Chapter Eight

The following days bleed into one another, each filled with wonder and magic and spirits and honey. Innisfree is like a dream. A place hidden between here and there, where the lost can stay lost because being found would destroy the mystery of it all, and being lost is so much more romantic. Marigold spends most of her time following the landv?ttir around the isle, learning their names and their purpose. There is Talaya, an elegant blue snake who guards the apiary and keeps it free of potential predators. Yliza is the koi who guards the oasis. Odessa is a sleek white swan who circles the isle, protecting the coast. Chesha is a mysterious purple catlike spirit who brings warnings of imminent storms. The health of the landv?ttir is what Marigold may use as an indicator for the overall health of Innisfree. If a guardian seems weak, it is likely that their area of the isle needs some sort of intervention—be it a spell for rain, or lessening temperatures, or an energy-cleansing ritual. When they are all happy and healthy, the isle is constantly aglow with wondrous creatures of love and light.

Althea still handles most of the customer interactions, and Marigold takes notes. Most people do not seem to know exactly why they are here or what they are asking for. Althea is excellent at being a shoulder to lean on for people who need it, and then being able to recommend spells that can help them. Many of the customers are women seeking some sort of cure, refuge, or fertility-control spells. It brings Marigold great joy to know that she can save another woman from being trapped in a life that she does not want, for she was so close to a similar fate. She narrowly escaped the life of a wife and mother, and she will always help another woman do the same. A Honey Witch provides women with choice—something they are all too often denied.

She has also been quick to take over all the strenuous labor that the isle requires: the gardening, the watering, the honey harvesting. From dawn until dusk, she works; her hand covered in soil, her dress soaked with sweat, her lips constantly sticky from tasting the honey that she helps create.

When she is thoroughly exhausted from a hard day of witchwork, she carries her heavy legs back inside. From the back of the cottage comes a strong floral and earthy scent that spices the whole house. She walks alongside her grandmother toward the door until Althea gestures to her to open it. When she does, she is greeted by thousands of hanging flowers of every imaginable color, the scents of the pinks and the blues mixing into a cold lavender mist. There is a massive iron cauldron in the corner filled with a waxy, milky substance. The long dining table is covered in tiny jars filled with crushed petals. The scent, while lovely, is so strong that it makes her eyes itch. She blinks back tears and turns her face toward the hall.

"That's normal. You'll get used to it," Althea says as she pats Marigold on the shoulder and walks inside without a hint of a sniffle. She taps a light finger on the lids of the jars, creating a tinkling rhythm that drums through the room.

"The flowers love music," she says with a smile. It does seem to be true; the flowers seem bolder, brighter, happier when the soft thrum meets their petals. Marigold braves the strong aroma and follows close behind her grandmother, who seems to be a new sun to the greenery around. Althea moves to a wall that is covered with wild vines. She places her palm flat against the leaves and takes a long, deep breath. The space between her hand and the greenery glows bright gold, and as she pulls her hand away, bright purple blooms emerge, tangling new petals with green leaves. It takes her breath away. She moves to sit on a tall stool and braces herself against the table. With her blue dress sleeve, she wipes the sweat from her forehead. "I used to be able to raise entire gardens without breaking a sweat. Now creating a few petals will drain all my energy."

"I didn't know you could make plants grow like that. Can you show me how?"

"It's simple enough to describe. Visualize your intent, imagine the plants growing bountifully before you, and let your magic pour from your open hand so the plants can drink it up. But I must warn you, it will probably take a bit of time to master it completely. When I first became a witch, bringing a bouquet of flowers back to life knocked me out for two days." Once she's caught her breath, Althea stands again and picks the new flowers off the wall, bringing them back to the table.

"What is this room for?"

"Enfleurage," Althea says as she picks up a jar with a soft purple ribbon tied around it. "It's the oldest and best technique to extract the essence of a flower. The scent, the oils, the color—everything a witch needs for a spell." She grabs a tiny jar and goes to the large cauldron, scooping up the milky stuff inside. "This is tallow, but you can use any unscented fat for this. We'll take some of these fresh petals and put them into the jar. Then," she says as she holds up the odd-shaped lid, "this part of the lid presses the petals into the fat, which extracts the essence." As she twists the lid, light purple inky lines bleed from the petals inside. "Replace the petals every other day for a month, and there you have it: floral essence. You'll use it in almost every spell."

Althea hands Marigold the newly filled jar. She twists the lid, allowing the concave insert to twist farther into the jar and smear some of the muddled petals.

