Chapter Five

They ride for some time along a dry dirt path, jostling in the back of the carriage. Marigold stares out at the deepening sky, taking in the world without the veil, until Mr. Benny makes a stop. She peers out of the carriage and tightens her grip on her grandmother's hand.

"Althea," Mr. Benny calls, "do you see what I see?"

"My eyes aren't what they used to be," she says.

"We're right by a whole field of bellflowers. Are they still your favorite flower?"

Althea gasps and smiles wide. "Of course! Marigold, let's go pick some. They're beautiful," Althea says as she slides gracefully out of the carriage.

Marigold follows, landing with a thud behind her grandmother. She doesn't recognize the flowers in the field around her. They look to be a cross between a tulip and a peony, ranging between shades of yellow and pink. As Althea steps forward into the field, she extends her arm outward. A striking bird descends from the bright sky and lands on her forearm. The weight of the creature should be too much to bear, but it is not just a bird—it is a spirit. Marigold can tell by the way it moves, and the soft purple glow around it.

"Hello, Dovelyn," Althea says. "Marigold, this is another landv?ttir."

Marigold walks toward them and runs her hand down the soft feathered spine of the spirit. "Nice to meet you." She looks to her grandmother and whispers, "Is this how I am meant to speak to spirits?"

Althea laughs. "Speak however you wish. The landv?ttir do not communicate the way we do. They rely on their empathy and ability to sense true intention. They speak in hopes, dreams, and wishes."

Althea gives Dovelyn a taste of honey from one of the tiny vials that she has on her at all times. Her grandmother also always keeps small jars with her so she has somewhere to put all the delicate ingredients she collects. Marigold takes note of this and considers sewing larger pockets into her dresses so she might one day be exactly like her grandmother, carrying around clinking bottles of hidden treasures. Dovelyn flies from Althea's arm and begins to circle the sky above the field, and something uniquely magical happens: The flowers all begin to glow. They look like candles, or fireflies dancing together in a meadow. She follows her grandmother, entranced by the glow around them.

"How is this possible?" she asks in awe. Her grandmother stops and takes her hand.

"We're Honey Witches, darling. We find beauty where others may not. Spirits guide us to it. We bring marvelous things to life," she says. Marigold sinks to her knees and smells the flowers around her.

"We will use these flowers in many different spells and potions. Their petals house a solution that aids greatly in the process of falling in love," Althea says.

Marigold purses her lips. "When will people stop caring so much about love?"

Her grandmother pauses and shrugs. "When something better comes along, I suppose."

"Like magic?" she says, wiggling her brows up and down.

Althea giggles. "Precisely."

"Well, that's fine. I do not mind making others fall in love. I know it works for some people. I do find new romantics to be quite annoying with all their wooing and swooning, so I'm sure that playing matchmaker for them will remind me why I chose the curse."

"To be clear, we cannot force love upon anyone. Our magic can only lead someone to their true love, and I promise you, that is even more beautiful than finding love for yourself. You will see," Althea says.

"You need not attempt to convince me. I have no regrets and no desire for love." She begins to pick the flowers, and with each snap of a stem, the glowing petals dim until they meet their original colors again.

"I do wish they could keep their glow after being picked, Grandmother. They are so beautiful."

"Think of it like a metaphor of sorts. The Honey Witches are much like the bellflower. We hold this magic inside us, and when we use it, we help people. It comes at a price, but the price is so worth it," Althea says as she bends down to pick flowers alongside her granddaughter.

"I think that is lovely," she says. "It could be rewarding to help someone else find their soulmate. Soulmates are real, right?"

"Of course soulmates are real. Your mother and father are soulmates, in fact," Althea says.

The mention of her mother stings, but at the same time, these are the stories she has always longed to hear. She knows her mother as Lady Claude very well, but she hasn't a clue about the nature of Raina Murr, the once-magical daughter of the Honey Witch. In her mind, those are two vastly different people.

She clears her throat. "How do you know?"

"Who do you think brought them together? After Raina chose to forgo her magic, I used a spell to help lead her to her soulmate. The next thing I knew, your mother felt compelled to travel to Bardshire. The second those two locked eyes, they were in love. It was as quick as the sting of a bee," Althea says with pride.

All children must believe, at least for a small time, that their parents are soulmates. It is nice to be right about that. At least her mother had a very compelling reason for giving up her power; love is one thing, but finding your soulmate is another. "Does she know that your magic brought them together?"

"I think so. On their wedding day, she made a quick comment that only I would catch, but it has stuck with me forever. She said, ‘When I saw him for the first time, it was as if I recognized him from another life. Every other life, in fact. He was beside me through them all. We are bound to each other, aren't we?' And I simply nodded to her. She was right, of course. That's how soulmates are. They find each other, life after life," Althea says, though she trails off slightly, as if her mind is beginning to wander somewhere else, her gaze falling back to the carriage.

