my favorites is called Truth or Drink." He stands like a showman before an audience, taking the bottle of mead and refilling his cup. "We ask each other deeply invasive questions, and you can either answer truthfully, or"—he takes a big sip and leans in, whispering—"get very, very drunk."

The mead they're drinking is made from tupelo honey, so it's perfect for the occasion. After a few sips, everyone is much more likely to share their truths. Marigold giggles and says, "Let us begin!"

"Normally, I would object further to this," Lottie says, then sips her drink. "But this drink is divine."

August leans over the table and ruffles Lottie's wet hair. "Planning on drinking a lot, Lots?" He coughs in an attempt to hide a hiccup. "Why are you afraid of the truth?"

"I will bite your hand if you do that again," she says, smoothing out her hair. August chuckles.

"It's true," he says, turning to Marigold. "Lots gets quite bitey when she drinks."

"She's always bitey," Marigold jests.

"I am not!" Lottie says, pushing her shoulder softly. Her hand falls onto Marigold's for a few seconds, and their gazes meet, bleeding into each other like ink on paper. Lottie pulls back, bringing her hand to her forehead as her face contorts. She groans softly and rubs her temples.

August comes around the table and puts a hand on Lottie's back. "Headache already? You've barely had a drink."

"I'm fine. I just need a moment."

"I'll grab some medicine," Marigold says, starting to stand.

Lottie catches her wrist and pulls her back. "No, stay here. I am fine. I promise."

Marigold could melt into the palm of her hand if Lottie would stop pulling it away.

"Then we shall start the game! Marigold, you are the host, so you may ask the first question."

She taps her chin, narrowing her eyes as her gaze moves between the two. Who will she choose? What will she ask? She drinks, exhales sharply, and stands. "Okay, my dearest August, here is your question: Imagine that you are sitting across from a younger version of yourself. Five or six years old, back when we were kids together. You're there, little August is in front of you, and you get to tell him one lesson. One bout of wisdom to help him through all that is to come. What do you say?"

Lottie's eyes widen. "That's a good one."

Marigold is aglow with satisfaction.

August paces and stands in front of the crackling fireplace. After a moment of seemingly thoughtful contemplation, he says, "I think I would tell him that he will never be able to grow a real beard."

Marigold laughs, but Lottie points at him, her arm taut. "You're lying. You have a better answer. I can tell."

He tries to object, but Lottie's intimidating glare breaks him. He groans and says, "Damn you and your strange ability to get inside my head."

"Go on. What would you really say?" Marigold says.

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin until resting his hand over his heart. "I would tell him that the world is quite nice, but only if you know where to look. Friendships are harder to break than you think, and you will not outgrow the ones that are the most important. Heartbreak is inevitable, but so is healing, so don't be afraid to fall in love freely and often. And…" He pauses.

"You were only supposed to say one," Lottie says.

He plugs his ears. "Shh, I am having a moment of introspection. I think"—he closes his eyes—"I would tell him that the feeling he has when he's alone at night—that burning desire to see the whole wide world and take a bite of it—it never goes away. And I would say that I hope he grows up braver than me. Brave enough to follow that feeling, and do so alone if he must."

His words hit her like a gust of cold wind. Marigold blinks tightly. She knows that feeling well—she was brave enough to follow it all the way to Innisfree, but she did not do it alone. Perhaps she would not have been able to. It's one thing to go on adventures with someone older and wiser guiding the way, but to go out into the great big world alone?

She couldn't do it. She knows, deep in her bones, she couldn't. That's why she hasn't visited her family. She is too afraid to go alone.

August opens his eyes and clears his throat. "That's what I would say."

"What about your travels with your father on business? Does that do anything to scratch that itch?" Marigold asks.

Shaking his head, he says, "It's always the same routes, same ships, same people. And like you said, it's always business." He paces, hands in his hair. "I want to see art. Music! Food! Culture!"

"I think you should," Lottie says, finishing her drink and refilling her cup. "Selfishly, I admit that I hate when you are away. But, because I love you and I know you better than I know myself, I think you should go somewhere. Love someone. Chase something. You can do that, August. I know you can."

He smiles softly, like he knows that it won't happen. "Maybe I will."

"You will," she says.

He sits on the floor across from the couch. "Here's your question, Lots: Why are you so adamant about not believing in magic?"

Oh yes.Marigold would give anything to know the answer to this.

"I choose to drink," she says, downing her cup.

He throws his hands up. "Oh, come now! Why is that so hard to answer?"

She swallows hard. "Because it is sad."

"You can be sad here. It's a good place to be sad," Marigold says, smiling softly.

She gestures to her empty cup. "But I have already drunk. It's against the rules to answer now."

Marigold takes the bottle from the table, refills the cup, and whispers, "We won't tell anyone."