"What does it look like when it's done?"

Her grandmother grabs a jar from a different table. The fat inside this jar has a light pink hue with bright vibrant petals torn throughout. Althea twists off the top, and the powerful scent of summer rose escapes from the jar.

Marigold takes her finger and scoops out a pea-size amount of the essence and smudges it between her fingers. It feels buttery and smooth and smells absolutely divine the more she adjusts to its strength.

"It's a little messy, but it's worth it. A tip for you: Put a smear of it behind your ears, between your breasts, and on the back of your knees for a scent that will follow you anywhere," Althea says as she takes her own small sample and places it where she instructed.

"You are brilliant," Marigold says as she puts the jar back in its place.

"And you are my granddaughter, which makes you brilliant as well."

She smiles, staring at the wall lined with plants. There are a few vines with crunchy brown leaves, and she runs her hand over them. "Can I try to revive these?"

Althea places her hand on her hip. "By all means, but do so sitting down. It's safer that way."

She pulls a stool in front of the wall, and her grandmother holds her shoulders. "Lift your hands. Breathe deep. Visualize their growth and release your magic."

Her palms hover a few centimeters away from the leaves. Eyes closed, she imagines curling vines ripe with soft green leaves. Her fingers tingle and her hands start to heat.

Althea squeezes her shoulders. "Good. Keep breathing."

As her magic pours from her body, her back tenses and her head starts to pound. The muscles in her arms ache and tremble with exhaustion. Her grandmother tightens her grip on her shoulders.

"That's enough, Mari," Althea warns, but Marigold cannot stop it. Her magic keeps pouring, keeps bleeding. Pain rips through her body as sweat drips down her face. Heat building, it feels like the whole room is on fire and her skin is burning up. She falls back against her grandmother, who helps guide her to the cold floor. Her back arches against the ground as she tries to catch her breath. Althea pulls a vial of honey from her pocket and pours it into Marigold's mouth.

"You're okay, Marigold. Breathe and stay calm. Everything is okay."

The honey coats the back of her throat and soothes the burning sensation. Minutes tick by as her breathing calms and her heart settles into another rhythm. Sitting up, she says, "You made that look much easier than it was."

Althea helps her stand. "It will get easier. Practice a little at a time every day and always replenish your strength with honey after you're done. One day, you'll be creating mighty oak trees with a snap of your fingers."

She laughs in disbelief. "You have great confidence in me."

"Yes." Althea smiles. "Yes, I do."

Marigold's first month as a witch nears its end, but she still has much to learn, and much to explore. Time seems to pass differently here—it is not a line or a circle. It moves like a memory, a mirror, a door. There have been moments when Marigold feels too small for her own body, like she should be larger, taking up more space in the world. And then she finds herself shrinking into a child again, mesmerized by the sun and frightened of the dark. But tonight, she feels her own age—her mind yearning for more wisdom, her body reaching for more adventure.

As she catches a glimpse of the moon outside shining down upon the lake, she cannot deny the pull she feels from the water. It reminds her of the last ball she attended, during the blue moon. How she could not wait to escape the night and find her way to her meadow. At that point, she had been so thankful for Mr. Notley that she pondered a life with him, having no idea that her destiny awaited the very next day. On this night, the pull of the lake feels even stronger than the pull of the blue moon. Wearing only her robe, she steps silently out of the cottage and closes the door. She runs down the stone pier and leaves her robe behind as she jumps into the sparkling lake.

The water wraps around Marigold like a lover, and for a moment, she pretends that it is. The current feels like soft arms holding her, rocking her. She lets herself sink until she is hovering equally above the floor of the lake and below its surface. When her breath begins to run out, she gives her scalp a quick scrub before floating back up to the surface. The cold night air brushes up against her face as she pulls herself out of the water and shakes out her hair. Pulling her robe back on, she turns to look at the lake. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flicker. It is so small and so fast that it could have been her imagination. When she stares directly at the same spot, there is nothing but the black edge of the coast. But should she turn her head slightly to the side, the flicker appears again. No matter how hard she tries, Marigold cannot catch the flicker with her eyes trained on it. A sour, smoky smell carries on the wind. Dread fills her belly, and she runs up the stone path, through the cottage, and to her grandmother's bedside. Water drips from the edges of her curls onto her grandmother's face.

"Grandmother, something's wrong," she says as she gently shakes Althea awake.