"So I am assuming that Honey Witches do not have soulmates like that," Marigold says, not that it matters. Even if she did have a soulmate who was destined for her, she would find some way to mess it up. Perhaps it was George and she already ruined it. Oh well, ruining it was worth it—being a witch is so much more fun than being a wife.

"I don't know if I would say that," Althea says. "We have something that finds us, too, life after life, and that is power. We are power, in its truest form."

"I'd choose power in my veins over a ring on my finger any day."

Once Althea and Marigold have picked as many bellflowers as they can possibly carry, the two shuffle back into their carriage and move on. The rest of their journey is filled with the sweet citrusy scent of the flowers, which somehow do not wilt, even after being pulled from their roots. They stop to find little blue fruits from short trees that line the sides of the road. Apparently, they are to be used for both healing and protection spells. Althea spends hours talking Marigold through good and bad omens that she must be able to recognize—crows mean death, honey turning black means that winter will be longer than it should be, and a night without stars means that someone is about to have their heart broken. If a bee flies into the home, an important visitor is coming. When the sun shines through the rain, someone is pregnant. If an ivy leaf with six points is found in the garden, someone is about to fall in love. She commits these to memory as best as she can, but thankfully, there is a massive grimoire waiting for her at the cottage where they are all recorded. That book has been passed through generations of witches, of both Honey and Ash. It can answer anything.

Well, almost anything. But not curses. Evil witches don't like to share what could be their undoing.

They arrive in the early morning in the town of Lenox, which unfolds before Marigold like a familiar blanket. There are warm, sunny seams where the trees meet the clouds, where the sea meets the sky. She remembers this place, though it seems so much smaller than it did when she was a child. The streets are filled with music—a symphony of children laughing, wheels drumming over tiny pebbles, and dozens of harmonic hellos for Althea. Artisans are selling trinkets and baubles along the high street while some offer trades for what they need.

She is quickly overwhelmed by the strong sense of community. She has never lived in a place where it was not considered shameful to ask for something. Bardshire had no spirit of generosity, no neighbors jumping at the chance to lend a cup of sugar. But here, everyone is reaching out their hand. It almost makes Marigold nervous to be surrounded by such goodness. She's always been around people who wouldn't like her anyway, so it never mattered to her how she was perceived. Now she finds herself questioning her own decency. Is she worthy of such treatment? Is she good enough to live among such grace? She is terribly worried that in the painting of this world, she will be a blemish instead of a bloom.

"Are you all right, Marigold?" her grandmother says after noticing her pout.

She shakes her head and smiles as wide as she can. "Oh, fine! Fine, sorry."

"What is it?"

"It's nothing," she says with a sigh. "This place is beautiful. The people are so lovely and warm. I can only hope to earn my keep with them. I worry I could let them down."

Her grandmother places a hand on her knee and says, "They'll love you! Have you forgotten that you already have a friend here?"

She parts her lips. "I do?"

Althea gestures west of the carriage, where a strapping young man is walking toward them alongside two others. He's incredibly tall, with dark brown skin and curly black hair, and his cream linen shirt is tucked poorly into his tight trousers. Marigold watches his approach with confusion until he finally comes close enough to where she can clearly see his round wire glasses, which enlarge his bright brown eyes.

"August, my dear!" Althea says as he helps her descend from the carriage. They are hugging and chatting as Marigold slips out as well to stand beside her grandmother. When Althea and August pull apart, Althea says, "Do you recognize this young lady here?"

Marigold and August eye each other up and down until they're both grinning with recognition. This is the boy who held her hand during the attack-not-storm. The one who helped her make castles out of mud and ribbons out of weeds. The boy she once dared to drink make-believe potions of lake water and browning petals. He is not a child anymore, which shouldn't be surprising, but seeing him now as a man is almost painful, like she half expected him to still be three feet tall and waiting for her with a mouthful of stories. Still, it is enchanting to see what all has grown from the memories she buried here. He's obviously grown quite a bit, now towering over the people at his side—a young blond man with a sunburned face who looks a little like Frankie, and a beautiful red-haired woman who is making it very hard for Marigold to pay attention to anyone else. She looks to be slightly older than August, or at least she certainly carries herself with more resolve. She has pale white skin that is mostly covered by an overly modest dress that does not fit the summer season at all. The dark green fabric is too heavy for this heat, and her face is noticeably uncomfortable.

"Marigold Claude! My, how many years has it been?" August says, hugging her.

"Fifteen, I think?" she says.