The moment stretches and thins, threatening to disappear until Lottie sighs. "Fine."

Marigold leans in, perfectly silent, barely breathing.

"I do not believe in magic because my mother believed in magic, and now she's dead. If magic was real, she would be alive, and I would have had a life with her and my father." She picks at her nails, her pointer finger sliding up her hand and tracing a faint scar. "I would have happy memories with them. A story of us that I could share with people. I would have had a real birthday. I imagine my mother would have given me something to cherish—a necklace or a hair ribbon or something—and I would still have it today. And I would fidget with it constantly and say things like, ‘Oh, this? My mother gave it to me ages ago,' and I would smile. But I have none of that. And so, I do not believe in magic."

Marigold has heard, over the years, many people share their disbelief of anything whimsical.

It's all charlatanism, smoke and mirrors.

"Folklore is born only from the mind of a poet. It is all our imagination," George once said.

Those people, their skepticism is born out of the fear that something could be more powerful than what they can create. Lottie, though, she's different. She is not afraid of magic. She is angry with it.

"I understand," Marigold says.

"Do you?"

"I think I do. I think you are allowed to be angry. Perhaps that is the consolation for such a loss—you can be angry forever if you want. No one can ask you to move on from that. It's like asking…" She stumbles over her words, her drink sloshing in her hand. "Oh, I can hardly be coherent. But it's like asking the skies to stop holding rain clouds because they're too heavy. It can't be done. It doesn't matter how hard it is to carry; that grief cannot be let go."

Lottie is frozen still.

Oh, dammit.Did she say the wrong thing? Again? She always says the wrong thing to Lottie. But Lottie does not run or scowl. She smiles, nods softly, and sinks back into the sofa.

"Yes. That's how it is. That is how I grieve."

"You never told me that," August says, reaching across the table and offering his hand to her.

"I never want to seem ungrateful for you or your family or all that you have given me. I love you, but I simply—"

"You do not have to explain," he says, squeezing her hand. "Grief is often too strange and too vast to fit into words."

Lottie nods. Her eyes turn glassy, but she blinks that away.

"Do you have any other family? Did you ever go looking?" Marigold asks.

"My mother instilled a great fear of our family in me." Lottie gulps down her drink. "She said we were made of bad blood, and we could only outrun it if we never looked back," she says sternly, followed by an incredulous laugh. "I don't know why, but I believed her. Besides," she says, leaning her head toward August, "the best family in the world found me. Why would I want for anyone else?"

"Aw, we love you, Lots," August says softly. His words make Lottie's cheeks flush.

Marigold cannot stop herself from saying, "You are good. You have nothing to outrun."

A small gasp escapes Lottie's lips, and she fights against a slight smile. Marigold smiles back.

"Well, that's my answer," Lottie says, clearing her throat. "I think it's your turn to be asked, Marigold."

"Oh, right," she says.

"My question for you is: Why are you alone?"

Her lips part as she straightens her posture. "I'm not alone. I'm here with the two of you."

"You know what I mean. We're guests. Customers. We're not constants in your life."

Each word is a knife wound. A blade to her heart, her stomach, her ribs.

Lottie's gaze does not leave her when she says, "What about when we're gone?"

That sentence is a blade across her throat. She is bleeding down her dress, into the fabric of the couch, watching it drip onto the floor, tap tap tapping like raindrops.

"When you are gone," she says, her voice hardly a whisper, "I will be lonely again."

"What will you do about it?" Lottie asks.

She leans against the couch, nearly bloodless. "Nothing. I can do nothing about it."

"Don't you want someone to share your life with here?"

"It doesn't matter," she says quickly, and Lottie is taken aback.

She twists her body, closing herself off from the others.

August leans forward. "Marigold? What is it?"

Her gaze is now fixed on Lottie. "Promise me to keep any comments of disbelief to yourself, else I will forgo my truth and drink instead."

Lottie nods slowly.

"I am cursed so that no one can ever fall in love with me. I will always be alone."

The room goes uncomfortably quiet. Even the fire stops crackling for a moment.

"It's a curse upon all Honey Witches in our family line," she continues. "One that my grandmother was under as well. No one can ever fall in love with me." There is a heavy silence that allows the crickets to sing for what feels like an eternity.

"How could that even work?" Lottie says, slurring slightly.

"It's as simple as it sounds. No one will ever have feelings of true love for me. I will always be alone in that way."

Disbelief flickers in Lottie's narrowing eyes. She opens her mouth to further protest, but August cuts her off as he says, "Oh my, Marigold. That's horrible. Is there a way to break it?"

