Page 11 of Homegrown Magic

“To luck,” she grinds out, raising her glass.

They both drink. A lot. Margot nearly empties her wineglass as a long, meaningful silence stretches between them.

“So, Bloomfield is…” Yael begins after a few excruciating moments. They look around the tavern. “Quaint.”

In that one word, Margot hears her parents’ disdain for the town Granny Fern loved. She remembers Yael’s parents talking about how quaint Bloomfield was; they’d said it like the worst of slurs during their visit to Greenwillow Manor. She hears the way her classmates in primary school sneered when she’d read an essay on her summer vacation. She’d written all about Granny Fern and the wonderful summer they’d spent together far away from the city. Meanwhile, her classmates had spent the summer on the coast, or traveling across the Serpentine Sea to Perpignan, or the Jade Sea to Locronan. Only Yael hadn’t laughed at Margot as she’d stumbled through four paragraphs about berry picking and jam making.

Not that Yael’s kindness mattered. Not then, not after they left Margot behind in Ashaway—and especially not now, since they aren’t friends.

“Bloomfield is a wonderful place,” Margot says, the words coming out fierce and protective, if slightly slurred.

“Sure it is, especially if you wish to escape reality.” Yael sounds surprisingly cheerful about the idea.

“This is reality.”

“A better version of it, maybe, miles away from the Copper Court.” Yael fills their wineglass again.

What is that supposed to mean? Margot fixes them with a long look, really taking in the dust caked onto Yael’s expensive shoes. The rip in their perfectly tailored trousers. The way their hands shake, ever so slightly, as they drain their wine.

“What exactly are you doing here, Yael?”

Here it is, the moment of truth. The moment she’ll know whether they have, in fact, been sent to check up on her and her progress on the Natural Caster Potion, or if it’s just a wild coincidence that they’re sitting across from her now, candlelight snagged by the flecks of gold in their brown eyes.

Yael refills Margot’s glass, once again to the brim. “Well, I was passing through. And I remembered your family lived in Bloomfield, and I longed to see you again. Whatever happened to you? Last I knew, I left for boarding school the summer after our visit to Bloomfield, and when I came back to Ashaway for university, you were gone. None of us at Auximia ever heard from you again!”

Margot takes another long sip of her wine, swirling it around her mouth, savoring the dark berry sweetness and the tart notes. The grapes in Bloomfield’s vineyard are of the non-enchanted variety, but they are delicious. She lets the taste linger as she considers her answer.

Maybe Yael really hasn’t heard about the Greenwillows’ fall, but how could they not know? Suddenly, Margot looks at Yael with new eyes, wariness settling over her. Yael—with their easy, wine-stained smile—doesn’t appear to be a financial mastermind intent on ruining Margot’s life further. In fact, as they take off their silk jacket and roll up their sleeves, they look as they always did. Carefree, confident, the life of every party.

And ridiculously hot, if Margot is being honest. Which shows just how off her judgment is after all the drinking. She really should go home now. Or soon, after a few more minutes with Yael.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Yael says, leaning toward Margot, forearms resting on the bar. Their casual posture is disarming, and Margot can’t help but lean in just a little closer.

“What’s your secret, Yael?” Her voice comes out huskier than intended. If they’re only passing through, what’s the harm in flirting a little bit?

“I’m on the run.”

Margot fakes a dramatic gasp. “You’re a fugitive!”

“I am indeed! I’ve stolen a horse, in fact.” Yael’s face lights up—eager, conspiratorial, stunning.

Giddiness rolls through Margot. Maybe it’s the ale, or the wine, or the way Yael’s eyes have strayed to the strawberry-embroidered neckline of Margot’s dress. She shifts in her chair so her knees brush against Yael’s calf. “Yael Clauneck, you rogue. I never thought you had it in you.”

Yael shifts on their barstool, spreading their legs slightly farther apart, the gesture both intimate and playful. An invitation. A dare. “Then you never really knew me.”

Margot’s heart trips in her chest.

Good thing we aren’t friends.

“Of course I know you. You’re easier to read than that sign over the bar.”

Yael glances up at the hand-chalked sign that spells out the tavern’s weekly dishes and ales. “There’s all manner of things you’d never guess about me, Margot Greenwillow.”

“Like what? What depths are you hiding beneath this absurd waistcoat—” Here, Margot leans closer so her right knee is caged between Yael’s thighs. She runs a hand along one of Yael’s lapels, not missing how they shiver beneath her touch.

Hunger flares low in her belly. She’s absolutely starving for things she shouldn’t want.

“ ‘Absurd waistcoat’!” Yael smirks, collecting themself—with effort, it seems. “I’ll have you know this coat is bespoke and made by Rastanaya herself.”