Althea gasps, pushing herself up. Frantic, she wipes her face and examines the wetness on her fingers as if she fears it may be blood. "What happened?"

"I don't know exactly. I just know it's not right. Come see."

She helps Althea out of bed and waits for her to pull on a dressing gown before they walk outside together. Her steps are slow and cautious as she is still learning the twists of the stone path down to the water. As quick as the night will allow, they are there at the edge of the isle, looking deep into the black.

"Do you see it?" Marigold asks.

"See what? What are you speaking of?"

"The flickering thing across the lake," she says desperately, her finger pointing at seemingly nothing. She squints and stretches and bends, trying to fit that strange light back into her vision. It's there, or it was there. She is certain. Right? It was there. Across the lake, it was there.

"I swear I saw something, Grandmother. It was this little light, sort of blue and green at the same time. It flickered like a flame. I swear it. Should we take the boat out to investigate?"

"Never go there, Marigold. That's the Hazelwood Forest, and it is as ancient as it is dangerous. Let me look for a moment."

Althea stares for much more than a moment. The steady sound of her grandmother breathing makes her realize the rapidness of her own. She calms herself as best she can while she waits for Althea to make the worry go away with her infinite knowledge. But Althea turns and says, "I see nothing, darling."

Marigold chokes on her gasp. "You don't believe me?"

It feels exactly like when she was a child, when she tried to tell Aster of Lunasia in the meadow. Then she tried to tell Frankie. Then she tried to show them the things she saw. No one else could see, so no one would believe her.

Althea sighs and takes her hand. "I didn't say that. It's likely simply another spirit of the forest."

"What if it's something harmful?"

"What would make you think that?"

"It's just a feeling. You don't think it could be an Ash Witch, do you?"

Althea immediately shakes her head. "No, impossible, Marigold."

"But what if an Ash Witch did try to harm us?" Marigold takes a moment to assess the security of their abode. The doors have weak locks, and the windows are always open. She wonders if she would have time to secure the premises if she spotted an Ash Witch on the pier. Horrific scenarios play out in her mind until her grandmother interrupts her obvious spiral.

"As long as the runes have not been disturbed, she won't be able to come near. Take comfort in knowing that our protection has been renewed. We are completely safe. Let's go back inside," Althea says, and extends her hand to Marigold. They walk up slowly, and Marigold takes every opportunity to twist back around, as if she's trying to sneak up on whatever she saw before. It's still not there. Perhaps it never was.

They spend the entire next day harvesting honey from their hives. It is a lengthy and taxing process that involves a myriad of gadgets and tools, but the work is peaceful, comforting. Althea gives instructions from her seat in the garden, but it comes naturally to Marigold regardless. In one hand, she holds a frame thick with honey, and in another, a blade that she has warmed in the fire of a candle. Once the blade is steaming, she glides it across the honeycomb and melts the beeswax caps that hold the honey inside the striking hexagonal mold. When it drips free, she places the frame into a holder that will catch the honey as it drains. She does this frame by frame from sunrise to sunset. And it is still not enough to finish the task. At the end of the day, she has successfully harvested honey from only one full hive. There are eleven more to go.

It is a challenge, but an enjoyable one. For eleven days, Marigold rises with the sun, has a quick breakfast, and goes to work in the apiary. Her grandmother stays with her the entire time, telling her stories and teaching her the ways of the witch. There almost seems to be a correlation between the honey harvesting and Althea's state of being—the closer the harvest is to being complete, the weaker Althea becomes. But the truth lies unspoken between them. Marigold allows them both to have these days untainted with the knowledge that Althea is slowly slipping away, and soon, she will be gone.

They now sit at the kitchen table, steaming mugs of coffee in hand, trying to recover from another hard week of work. Recovery is cut quite short by a light knock on the door.

Althea takes a long sip of her coffee. "A witch's work is never done," she says as she stands and walks toward the door. The moment she twists the handle, a breathless woman hurls herself into the kitchen.

"He's back," she says as she fights for her breath and braces herself against the table. "He's back, Althea. I just saw him in town."

Marigold stiffens, adrenaline already surging. The panic in this woman's voice reminds her of Caoimhe, and she readies herself to save her life.

"I know exactly what you need," Althea says sagely as she walks back to the counter. The woman nods and collapses into Althea's chair at the table. Her grandmother seems calm, so Marigold relaxes slightly. She watches the woman's gaze move around the room until their eyes meet, and the woman seems to nearly jump out of her skin.

"Goodness! Who are you? When did you get here?" the woman asks.

