Chapter Two

Marigold runs until she trips over a rogue tree root that has curled up out of the earth, and the hem of her dress sinks into the muddy ground. As she kneels in the grass, far away from the rest of the world, she is finally at peace. No suitors, no expectations, no one here but the stars and the trees.

She takes off her shoes and her stockings and lets the grass tickle between her toes. Breathing in the scent of an impending storm, she knows she must hurry if she is to reach the meadow before the first rainfall. She undoes her fanciful updo and lets her hair fall down her back. Her brows sink when the tension is released, and she scrunches her face to wake up the muscles that were pulled tight through the evening. Picking herself up, she gathers her shoes and stockings and the bottom of her dress into her arms and runs again. Her feet have carried her over this path countless times, and now they recognize their surroundings. This feels like home—the wet ground her bed, the breeze her blanket. The trees begin to thin until there are none left, only an open meadow, begging her to center herself inside of it. She runs until she is directly beneath the moon, its blue light shining down on her like a guide to another world. She would gladly follow this path of light, if only she knew how.

Her brow furrows as she strains to see through the darkness that separates the trees. Nothing yet, but soon. Once a month, on the full moon, she receives a visitation.

Perhaps she is imagining it all, and her visions are merely a manifestation of her desperation to feel special. If that is the case, then so be it. Her mother loves to remind her of her age, as if it is a reason to stop believing in magic. She rolls her eyes at the thought—yes, she is a grown woman, and is that not magical in itself? To have survived this long, despite the world's penchant for beautiful dead girls? Marigold has grown up surrounded by the poets who propel the narrative—how romantic to die young, unstretched, unsullied, without ever outgrowing the part of the ingenue. But what happens when the girl keeps living, when she ages proudly and defiantly, without abandoning imagination, or stories, or that secret wish to find magic wherever it hides?

Well, then the poets would call her a witch.

It is better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped in a dim reality. Still, there must be some truth to what she sees, some explanation beyond wistful yearning. This meadow is the only place where she can conjure that feeling of belonging that she once felt during those Innisfree summers before it all went dark.

Like her grandmother, Marigold's heart belongs to the wilder world. It is as if she is an extension of nature, a season of herself—summer, winter, spring, autumn, and Marigold Claude. When they were children, Marigold had hoped Aster or Frankie would understand her strange visions, her undying need to be out in nature, but she has always been alone. Her sister used to tease her and say she was making up magical stories to feel better about not being able to sing. All she knows for sure is that she feels more connected to the characters in her grandmother's folktales than to the people around her because no one else in Bardshire believes in magic.

At her back, between the tallest trees, there is a light blue glow. The light reaches her hair and prompts her to turn around.

"There you are." She smiles as she walks forward. Close enough to tickle her nose is a large butterfly with an aura of bright blue starlight. She pulls the sticky honey cake from the reticule and offers it to the creature. It lands on top of the dessert and uncurls its ribbony tongue to lick the honey from the top. As it eats, its light glows brighter.

"Whatever you are, you sure love honey." This is the creature that Marigold has felt connected to ever since she was a young child. On the nights of full moons, she would feel this relentless call from the woods, and an insatiable desire to answer. The first summer in which they did not travel to Innisfree, she found a way to sneak out of their estate and follow the feeling that tugged at her heart. She met the creature she came to call Lunasia, and ever since, she has thought herself able to speak the language of wild things that no one else can hear.

Tonight, Lunasia seems to flash and buzz with energy. The clouds dance between them, weaving in and out like ribbons between Marigold's shiny blond curls. When Lunasia moves, the clouds move with her and transform into thin wisps of light. Sparks fall around her like lightning bugs. Marigold watches the world glow, and the message seems clear: A new era is dawning. A new life is beginning. Maybe a new love is coming.

This thought sends Marigold into a mild panic as she wonders if the message could mean that she is to be married. Perhaps Mr. Notley may call on her the next morning. They may promenade for all to see. He may ask for her hand in front of the crowd, and in the eyes of everyone else, they will be a perfect pair—of course the worst dancers in Bardshire are meant for each other. She would finally live up to everyone's expectations. To be a wife, and then to become a mother soon after. It all sounds too… stifling. There would be no more running off through the garden at night. She would miss every blue moon from here on out. Every moment of her time would belong to someone else, and she would never again be alone here in the heart of the meadow.

