Page 19 of Homegrown Magic

By the time Yael makes it back to their room at the tavern, the sun has set and every muscle in their body has wilted. At least, it feels that way.

After a tour of the remaining greenhouses—the herb garden and the succulent grotto, the tropical garden and the butterfly garden, the mushroom ring and the perpetually blooming cherry orchard (but not Margot’s private workshop, the door to which remained closed)—Yael was put to work cleaning dirt and debris and sap from the outside of hundreds of glass panes. Even the chilly morning soon turned warm under the sun, and hauling a bucket of soapy water and a wooden ladder between greenhouses was surely the most physical labor Yael has ever done in a day. Probably the most they’ve done collectively in a lifetime.

They’ve earned the dinner waiting for them downstairs in the tavern, but it’s all they can do to haul themself up the stairs, peel off their filthy new clothes, and lie naked atop the quilt on their mattress with the cold evening breeze blowing in through their window. Even the pitcher of water on the other side of the room seems miles away, never mind the tub in the bathing chamber down the hall. So they decide to lie here stinking for a bit longer.

If they were in Ashaway, their second day in the office in the Copper Court would just be coming to an end. There would be dinner at the manor afterward, or in town. Drinking with major investors and high-profile customers, talk of partnerships, shipments, and exchange rates over platters of roast pheasant and gingered pears. Concepts Yael barely understands, yet they would be expected to nod along and agree with every awful or tedious opinion, as they’ve been trained to do. Instead of lying alone in their small room, Yael would be sitting at a table with every seat occupied, pretending not to be desperately lonely and lost all the while.

When they think of the alternative, their little room above a tavern feels more like a home already.

8

Margot

Mid-spring

“Heartbreak-healing strawberry jam requires several ingredients,” Margot says, feeling a little like Granny Fern as she stands beside the bathtub-sized silver cauldron and brazier that are currently taking up nearly half the strawberry room in the Greenwillow Greenhouses. Margot wears Granny Fern’s favorite blue apron, and her hair is twisted into two high buns. The smell of strawberries and sugar fills the warm air, delicate and intoxicating, mixing with the scents of earth, leaves, and growing things. Normally, she would make jam in her kitchen at the cottage, but it’s too small for Margot, the cauldron, dozens of jam jars, and the baskets and baskets of strawberries she and Yael harvested. (Thanks to Yael’s help around the greenhouses over the past two months, Margot was able to turn her full attention to the weevil infestation and was rewarded with one of her best crops yet.) Not to mention Yael themself, who’s currently leaning against a table, holding a paper and a quill.

Outside, rain patters against the long glass windows of the greenhouse—now cleaner than they’ve been in years thanks also to Yael’s efforts—and thunder booms far off, like the rumble of laughter in a distant room. Like Granny Fern’s laughter, filling up the cottage as she’d sit with friends, playing cards long into the night while a young Margot dozed in the loft.

“Go on.” Yael takes a sip of their tea—freshly brewed ginger and hibiscus, which has become their favorite—and nods encouragingly. They look every inch the eager student, which is doing things to Margot’s insides, and to her resolve.

Brushing dirt off her apron and all her treacherous thoughts aside, Margot continues. “Of course, we need fresh strawberries and sugar to make them sweeter.”

“Fresh strawberries, check.” Yael gestures to the bowls of strawberries covering the long wooden tables that stretch the length of the greenhouse. The berries are washed, and their tops have been chopped off. They just need to be mashed and added to the cauldron, but Margot has discovered over the last eight weeks that unless she explains things very carefully to Yael, their flair for improvisation can cause some exciting accidents.

“Once the strawberries and sugar are simmering, we add the juice of exactly nine lemons that’ve been soaking up moonlight for two weeks.”

“What happens if you use lemons that haven’t been soaking up moonlight?

“The jam doesn’t work. Or it does, if all you want is a delicious fruit spread.”

Yael opens and closes their mouth, as if they have competing questions, but they settle on: “Why do you need the lemons?”

“They balance the sweetness of the sugar and berries and speak to the sourness that comes with heartbreak. It’s a tricky piece of magic, but one Granny Fern figured out years ago. I found the recipe in one of her books and tried it when…” Margot trails off as memories of the dark days after Granny Fern’s death fill her mind. Which in turn reminds her that the Claunecks’ deadline is creeping steadily closer, only five months away now.

“When did you get your heart broken? Was it by Sedgewick Wayanette? I knew you’d kissed him!”

That makes her laugh. “I swear, there was nothing between us. Ever.”

Yael raises an eyebrow.

Margot glares back. “And if there were—which there really wasn’t—I’m not going to talk about it now. Especially when there’s so much to do.”

The Spring Fair in Olde Post is in three days, and since the last of the berries only ripened this morning, and since tomorrow is for gathering supplies and packing, and then it’ll take at least a day to get to Olde Post and get settled, they’ve got to make the jam in the next few hours.

“Suit yourself,” Yael says, grinning. “Though if you won’t talk about your heartbreak, how about your magic?”

“It’s advanced plant magic,” Margot relents. “Accomplished by layering will, technique, intention, and perfectly grown ingredients.”

Yael whistles, a sound of appreciation that sends pride whipping through Margot. It’s been so long since she’s had anyone to share the process of making magical remedies with. Her parents didn’t care about the craft. Well, they didn’t care until it was too late—

“And of course,” Yael says, patting the cauldron’s belly like it’s a giant dog, “we need a pot.”

“Cauldron,” Margot corrects. “One made of silver and wrought by a witch in my family many generations ago.”

“Just so.” Yael jots more notes. Already, they look more comfortable in the greenhouse than Margot has ever seen them. There’s dirt in the creases of their palms, she notes with satisfaction, and a bit smeared across their forehead. It’s adorable.

“Once we add everything in and it’s boiling, I’ll complete the spellwork that makes the jam curative.”