Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Marigold wakes up the next morning, she dresses faster than she ever has before and hastens to Lottie's room to get them both prepared for the modiste. She slowly opens the door and pokes her head inside.

"Lottie?"

No answer.

She walks in to find the bed empty and seemingly untouched. Did Lottie run away? She opens the curtains to let in more light and investigates the room. Lottie's things are still here—that's a relief.

"Lottie? Hello?" she asks one last time before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. As she descends the stairs, she finds her mother, Aster, and Mr. Woodrake having tea in the sitting room.

"Good morning, darling," her mother says.

"Morning," she says hurriedly. "Have any of you seen Lottie? We need to get to the modiste."

"I don't believe so," says Aster.

Marigold groans. "All right, thank you anyway." She turns to her sister's betrothed. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Woodrake. I'm thrilled to welcome you into our family."

"Thank you so much, miss. Though it seems that we will not be seeing too much of each other. Where is it that you live again? Some island?"

Aster shakes her head. "It's hard to explain, darling. Just let her go."

Marigold nods in understanding—of course, he does not know of Innisfree, nor does he know of her magic. She suspects that Mr. Woodrake would be kind and intrigued by it, but it is best to keep matters as this contained to those who have proven their trust. Who knows what would happen if Bardshire learned that the Claude girl was a witch? Luckily, she will never have to find out. She will return to Innisfree as soon as she can, ensuring that everyone who needs her help may have it.

She walks to August's room and knocks on the door. He opens it enthusiastically, but his smile falls when he sees it is only Marigold.

She laughs. "Hoping for someone else? My brother, perhaps?"

"Maybe," he mumbles.

She giggles and says, "Do you happen to know where Lottie is?"

"Come now, Mari. You know her well enough to guess."

"I don't think so," she says, but August insists, leaning against the doorframe and looking up through his lashes.

"Lottie always struggles to sleep in a new bed. And what does Lottie do when she can't sleep?"

She ponders before she says, "She draws."

"And where does Lottie like to go while she draws?"

"Outside?"

"And who is her favorite artist who paints the gardens of his home, which happen to be the same gardens that are currently outside her bedroom window?"

"Of course," she says, palming her forehead. "She's in the gardens."

"There you go," August says.

Marigold runs down the stairs, through the door, and into the gardens, where she finds Lottie sitting against an apple tree sketching the world around her. To her surprise, beside Lottie is her father, peering over Lottie's shoulder and attempting to draw in a sketchbook of his own.

"Good morning, you two," she says.

"Hello, darling!" her father says. "I must say, Miss Burke here is an exceptional talent."

Marigold tilts her head to the side as she stares at her with admiration. "She is, isn't she?"

"Stop it," Lottie says as she laughs softly and tucks a wild red lock behind her ear.

"We shall not! You have a gift that needs to be celebrated!" Lord Claude says.

Lottie smiles and looks up at him. "I cannot even begin to tell you what an honor it is to hear that from you. Thank you, truly."

"The honor is mine," he replies as he walks to his daughter's side and gives her a hug. "I shall be in my study practicing some of the new techniques I've learned this morning if anyone should require my presence." Once he walks up the stairs and into their home, Marigold turns to Lottie and says, "You must allow me to see your sketchbook now."

"It's not finished yet."

"You said that last time!" Marigold takes the sketchbook out of Lottie's hand. "I'm afraid I can wait no longer."

Lottie is fast, but not fast enough. Marigold clutches the book to her chest and runs out of the garden with Lottie trailing behind.

"Give that back!"

Marigold narrowly escapes out the gardens and runs through the trees. "I will if you can catch me!"

Lottie hesitates, unaware of the new surroundings, but pushes forward. She is only a few steps behind Marigold, but she cannot seem to get a grip on her. When she gets the slightest grasp on her elbow, Marigold elegantly twists herself out of it and continues to run away. But Lottie doesn't tire and Marigold must resort to other tactics of escape. She takes sharp turns until the two seem to be waltzing through the trees together. Even still, she slips through Lottie's fingers like summer air, weaving between the tall trees before they taper into an open meadow.

Here, Marigold stops. She had no intention of leading Lottie to her meadow, a place that she intended on keeping secret—sacred, even—for her and her grandmother alone.

Frozen still, with the sketchbook held to her chest, Marigold feels entirely exposed. Lottie takes advantage of her state and snatches the book out of her hands. She begins to run through the field before realizing that Marigold is not chasing her back.

Lottie tries to catch her breath. "Are you quite well?"

She stares back at her with wide eyes but says nothing.