Her mother would be thrilled, of course. There were days after George left her that she thought her mother might have been even more heartbroken than she was. The image of him proposing to Priya flashes in her mind, though it doesn't sting as much as she thought it might. George was right to leave her. They got along fine, sure, but that was not why she cared for him so much. He was widely wanted, with his good looks, remarkable talent, and extravagant wealth. And he chose her. He made everyone else be kind to her for the first time. He quieted those who had always teased her. But it didn't last. Soon, he saw her for what she truly was—strange. And when he left her, it confirmed to everyone that she did not belong. She agrees, of course, but what now? What else can she expect for her life? She is growing older. She cannot continue to live with her parents, sneaking into the meadow at night, seemingly working toward absolutely nothing. That will not do—not for Marigold and not for the rest of her family. She must do something. And what is there to do for a talentless young lady in Bardshire, other than become a wife?

But this is precisely why she prefers to be alone now. No one would ever understand that the wilder world speaks to her, or how she sees visions in the ripples of the sea, or how she always knows when it is going to storm, days before it happens. She could never explain how she invariably can create the perfect kitchen-made cure to any ailment, or how her dreams have a miraculous way of coming true. No one here could ever believe any magical gifts to be real, and she cannot stand the idea of being called a liar or, worse, a charlatan.

After seeing the message of the stars on this night, Marigold feels the walls rising around her. She senses the sky lowering itself onto her shoulders. She may be leaving Marigold Claude in this meadow and emerging as the soon-to-be Lady Notley. The name feels wrong to even imagine, like stuffing herself into Aster's awful lavender dress from last season.

Rain comes slowly. The first drops fall down Marigold's skin, exploring the soft edges of her body. She dances through the mist until the weight of it compels her to lie down in the grass. She stays in the meadow until the sun begins to reach through the trees in the soft beginning of morning. She imagines the weight of a ring on her finger. It is too heavy, too cold, too tight. Sleep does not come to her—she cannot waste this time with sleep. She wants to savor every second she has to herself. She memorizes the exact shade of blue of the moon. She counts the blades of grass in her hair. She wishes upon the dandelions that pepper the meadow.

And now it is time to return home and face whatever future awaits her there.

She strolls through the rain-soaked woods and walks in time with the rising sun. Lunasia follows Marigold for as long as she can, but she begins to fade toward the edge of the tree line. Her home starts to emerge in the distance, complete with the flourishing gardens featured in her father's paintings, and she sees something that makes her heart sink. The sky above her house burns red. She turns to find Lunasia glowing with that same ominous aura. The rest of the sky remains bright and clear. Another message—this time, Marigold is entirely unsure what it means, but she knows that it is not good. She runs onto the grounds of her home to the small side entrance and sneaks inside, following the distant sound of a heated argument. As she walks through the estate and comes closer to the sound, she recognizes her mother's voice.

"How dare you," her mother says, her words as sharp as a needle. "I am the one who has protected her. I have always protected her, above everything else."

"You speak of this great protection and yet you do not even know where she is right now, Raina," says the voice of an older woman. Marigold stiffens. No one ever calls her mother by her first name, except…

Marigold's grandmother.

With even more care, she tiptoes toward the sitting room with her ear pressed against the door.

"I saved her that day. I did. By myself, without magic," her mother says.

"And since that day, I have worked tirelessly to make Innisfree safe again, but I cannot keep doing it alone. You must let her make her own decision. I gave you a choice. She is owed the same."

"No. There is no choice to be made here. Your life and your world are dangerous. I will not allow you to take her. It's cruel and it's selfish."

"What's cruel and selfish is the fact that you are not willing to let her find her own fate."

"The fate that you speak of is death."

Marigold gasps louder than she meant to. Maybe they didn't hear it? Seconds tick by. She hears her mother's footsteps approaching. It's too late to hide. Her mother opens the door swiftly, finding Marigold crouched behind it, frozen and unsure. She's never been caught sneaking out before. Her father keeps her mother distracted for the evening, and she always comes home before sunrise.

Her mother's brown eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and her blond hair is a tangled mess. She is still in her green gown from the ball, but the shoulders are sagging and the ribbons at the back are coming undone. She pulls Marigold into a punishing embrace.

"Where have you been?"

Marigold peers over her mother's shoulder and meets her grandmother's gaze. Althea is sitting on the plush couch, her small and spotted hands placed neatly in her lap. She smiles, pushing against the tension of the well-earned wrinkles around her mouth. It's been years since they last saw each other, but she never forgot the warmth of her grandmother's face. They have the same eyes—amber brown speckled with gold.

"Answer me," her mother commands, her voice desperate and angry.

"The meadow," she whispers, as if that will be enough to satisfy her mother's raging curiosity.

"What meadow? Were you with someone? Sneaking off with Thomas Notley?"

She scoffs and says, "Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I was… alone."

"Would it have anything to do with the full moon?" Althea says from across the room.

Her mother turns her head and says, "Do not speak to her about such things. I want no more words from you."

