Page 16 of Homegrown Magic

“You told me you’re a fugitive.”

“I did steal a mechanical horse. Though I’m certain my parents will pay off the owner, if they haven’t already, so it’s hardly a real crime.”

“I’m sure the owner of the horse might feel otherwise.”

Yael shrugs. “Also, I did flee my parents’ house with no possessions or plans.”

Of course they did. It’s the ultimate act of a spoiled child who thinks the world is going to conform to their whims. And they’re probably right.

“Can’t you just go back?” Margot blows out a long breath, exhaustion and exasperation warring in her.

“I mean, yes, I’m sure I’m expected to, and I intended to when I started out, but now…I don’t want to.” They set their tea down on the table. “What I want is…Well, I don’t know, except that I want some time to figure it out. What I need is a place to stay in the meantime, and a way to pay for it.” They look around the cottage.

Oh gods, they can’t stay here. But maybe…

“I suppose I could just keep going,” Yael continues. “Move on to the next town, find a position there. Perhaps somebody out here needs an expert in law.”

Maybe…

Slowly, the seeds of a plan begin to sprout in Margot’s mind.

Somehow, impossibly, Yael Clauneck is drinking tea at Margot’s kitchen table, like a gift from the universe. The scion of the very family who snatched up and divided the Greenwillow assets with a brusque efficiency that still takes Margot’s breath away. It seems impossible that Yael doesn’t know that their parents now own Greenwillow Manor—or at least the Clauneck Company does, which is the same thing—and have been letting it sit empty for the last few years.

The idea in Margot’s mind grows tall, bearing fruit.

She looks down at her dirt-stained hands, gripping her mug of tea. Her lower back gives another twinge. She is drowning in work at the greenhouses, though realistically, someone like Yael (who doesn’t even know how to make tea) would be of little help. Still, that hardly matters, because Yael won’t stay in a place like Bloomfield for long no matter what they claim. They’ll return to Ashaway in due time—to the social circles they move in and to the people who once dined at her parents’ table. People who were perfectly happy to make money investing in her family’s company when Granny Fern was in charge.

But if Margot can keep Yael close in the meantime, perhaps they can be helpful in more ways than one. Yael is a direct line back to their parents and would surely be willing to speak for the childhood friend who helped them. Perhaps they can convince their parents that Margot is living up to her promised potential and can crack the Natural Caster Potion with just a little more time.

If she’s smart about it, perhaps Margot can crack the potion, save Bloomfield, and take back everything her parents lost. What other choice does she have?

Certainly, it would be easier done with a Clauneck on her side.

Besides, an extra pair of hands to help haul dirt and pots around won’t hurt, nor will having somebody to talk to who isn’t a wheelbarrow. “Are you serious about wanting a job?” Margot asks.

Yael nods.

“Then finish your tea. You’re coming with me. We’ll stop by the bakery on the way.”

Yael looks as though this is the best idea they’ve heard yet, and they flash Margot a grateful grin. Margot returns the smile, ignoring the familiar twist of guilt in her belly. They could both use the help, after all.

Granny Fern taught her how to do everything herself, and that’s just what Margot’s going to do. Even if it means tricking Yael Clauneck into believing she’s so much more than she actually is.

7

Yael

“This is exquisite,” the tailor says, running Yael’s coat through his careful, callused fingers. He traces the embellishments along the left cuff: a wispy branch of velvet oak leaves and acorns with caps of actual spun copper. Thank the gods that, on top of everything else, Margot offered to soak the coat for them overnight. Otherwise, the tailor would have the grime of the Queens’ Road gathering in his fingerprints right now, and the smell of spilled ale in his nostrils.

“It’s a Rastanaya,” Yael offers.

The tailor—Arnav, they scramble to remember—looks up at them, his bearded brown face alight with wonder.

It should feel good. The whole point of owning a Rastanaya is to be able to tell people, It’s a Rastanaya, and watch their opinion of you rise accordingly. Their mother explained this to them when they were still a child while filling their wardrobe with coats and dress shoes, trousers and even stockings. More than Yael could possibly wear to the parties of the season, all made by the designer whose own career the Clauneck Company had invested in decades earlier.

But Arnav’s adulation for a piece that Yael might’ve drunkenly left in the tavern and never missed makes them feel…not very good.

“I wouldn’t ask much for it,” Yael hurries to add.