"Fifteen too many," he says as he hugs her. She meets the gaze of the redheaded woman over August's shoulder. The girl forces an awkward smile, curling her raspberry lips so that her nose scrunches, distorting her freckles for a moment. When they separate, August moves to the side and gestures to her.

"Lottie, this is Marigold. We used to play together as children on Innisfree. We would spend entire summers together, joined at the hip."

"Nice to meet you," Lottie says plainly as she tugs a red ringlet behind her ear. She doesn't seem too thrilled to be here, though Marigold can't figure out why. Everyone else she's encountered has been exceptionally welcoming.

"Marigold, this is my best friend, Lottie Burke. She hates just about everyone but me."

"And I only like you sometimes," Lottie replies in a low, monotone voice.

"And this," August says as he puts his arm around the other young man, "is my partner, Edmund."

"A pleasure," Edmund says. He adjusts his ruffled white collar and smooths his hand over his blond beard. His nose is pointy and sloped upward, as if the fates knew exactly how much he would enjoy turning it up at everyone he thought was beneath him. She has seen many young men like this in her life. Bardshire has an annual contest where up-and-coming artists from every country can perform before the royals, and the best will be granted residency. The auditioners were often even more cruel than those who already lived in Bardshire. They had too much to prove and it made them arrogant and unkind. Edmund seems like the type who writes shallow poetry and paints ugly landscapes that his family begrudgingly hangs on their wall.

Lottie's green eyes squint upon hearing Edmund's name out loud. It's clear she does not like him very much, or at the very least, she doesn't like him with August. Perhaps it's jealousy that is making Lottie less warm to her. Lottie doesn't seem like the type to share her best friend—not with Edmund, and certainly not with Marigold.

The interaction is growing a bit awkward with Lottie's standoffishness and Edmund's lack of interest in speaking to anyone else.

"It's wonderful to meet you all!" Marigold says, bringing her arms over her stomach and making herself small, hoping she could disappear from the interaction altogether.

"The three of you should make your way to Innisfree soon," Althea chimes in. "Marigold will be taking over my work, and she could use some company."

"Yes!" August says with a loud clap. "It would have to be sooner rather than later. I'm to accompany my father in one month on an extended business trip. We'll be gone for a few months, but I would absolutely love to return to Innisfree sometime. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Hardly," Lottie mumbles under her breath, quiet enough for Marigold to wonder if that was just her imagination.

Edmund seems equally unenthused, though their reactions do nothing to deter August's excitement, and Marigold very much appreciates that about him.

By her quick assessment, August would equally benefit from spending time together and rekindling their friendship. He clearly needs more sunny people in his life, and she will desperately need company soon.

As their conversation quiets, a man and a woman rush toward them, their hands clutching the woman's belly as though their grip is keeping her intact. The woman's light gray dress is soaked in sweat, and the man is clenching his jaw to keep from shaking. He is tall enough to hide the sun with his frame, but he crouches over so that his face remains close to the woman's.

"Oh, sweet Caoimhe," Althea says, horrified. Her smile falls as she reaches for Caoimhe. Her gaze moves frantically from the woman's eyes to her belly. Althea's hands begin to tremble, and her eyes look as if winter has left them frozen.

"I—" Caoimhe begins, but a low moan overpowers the rest of her words. The man at her side takes a cloth from his back pocket and wipes the sweat from her forehead.

"Caoimhe is pregnant again," the man says.

"But I don't want to be," Caoimhe says through labored breathing. Her whole body tenses until she collapses into his arms. "It will kill me this time."

Marigold gasps and steps back, but Althea glares at her and shakes her head, warning her to keep calm.

Althea waves her hand, commanding August, Lottie, and Edmund to walk away. They take heed, and Marigold is left feeling panicked and lost.

"She's been in pain for days, Althea. And this morning—" the man says, trying to swallow his sobs.

"What happened, Ronan?"

He shakes his head and looks at the sky. "There was so much blood."

Althea nods calmly. She takes Caoimhe's face into her hands and says, "You will not die for this, Caoimhe." Turning to Ronan, she says, "Lift her into the carriage quickly and gently."

As he does as instructed, her grandmother turns to Marigold and says, "I did not intend for you to see something like this so soon, but the world has other plans. You will help me save her."

She shakes her head, not to say that she won't help, but that she can't help. "What's happening to her?"

"Her pregnancy is unviable. It has moved to the wrong part of her body, and it is acting as a wound inside of her. We must heal her." Leaving no time for questions, Althea turns to Ronan as he helps her into the carriage. He offers his hand to Marigold, who, dazed, hardly has the wherewithal to take it.

"Now, Marigold!" Althea growls, and she quickly pulls herself together and into the carriage with Ronan right behind her. Mr. Benny yells to his horse, and the carriage takes off like a bullet from the barrel of a gun.