"Mother," Marigold gasps. She has never heard her mother speak so rudely, and to her own mother, no less. It is beyond shocking, especially considering that Althea is correct. Marigold turns to her grandmother and says, "How did you know?"

"Because we are the same, you and I," she says as she begins to stand, smoothing out her rose-colored dress. Her mother turns her back to Marigold and extends her arms as if shielding her from Althea.

"Stop this! Stop this at once, Mother. I mean it. You are not to come near my daughter."

"Your daughter is a grown woman. You cannot keep her from her destiny, and you cannot keep her from speaking with me if she wishes to," she says as she leans to the side to meet Marigold's gaze. "And I hope that you do wish to speak, Marigold. It is time for you to know the whole truth. You should have known years ago."

"Marigold, go to your room," her mother says over her shoulder.

"I want to hear what Grandmother has to say."

Her mother's head whips around to face her. She can see the hurt in her mother's eyes, but she is not willing to let anything stand between her and the truth.

Not anymore.

She steps out from behind her mother and hurries to sit beside her grandmother. "I have been kept in the dark my whole life, and it has been killing me. Please, tell me the truth."

"First, tell me where you went. Tell me what you saw," Althea says hurriedly.

"She is not like you, Mother," her mother yells. "She does not see what you see."

With a deep breath, Marigold focuses her gaze on the floor. "I do see things, and you know that, Mother. I've asked you so many times for so many years to explain it, and you have refused. So, I had to figure things out another way."

Her mother raises her brows. "What is that supposed to mean? What do you think you've figured out?"

"I've been sneaking out once a month to speak with them. Last night was no exception. There is a creature alive in the meadow, and…"

"A spirit? Something that resembles an animal of some kind but clearly isn't?" Althea says plainly, and Marigold searches for words before she responds.

Marigold nods and says, "I also saw something as I came home. Red light spilling from the sky over our estate. It felt like a warning of some kind."

"The second omen," her grandmother says under her breath.

"If this is true," her mother interrupts, "how have you managed to hide it from me?"

She chews on her lower lip for a moment before she decides to tell the truth. There is no use hiding it any longer—not when she's standing before her mother in a mud-stained dress.

"Father knows. He's always known."

Her mother places her hand over her heart. "Impossible. He would never keep that from me. He loves me."

She glares at her. "Love has nothing to do with it. You are no stranger to keeping secrets from people you love."

"Oh, Mari," she says with a wobbly voice. "There is so much you don't know. So much you don't understand. So much pain from which I have spared you!"

"Spared me?" she yells as she stands. "I have been dying here. I have felt completely alone, hopelessly waiting for anyone to make me feel normal. Nothing that you have kept from me could be worse than this."

A tear slips down her mother's face, but she wipes it away quickly. "You are wrong, Marigold. You are not dying here. In fact, staying here is the only thing that has kept you alive."

Confused, she looks between her mother and grandmother, hoping to find some understanding.

Her mother wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and says, "I don't even know where to begin to explain all this. I shouldn't have to." She glares at Althea. "You should never have come here."

"I had to, and you know that, Raina. You also know that Marigold is not a normal girl, and keeping the truth from her is doing more harm than good."

"Oh, please," her mother says as she rolls her eyes and regards Althea with disgust. "You do not care about what is best for her, otherwise you would not be here right now. The last time we saw each other was the worst day of our lives. You almost got my daughter killed!"

Desperate for answers, Marigold interrupts and says, "During the storm? All I remember from that day is watching the world turn black."

"It wasn't a storm. It was an attack," her grandmother says.

"And you were the target," her mother wails. "Your grandmother seems to have forgotten that."

Althea turns to her daughter and says, "As I explained to you as soon as I arrived, Innisfree has been safe for over a decade now."

"But now you need my daughter to risk her life, again, in order to keep it that way? That's not safe, Mother. Far from it."

"Who was trying to kill me?" Marigold interrupts loudly.

Her mother and grandmother stare at each other for a moment before her grandmother says, "Would you like to tell her, or shall I?"

"Do not ask me to relive that day."

Her mother starts to leave the room. She hangs her head for a moment before looking at Marigold. "I have done nothing but protect you. And I do not want to stop protecting you. But if you won't let me, if you don't trust me, there is nothing I can do." Another tear slips. This time, she lets it fall before walking out of the room. Her mother is no stranger to dramatics, but the pain in her eyes looks real and sharp. Marigold is tempted to follow her, but she stops herself. Too many questions have haunted her for too long. And now the answers stand before her.

She sits next to her grandmother and says, "I've missed you so much." Her voice wobbles as her emotions catch her by surprise. She feels like a child again—small, curious, and safe.