"Mari," she says, her tone taking a serious turn. "What is it?"

"I didn't mean to bring you out here."

Lottie looks around at the meadow before her, taking in the beauty of it all. She moves closer to Marigold, keeping her sketchbook close, as if she suspects this is all a clever ruse that Marigold is playing just to take the book again. "Where is here, exactly?"

Her jaw feathers and her eyes shut tightly for a moment. "This is where my grandmother and I performed my ritual to become a witch. This is the last place she saw before we left."

"Oh, Mari, I'm sorry…"

"It's my fault," she interrupts. "I was being silly with all that nonsense, taking your sketchbook."

Lottie looks upon the field, then back at Marigold, who is lost in the vision of the wildflowers swaying in the wind. She then opens the book, the thick parchment making the most satisfying crinkle. She pulls a piece of charcoal from the pocket of the book and begins to draw.

At the sound of coal scratching on paper, Marigold glances at her. "What are you doing?"

"Don't move," she says.

"What?"

"Shh. Don't speak."

Marigold stands in silence, listening to the wind carry the sound of scribbling charcoal on dry parchment. She finds a moment of peace, of calm, of stillness. They have the entire world waiting on tenterhooks for what they might do next.

"Almost done," Lottie says. Marigold remains perfectly still—a trait she mastered sitting for many portraits. When Aster was first learning the art of the brush, she would always practice on Marigold. Every time she would move, Aster would threaten to splash her with paint-stained water and ruin her dress. She followed through with it once, peppering splashes of bright blue across Marigold's new white gown. Their mother did not allow Aster to paint again for an entire season, and her artistic skill never truly recovered. She is as good at painting as Marigold is at singing—that is to say, not very.

"And, finished," Lottie says as she turns the book around. "This is the face you make when you speak of your grandmother."

Marigold stares at herself on the paper, thinned into a graphite line of every truth she had been trying to hide. She sees her own eyes for the first time, swelling with love and light, with memories and dreams. This drawing is a reminder to her that this is the girl her grandmother would want her to be—happy.

"You're smiling," Lottie says, and Marigold touches her own cheek.

"I didn't realize," she says.

Lottie's eyes soften. "I know it is certainly not the best portrait of yourself you've ever gotten, what with you being a Bardshire lass and all. But I feel like it was a moment worth capturing. A moment with her," she says.

Marigold looks back at the open meadow and feels the embrace of the air.

Yes, a moment with her. Althea is here now, in the yellow flowers.

"Lottie, it is by far the best artwork I've ever possessed."

Lottie shakes her head, but Marigold insists. "You have true talent." She starts to flip through the book but stops herself. "May I look through it?"

Lottie contemplates for a moment before surrendering. "Yes, but I have a confession to make first."

Marigold nods and Lottie stutters through her response. "This may not be the first time I've drawn you."

Marigold turns red as a summer rose. Slowly, she flips through the pages of the book, working from the back to the front.

There is a drawing of her in her kitchen, wearing her patterned apron and yellow ribbon in her hair.

There is another of her playing with Cindershine in the living room. Another of her in the apiary, surrounded by a halo of bees.

Then, there are drawings of Innisfree. The trees, the birds, the night sky with striking constellations.

Then, the spirits—Odessa, Talaya, Chesha, Yliza.

"You drew the spirits," Marigold says, her voice soft with surprise.

Eyes wide, Lottie says, "I thought they were merely strange animals native to the isle."

"They're called landv?ttir, and they protect the isle. Somehow, you can see them."

Lottie takes her sketchbook back. "Am I not supposed to?"

Marigold shakes her head. "They live beyond the veil. Perhaps it's exceptionally thin on Innisfree, and you are quite perceptive. Still, it's strange." It's equally strange to witness Lottie react with calm curiosity toward anything magic. Normally, the woman would've been rolling her eyes the entire time.

"Well, I'm happy I can see them. They're lovely to draw," Lottie says.

"You captured them perfectly. You are such an incredible artist, Lottie. I've never seen anything so perfect."

Lottie blushes, unable to handle so many compliments. "Shall we return? God knows what August will get up to if he is left alone too long."

"Right, of course."

With a final parting glance at the meadow, Marigold leads Lottie back to the house. Before they go inside, Lottie stops.

"What was your grandmother's name? I only know her as the Honey Witch, but she was so much more than that, wasn't she?"

Marigold sighs, smiling. "Her name was Althea."

"Beautiful," Lottie says.

"She was." She looks at the ground, and right at her feet, there is an omen. An ivy leaf with six points; someone is about to fall in love.