"No," she says, her jaw clenched. "At the time, I had no qualms with accepting the curse. I wanted to run away from that life, from the balls and the courtships and the life of being a wife. I thought that maybe it was because I was always meant to be a Honey Witch, and my intuition knew that love wasn't for me."

"And do you still think that now?" Lottie asks, quickly and quietly.

She turns so their eyes meet. "Of course." It feels like a lie in her mouth. "It would be a truly sad fate if I were to change my mind, because it is too late. It is far too late for me." She throws the rest of her mead down her throat and refills the mug. Lottie does the same and then reaches for the whole bottle, taking a giant gulp before setting it down and placing her hand to the right of Marigold's. Their fingers are barely touching, until Lottie moves her hand just enough so that they are intertwined.

"I…" Lottie says, and Marigold's head turns sharply toward her.

"Don't believe me? I know," she says curtly.

Her pulse thunders where Lottie's fingers meet hers. Lottie seems to lean closer, her eyes on Marigold's lips, but that must be a drunken loss of balance. Marigold pulls her hand away and pushes her wet hair behind her ear.

"I do not know what to say," Lottie says.

"Then say nothing." She does not wish to talk about it anymore anyway. It hurts. It stings.

August reaches across the table and opens his hand for her. "How can I help you, Marigold? What can I do?"

She sits up, placing her hand in his. "Always be generous with your company, and never stop asking me for help. It is all I can give."

The quiet air grows heavy and blankets over them. The mead is all gone. It is the middle of the night. Marigold is seconds away from crashing into herself, physically and emotionally spent.

August stands and stretches up high. He could touch the ceiling if he really wanted to. "My dearest friends, I am sufficiently drunk and I must go to bed, else I'll be insufferable in the morning."

"More than you already are?" Lottie says, and he shoves her shoulder.

"One day, you are going to meet someone who is a worthy opponent to your wicked mouth." He looks to Marigold, eyes lingering. She's too tired and too drunk to ask why. When he leaves the room, Lottie and Marigold are alone.

And it is so incredibly awkward. The room is spinning and everything is too hot. She is using the last of her energy to contain her imminent hiccups.

"So…" she says, trying to escape the silence. The word drags on longer than she intended.

"So?" Lottie replies, offering no small talk or pleasantries. She does, however, inch slightly closer to her so their legs are touching.

Marigold almost moves her hand to Lottie's thigh—she cannot help the urge. This woman is a magnet for her touch, but she catches herself and lays her hand back in her own lap.

"So… what did you think about when you screamed your heart out? What were you letting go of?"

Lottie stiffens. "That's what you want to talk about right now?"

"Um…" Marigold says, clearing her throat. "What else should we talk about?"

Their faces are so close. Closer, closer, closer still. Her heart throbs so much that it aches.

"Can I…?" Lottie says, staring at her lips.

Before she has the chance to react, Lottie shuts her eyes tightly and braces her head with her hands. "Agh, dammit."

Marigold pulls back, breathing fast and deep. "Headache again?"

Lottie nods without looking up.

"Will you please let me give you something for it this time?"

Lottie nods again. It must be great pain if she is finally willing to try a magical solution.

She runs to the kitchen and quickly brews a cup of chamomile tea, flavored with lavender and a healthy spoonful of black sage honey. By the time she brings it over, Lottie seems fine.

"I do not understand these headaches. I've never had them before, and they only last for a moment."

"Well, I cannot speak for every headache, but this one is likely because you are drunk."

"We're both drunk."

She hands the cup to Lottie. "We are."

There is a pregnant pause. Lottie starts to reach for her hand. "And we were just…"

"Talking," Marigold interrupts, stiffening her hand at her side. "We were simply talking. And now we are going to bed."

Lottie shifts, then stands. "I suppose we have done enough soul sharing tonight. I'll see you in the morning." She turns to leave, and Marigold's gaze cannot let go of her until she enters her room and closes the door.

Marigold cannot sleep, so she lies still in the small bed of wildflowers close to her bedroom window. The isle in daytime is always alive with bright green grass and golden sunlight cracking through the sky as if it were made of glass. Even at night, when the moon leaves the sun speechless, the jewel-like stars consume the night. Cindershine is nearby, meowing about something unseen. The air smells of honey and forthcoming rain. She picks a flower by her eye and starts plucking away at the petals.

She loves me not.

She loves me not.

She loves me not.

Plucking petals is a bore when there is only one possible outcome. She tosses the stem and sits up with a sigh. Cindershine's meowing grows stronger, and there is a sudden change in the air. It's souring with scents of salt and smoke, tinted a sickly yellow that licks the corners of the evening. Marigold jumps up and turns to see smoke billowing from the other side of the isle. Cindershine is running away as the smoke grows stronger. She tries to run forward, but her feet do not move. The fire spreads, consuming the edge of the apiary and reaching for the cottage.