"I've missed you more," her grandmother says, and that does it—Marigold surrenders to her tears as she hugs her grandmother tighter than is probably safe for a woman of Althea's age. Her grandmother strokes Marigold's dark blond hair until she catches her breath.

Marigold sits up straight and wipes her face before taking her grandmother's hands in her own. "What happened that day?"

"Our story begins long before that day. Before you, or your mother, or I was ever born. It starts with power, and the endless struggle to keep it."

"What power?"

"We are witches, darling. Every eldest daughter in our lineage is a witch, including you."

Her heart races, beating the breath out of her body. This is it—what she has always felt, always known to be true, that she is not strange or bad or broken as she has been made to feel. New realizations click together in her mind like heavy locks and spindly keys. She places her palm on her chest. "Even Mother?"

"She was. Until she gave up her magic."

Her eyes widen. "Why would she do that? Why would anyone ever do such a thing?" She can think of nothing that could make her give it all up, especially not for a life in Bardshire.

"Love," her grandmother says with a resigned smile. "Our line is cursed, Marigold. For us, love and power are opposing forces. We must forsake one for the other."

"So Mother chose love, but you did not?" Wise choice. Love is a burden. It doesn't work for wild women.

Althea has a solemn look about her as she shakes her head. "I did not get a choice. Our line has always been witches, but the curse began fifty years ago with me and the woman who tried to harm you the last time you came to Innisfree."

That sentence heavies the air. Marigold closes her eyes and remembers the storm, now with the knowledge that it was no storm at all. Everything begins to sharpen. She sees the cottage window and recognizes the darkness spilling inside; not clouds, but smoke. Not rain, but ash. Not lightning, but flames. And in the center of it all is not a cyclone—it is a woman with flaming curly red hair.

"Who?" she asks.

"To understand who she is, you must first understand the nature of our power. We're called Honey Witches. Our magic comes from working with the bees to create enchanted honey. We also use flowers, herbs, and spices for our spells. But it is the nature of the universe to have an equal opposite to every force. Fire is the opposite of water. Air is the opposite of earth, and…" she says as she pulls a vial of warm golden honey from her pocket, "the opposite of honey is ash. So where there are Honey Witches, there are…"

She leans in. "Ash Witches?"

"Precisely. And anything that we would utilize, they must burn first before it is of any use to them. So, as you can imagine, Innisfree is of great importance to both of us. It is a land ripe with power and all the ingredients that any witch could ever need, and it is also rich with life." She looks at her hands in her lap, turning them over and counting the age spots like they are annual rings of a tree. "It has granted me over a century."

Marigold's jaw drops as she takes Althea's hand in hers. "How is that possible?"

"It is sacred land. It cares for those who tend to it. There are hundreds of enchanted places like it, tucked in every corner of the world. Honey and Ash Witches are born to protect them. I have only ever used Innisfree's blessings to help and heal others, but my counterpart, Versa, could not say the same. She believed that if we hoarded our power for ourselves, we could use the isle's magic to grant ourselves immortality," Althea says, scowling in disgust.

"And you didn't want that? Why?"

Althea pauses, pinching her brows. "Because it is selfish, Marigold. Ash Witches are meant to clear away the rot of death, to bring warmth to people. Honey Witches tend to new growth in the wake of fire, to help life rise from the ashes. Versa selfishly betrayed all the work we were meant to do together." Althea's knuckles turn white as she tightens her fist. She clenches her jaw. "A life spent on only the pursuit of power is not worthy of eternity. I would not let her take my purpose from me. Not without a fight. And trust that I gave everything I had in order to win." She smiles, though there is something else behind her eyes. A memory, a loss, a sadness of some sort. "That is where the curse began. If she couldn't defeat me, maybe she could outlive my line so that, one day, there would be no one to stop her. She cursed us to never have anyone fall in love with us in an attempt to end us. But it didn't work, of course. I had Raina without love, and then she forsook magic and the curse altogether."

Realization washes over her. "That's why she came that day. To end the line. To end… me." Panic rises in her chest and surges through her blood, causing sharp tingles in her palms and fingertips. No wonder her mother never let her return.

"After Raina's choice, we did not know if her first daughter would have magic. We truly thought it may have ended with her." Althea holds Marigold's cheek and tucks a hair behind her ear. "But here you are, honey-eyed and more powerful than I could have ever imagined."

Her heart warms as she looks into Althea's eyes, but something isn't right. She stands and paces around the room, running her dirty fingers through her hair.

"Why didn't you come here, Grandmother? Fifteen years without a visit, without telling me the truth of what we are."

"Your mother would not permit it, and I respected her wishes. I understood, and still do, why she did not want you to know."

"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."