She sits up straight. "I've been here this entire time."

The woman looks her up and down. Without breaking eye contact, she says, "Althea, I didn't realize you had another customer. I do pray you are not here for the same reason as I am. God knows that's the last thing I need. A pretty thing like you as competition. I'd simply die right here," she whines.

Althea laughs from where she stands at the counter. "Forgive my manners, I'm quite tired. June, this is my granddaughter, Marigold. She'll be taking over my work soon. I can assure you that she has no interest in pursuing your heart's desires."

"Thank God for that," June says. She extends a limp hand to Marigold and says, "June Fairmon, pleased to meet you."

June reminds her a great deal of many ladies back in Bardshire. A demanding presence, a grating voice, and a dramatic flair that accompanies every movement. It's been so long since she has interacted with someone like this that she almost forgets a proper response.

"The pleasure is mine," she manages to say.

"Marigold, come help me over here so I can teach you how to make this. It's extremely important. June, make yourself comfortable as usual."

She stands at her grandmother's side while June moves to their living room and sits on the soft green couch.

"Who is she talking about? Is she in danger?"

"Not at all. She's simply in love with a nice boy named Lachlan Ayles. A sweet ginger lad."

"So what is it that we are making exactly?"

"You'll see soon enough."

Althea begins to gather the beeswax that used to hold the honey that they already harvested. She places it in a small pot and hangs it on the rack above the fireplace. Once it begins to melt, she stirs gently. "Take the mortar and pestle and grind up some of those rose and bellflower petals into the finest powder you can make," she instructs.

She does as she is told and brings the mortar over. Her grandmother drops the powder into the melted wax. "Now bring me some rosemary essence, lavender honey, and some small tins like the ones you saw in the enfleurage room."

She gathers the rest of the necessary tools and ingredients and reports back to her grandmother's side. Althea adds the essence and honey and then removes the pot from the fire with a toweled hand. She brings it over to the counter, though it is not easy for her. The pot is small, but pure cast iron, and Althea is weaker than ever before. This must be incredibly important.

Althea pours the mixture into the enfleurage tins and waits. It takes a few minutes of silence for the substance to harden again into a buttery red balm. Althea picks one up and smiles in approval as she tests the consistency with her fingers.

"It's perfect," she says, and June hurries to her side to admire the product.

"Althea, dare I say you've outdone yourself with this one," she says with a smile.

"It's the bellflower petals. Normally, I only have rose."

Marigold watches them both, still confused as to what she has helped create. It's the same color as Lottie Burke's hair. She shakes her head, resenting how she cannot encounter rich red colors without thinking of Lottie. "What is it?"

"My greatest invention," Althea says. She scoops some of it out into a small dollop on her finger. "My homemade beeswax lipstick."

She slaps her hand on her forehead. "Grandmother! I thought this was some sort of all-powerful love spell!"

Althea nearly chokes with laughter. She applies the balm to her lips and plants a vibrant kiss on Marigold's cheek.

"We don't do love spells. We don't make anything that would interfere with someone's free will. This is merely an enhancement to catch someone's eye."

"I pray that it works," June says as she grabs the tin.

"It will, June. Lachlan won't be able to take his eyes off of you," Althea says. Marigold must use all her willpower not to roll her eyes over June's desperation. It reminds her too much of Bardshire, of the expectation to be perfect, to be impressive, to prioritize attention over everything else. June represents everything she feared for her own life, and she is exceptionally grateful to have found a different outcome. Once June says her polite goodbyes, Marigold can finally let out the laugh that she has been holding throughout the entire visit.

"What's so funny, Mari?"

She gestures to the door as she laughs. "That woman is insufferable."

Althea puts her hands on her hips. "Now why would you say such a thing?"

"Because she…" she says, her laughter falling into silence. "She just… the way she was all… you know…" She mimes primping and playing with her hair. "Ooh, notice me, love me, I'm just a silly girl and I want a silly husband," she mocks.

Althea's hands stay firmly planted on her hips and she does not laugh at the jokes. Marigold sinks into herself, crossing her arms over her chest. "What? You disagree?"

"I do, actually," Althea says. "I think you're being unkind. June is a nice girl, and just because she is choosing a different life path from you does not give you the right to belittle her. She's not doing anything wrong. She's not hurting anyone. She simply wants a little red lipstick and a nice boy to notice her."

"But shouldn't she want more for her life than that?"

"What any woman wants for herself is not for you to decide. You would do well to remember that."