Chapter Seven

Her training begins promptly the next morning after a quick breakfast of summer fruit and sharp cheese, both gifts from Mr. Benny's neighboring farm. She and her grandmother stand at the edge of the apiary. While Althea steps through the white garden gate with confidence, Marigold holds herself back, as if waiting for some sort of safety signal.

Althea turns over her shoulder. "Don't be afraid! These bees are your kin now."

"Am I their queen?" she calls back, half-joking.

"No," Althea says without humor. "The queen is a bee that has been fed only royal jelly since birth. She's easy to spot because she's about twice the size of the others. She is the mother of every bee in the colony, while you," she says, taking the arched lid off the top of a hive and pulling out a frame of honey that looks like a stained-glass window, "are simply their keeper. Now, come closer."

Okay. Deep breath. She takes a step forward, tiptoes through the gate, and stands inside the apiary for the first time. The air smells sweet and flowery. A small vibration that tickles her feet with every step. A little hum masks all other chirps and whistles in the air. Some of the bees are gently hovering around their hives, while others are exploring the fruits and flowers nearby. One bee takes a particular interest in her and flies to her hand. At first, she jerks away, but her grandmother's glare scares her into stillness. Lifting her palm, she cautiously allows the bee to rest there as she examines it.

"Will it sting me?" she asks, attempting to hide her nerves as the insect crawls over her skin. It's tickly. She looks closer, noting that the bee is much fuzzier than expected.

"The bees will never harm you. They know what you are by scent, and soon, they will learn to recognize your face the more time that you work with them. Remarkable creatures, really," Althea says as she walks from hive to hive, examining the frames inside. Marigold follows and begins to peer inside them while crouched behind her grandmother. She notices two of them that look completely different from each other on the inside; one is overflowing with thin orange-tinted honey, while the other is heavy with honey so dark that it almost looks black.

"Grandmother, why is this one so dark and different from the others? Is it burnt?"

"You have a sharp eye, Mari. It is made with nectar from blackwell bulbs. And the other one next to it is peach blossom. There are many different honeys in these hives," Althea says.

Her eyes widen. "I didn't even know there were different types." Is that meant to be common knowledge? If so, this is embarrassing.

"Oh yes, there are as many types of honey as there are flowers, and for it to work with our magic, the bees can only retrieve nectar from one type of flower per colony. That is why our relationship with the bees is so important; they make the essential ingredient for every single one of our spells. We tend to them in the winter when the flowers are waiting to bloom. We maintain their homes, their food, and their brood. We grow their favorite plants all over Innisfree, and if they cannot find the flowers they want here, we instruct them on where to go."

"How do we do that? Can I speak with them somehow?"

"Try it," Althea says encouragingly as she scoops up a handful of bees and plops them into Marigold's palm without giving her a chance to object.

Oh God. Okay, no sudden movements. No loud noises. Nothing to disturb the hundreds of venomous insects that are now covering her hand like a glove. Just keep breathing. She raises her hand to eye level and concentrates, hoping to feel something. Strange enough, she does, when she makes eye contact with one bee who stills beneath her gaze. In her own way, through her mind, she tells the bee of the lush harvest of bellflowers that were left in a basket by the front of the cottage. The bee begins to waggle, moving its body in circular motions.

"Is he… dancing?"

"She," Althea corrects, "is giving instructions to the others on where to find the flowers. And all the other worker bees—all female, by the way—will follow her directions. Male bees do absolutely nothing but mate and die."

Sure enough, the bees fly off her hand and disappear around the cottage. Her jaw drops in amazement as she moves back to her grandmother's side.

"Excellent job!" Althea pops the lid off of another hive and peeks inside. "Damn," she spits under her breath. "This one is honey bound."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I waited too long to harvest and the hive is overflowing. They do not have room for their brood. If we don't fix this fast," she says, dropping the lid to the ground and reaching for a frame, "they'll swarm and leave us." Her grandmother's arms tremble under the weight of the full frame.

"Let me take that," she says, expecting Althea to shoo her away like she normally does whenever Marigold offers to help. This time, though, her grandmother nods and hands her the frame.

Althea sighs. "I suppose I must admit now that I am too old for this."

"Don't say that." She summons the bravery to reach inside. The bees respect her entrance into their home and do not fight her as she retrieves another frame.

"It's true. I cannot maintain the hives, or the veil of protection. Honestly, I cannot even properly dust inside the cottage anymore. I tried to ignore my body for a long time, but now that you are here, I am reminded of what a witch is supposed to do." She wipes the sweat from her face. "It's simply too much for an old crone like me."

Marigold props the frames against the lavender box on the bottom of the stack and wraps her arms around her grandmother. "Do not speak of yourself this way. You are the strongest person I know, and you do not have to do this alone. Not anymore."

The harvest will begin tomorrow, but for now, Marigold has pulled the heavy frames and replaced them with empty ones. Her priority is to ready the necessary ingredients to renew the veil of protection tonight. While Althea rests on the green couch, Marigold hovers over the ancient grimoire in the kitchen. Her eye catches on a spell for hay fever that requires aster petals. Merely seeing her sister's name causes a slight twinge of pain in her heart. She left so much behind in Bardshire, and so much tension unresolved. If there is a way to make it right, she cannot find it. Perhaps it's better for everyone if she stays far away, at least for now. She brings her mind away from those thoughts and regains her focus in the kitchen. Each page of the book is decorated with splashes and spills from different ingredients and centuries of use. It contains a spell for everything that she could imagine: finding your soulmate, headache cures, fertility control, ensuring a bountiful harvest, and even finding a lost cat. With this book, there is nothing she cannot do.

Except find someone to love her, of course. All of this comes with a price that she has yet to realize how difficult it could be to pay. She continues to flip through the book, noting the wild ingredients she has never heard of, and some that she cannot imagine touching.