It is Versa. It must be.

She has worked to remember the first time the Ash Witch attacked her, but the one thing she could never quite recall, the thing that rested on the tip of her tongue that she could never fully taste, was the fear. What did it feel like to be so close to the flame, to certain death? She can see that day as clearly as a painting in her mind. She sees her grandmother's determination, her mother's terror, and her own vulnerability. How easily she could have been killed that day, how close Innisfree came to absolute destruction. She could see it, but now she feels it—the shock, the heart-stopping dread, the absolute bone-deep knowing that this is where it stops, this is how it ends.

She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. She is frozen, either by magic or panic, she cannot tell. Too powerless to defend, too weak to even move from her position.

Something heavy collides with her chest. She looks down and sees nothing there, only the grass at her feet, but the weight and warmth on her skin say otherwise. Her arms feel full of lead and she can barely lift them up, but she brings her hands to her chest and feels something soft. Taking a deep breath, she shuts her eyes tightly and tries to scream again. The sound rips through her throat like a creature with claws, and it tastes of blood. When she opens her eyes, the horrors dissipate, and the walls of her room form around her. She is in bed, screaming, with Cindershine in her grip. The world is as it was before she unknowingly fell asleep.

She relaxes her grip on her cat and opens the small window at her side, inhaling deeply—no scent of burning in the air. No yellow smoke billowing through. All is quiet, save for the echo of her scream. Her heartbeat is slowly settling into a normal rhythm. She runs her hands along her bedding, letting the softness remind her that she is safe in her own room. Bad things can't happen to people in comfy beds.

Sounds of movement—rustling in the bushes, splashes in the water, stepping over sticks—drift through the window. Normally, Marigold would take comfort in this, presuming it to be the music of wild things. But now, after the nightmare, she cannot let the noises go unchecked. Pulling on a dressing gown and lighting a candle, she silently slips through the cottage's front door. The air is calm and clear, but she is not alone—footsteps sound from her left. With her candlelight guiding her path, she approaches slowly, careful to keep her steps quiet. The flame pulses in time with her heart. The glow illuminates the trees, then the beehives, then an open sky. Nothing out of the ordinary—yet. She pushes onward toward the edge of the isle where the fire of her nightmare began.

There, there is movement. A shadow skirting the brink, each step louder than the last as it comes closer. An outline emerges from the shapeless form. It's a person, a woman. The candlelight bounces off her bright red curls and illuminates her sleepy green eyes.

It's Lottie. She walks right past Marigold, moving in a wakeless daze.

"Lottie?" she calls after her, but the woman does not turn. Marigold catches up to her and walks by her side. "Lottie, you're dreaming. You must wake up."

Her words go unheard, and Lottie maintains her stride.

Marigold stands in front of her and says, "Stop!"

Lottie moves to sidestep her, so she grabs her hand, noting that it is warm and sticky. "Wake up!"

Marigold's touch seems to work. Startled awake, Lottie gasps, jerking her hand out of Marigold's grasp and bringing it to her chest. She looks around in a panic, finds the light of the candle, and finally meets her concerned gaze. "What are you doing?" Lottie says.

Marigold's brows pinch together. "I had a nightmare and woke up to strange noises coming from outside. What were you doing out here?"

Lottie shakes her head. "I was having a nightmare, too."

"What did you see?" The candlelight pulses, punctuating the silence.

Lottie eyes the flame and shudders. "Fire."

She inhales sharply through her nose. "Me too." She takes hold of Lottie's hand again. "Why is your hand sticky?"

Lottie pulls back and holds her hand up to her face, spreading her fingers apart over and over again, noticing the tacky pull against her skin. "I don't know." She puts her pointer finger in her mouth, tasting it slowly. "It's honey," she says, confused.

Marigold cants her head. "Were you in the apiary?"

"I guess so," Lottie says while shaking her head. "I truly do not remember."

Again, Marigold reaches for her hand, saying, "Let us return to the cottage. We both deserve rest."

Lottie is staring at her so intently, flitting her gaze between Marigold's eyes and her waiting hand. "I don't know if I can sleep alone." Her voice trembles.

Marigold's spine goes taut. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Lottie says quickly. "I'll be fine."

"No," Marigold says, unable to withhold her honesty or her desire to stay close. "I won't be able to sleep alone either. So, come with me. Stay with me," she says, bringing her open hand closer. This time, Lottie relents. Her hand sits in Marigold's palm for the first few steps toward the cottage until she pulls away again, shuddering like a fevered child.

"Never mind. I feel like I'm going to be sick," she says sharply as if it is Marigold's fault. Lottie dashes into the cottage by herself, leaving her standing alone in the frigid night air.

The wind blows out her candle, carrying nothing but the hums of innumerable bees.