"This spell requires frog eyes and the wings of a dragonfly?" she yells out to Althea, her mouth twisting in disgust.

"Some spellwork is less glamorous than others, I'll admit. But look at the soulmate spell. That one is lovely," Althea says.

She flips through the pages and lands on 117—the spell to find your soulmate: lavender honey, lemon seeds, rose petals, and moon water.

"So what happens if we perform this spell on one of us?"

Althea sighs. "A whole lot of disappointment. Trust me, that spell is not the answer to loneliness."

"I see. What do you do to feel less lonely, then?" Marigold asks.

"I got a cat nearly thirty years ago and he's still going strong," Althea says, laughing. "His name is Cindershine. He's around here somewhere, though he is a wild thing. He roams Innisfree as he wishes, but he always comes back eventually."

She gasps. "Thirty years? How is that possible?"

"I told you that Innisfree grants unnaturally long life for its residents. Not just the people."

"Right. I guess I didn't realize how powerful it was." She flips back to the protection ritual and starts pulling out chili powder, cloves, and cinnamon from the cabinets. "If I may ask, do you think that Versa was right? Could you use Innisfree's magic to create immortality?"

The air in the cottage goes cold. Sensing the shift in her grandmother's mood, she immediately regrets asking.

"May I tell you the truth, even if it's frightening?" Althea's voice is low and full of warning. Marigold nods slowly.

"I think it is possible, and that is why she will not give up."

They both go quiet for a moment. Marigold mixes her dry ingredients into a bowl and tops it off with a bit of salt. She pauses. "Would it be so bad if someone found a way for us to live forever?"

Althea stands slowly from the couch and walks toward the kitchen. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugs. "Curiosity," she says, adding blackwell honey to the bowl.

Her grandmother's brow furrows, waiting for a better answer.

"It's nothing," Marigold says. "It's too sad to talk about." She keeps her eyes on the bowl, pouring from the jar until the mixture reaches the consistency of thick paint.

"Mari," Althea says, placing a hand on her wrist. "Are you worried about me dying?"

Sighing, she says, "I don't want to lose you. And you certainly deserve eternal life more than she does."

"Eternity is not a gift. It is a punishment. To outlive everyone you know, everyone you love, and everyone who once loved you—" She stops herself and swallows. "One hundred years is more than enough for me."

Marigold places the jar back on the counter. "But I didn't get to spend those hundred years with you." Her voice comes as a whisper. "Even if I did, it still wouldn't be enough. I'll never be ready for you to go."

"Oh, sweet girl," Althea says, patting her hand. "You will be fine without me. In fact, you will thrive."

"I wish I could believe that," she says, sagging her shoulders.

"I promise, Mari. You will see one day. And when I am gone, look for me in the yellow flowers. I'll be there for you, always."

The protection ritual starts with Marigold using the mixture to paint runes in every corner of the cottage. It's the same image that was on the back of her father's paintings—an arrow of sorts, with swirls and shapes along the shaft. The cottage is small: a kitchen with a table that seats four, the sitting room, a short hallway, and three tiny bedrooms. It does not take long to complete her task, and the air feels light and calm by the time she is done. She returns to the kitchen, and Althea stands from the table.

"And now we'll do the same at every corner of the isle," Althea says.

The two of them walk outside, hand in hand. They paint the rune everywhere—on the hives, in the trees, across stones and petals and dirt. Every corner, every inch. It takes hours to complete, and the exhaustion comes in heavy waves. Her grandmother needs to rest every few minutes, and it is hard to witness. Althea resents her old body, calling herself names and insulting her ability as they go. Marigold's stomach knots when a crow swoops in front of her. An omen of death, a warning of imminent grief. They push onward until they complete the task, and the ritual is nearly complete.

As they walk together, Althea says, "The runes will need to be repainted about three times a year. Honey never goes bad, you see, but it will crystallize and flake away, especially in the winter when the air is dry and cold. Keep an eye on them. Instinct will tell you when the ritual needs repeating, and you will be more than capable of performing it on your own."

Althea then leads her to a glade shaded by a large wisteria tree and stands directly in the middle.

"This is the center of the isle, the very heart of Innisfree. Stand perfectly still, and you can feel it beating beneath you."

Marigold lets out a breath and relaxes every muscle in her body. Her hands rest in her grandmother's grip, and she listens as the isle beats for her.

"Now we channel our magic through the runes," Althea says. "Let it drip from you, from the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. Visualize the lives of this land that we must protect."

Closing her eyes, she imagines the bees dancing in the sunlight. Pink petals falling in the wind like snow. Tall trees with branches that reach for each other. Whistling melodies of little birds. All the creatures that rely on her to keep them safe.

When she opens her eyes, the glade starts to glow. It's not unlike the field of bellflowers that they visited on their journey, but it's much stronger, and the light feels alive. The glow heightens around them as they continue to chant the spell. As the glimmer touches Marigold's skin, it feels like warm water, like she's moving through liquid gold. The corners of the isle hum in harmony, with a thread of dissonance in between the notes. The glow forms a dome over the entire isle, and shimmering stars fall over them like summer rain. As they chant, the golden light falls faster, harder. It bounces off the branches and splashes in the grass. The dome starts to fade after the entire isle is sun-dappled and safe. The last of the golden light sinks into the earth. The world fades back to darkness, but instead of being ominous, it's a velvety darkness with singsongy winds and waves of lavender in the air. Peace lies against the ground, and the world goes quiet.

Althea hugs Marigold, who feels the wet cheek of her grandmother against her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Happy tears," she says softly. "Proud tears. And tears of relief." She pulls back, her hands still resting on Marigold's shoulders as she says, "We're safe now. Innisfree is safe. And all because of you."