Page 22 of Homegrown Magic

Margot’s mother, Iris, is still beautiful, even though her high cheekbones stand out more these days and her skin is as pale as a winter-frosted window. Her long purple hair—now shot through with silver—fans out on her fluffy pillow, and her hands are clasped at her waist. She breathes softly, a wistful smile on her face. Margot’s father’s cheeks are ruddy beneath his beard, his hair still curling, though it and his beard are salted with more gray these days. Like his wife, he sleeps peacefully with a smile on his face. Whatever they’re dreaming, Margot has no idea, but she hopes it’s lovely and comforting.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” Margot says, walking between their beds. Her feet sink into the thick rug, muffling her steps. She can’t look at Yael. Doesn’t really want them to see this: the true downfall of the Greenwillows. But also, she needs them to see exactly what their family has done to hers, even if they don’t realize it. She needs somebody to know. “How are you both tonight?”

As usual, her parents don’t reply. Margot brushes a bit of hair from her mother’s forehead. Straightens her father’s covers. If Yael weren’t here, Margot would pull up a chair and tell her parents about everything going on at the greenhouse. But tonight, she’s self-conscious with Yael waiting in the doorway, limned in the soft light from the hall.

“I left some jam with Tulip,” Margot whispers, holding her mother’s hand. Her skin is papery thin but soft. “Be sure to try it. I think it’s our best batch yet.”

Regret surges through her as she kisses both her parents on the forehead. It isn’t supposed to be like this, and she has to fix it. She will fix it. No matter what it takes.

“See you when we get back from Olde Post.”

Yael’s usually large eyes are huge in their face as Margot carefully closes the door.

“What happened to your parents?” they ask once Margot has said goodbye to Tulip and they’re walking back down Bloomfield’s main street.

Anger burns through Margot, fierce as the evening wind that pulls her hair out from its braid. Shame and regret chase the anger, and every emotion flares and flickers out as fast as it appears. Margot is left feeling empty, hollowed out, and so very tired.

That her parents are in the Care Cottage is more her fault than Yael’s family’s, but how can she tell them that?

“It’s a long story,” she says. “And not one for the end of such an exhausting day. Let’s get dinner, and then we have to get to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be another tiring day.”

Margot feels Yael’s eyes on her. Feels their questions, their pity, their confusion. But they don’t say anything, and for that Margot is grateful.

She really is starting to like Yael Clauneck more than she should.

9

Yael

Despite their best intentions, Margot’s house is on fire.

“Fuck fuck fuck…” Yael stamps a boot into the flames beginning to lick across the woven rug, regretting every choice that led them here.

Their plan was simple. The next morning—the day before they were set to leave for the Spring Fair—Yael would rise early (really, inhumanly early) and sneak out to the cottage before Margot woke. When Margot came down the loft ladder, she would find Yael at the bottom with breakfast made (or brought over in a parcel from the tavern, at least) and a freshly poured cup of tea. Her jaw would drop at the sight, and Yael would say, I know there’s much to do today, but sit with me for a moment. They wouldn’t bring up Margot’s parents, no matter how desperately curious they were, or pressure her to talk about real things. The fact that Margot took Yael along to the Care Cottage at all feels like a kind of trust, fragile as blown glass, and they won’t break it by asking questions. The two of them could just sit together, mutually appreciating Yael’s thoughtfulness. Yael would even wash the mugs after.

Alas, things didn’t go to plan.

“Yael, what the devils!” Margot cries, dropping down the ladder behind them.

“Margot, I—” They cough, swatting through the smoke in the little living room as they manage to snuff out the rug. “Surprise?”

She looks down to where the woven scraps of multicolored wool have been scorched brown. “Thank you?”

“I wanted to make you tea,” they explain. “But I couldn’t read the spell on the teapot, so I, um, tried to do it the non-magical way.” Because the little bin beside the fireplace was empty, they’d gone out to the woodpile in the garden, gathered an armful, and set it down as silently as possible. They found a tinderbox on the mantel, then copied what they thought they’d seen Margot do: piled the wood in, scattered scraps of char cloth on top, struck the flint against the fire striker, and let the cloth catch. Then they went for the teakettle in the kitchen. When they came back, smoke was puffing into the cottage, and the rug on the rough wood floor beside the fireplace was ablaze.

“Well, next time you break into my home, put the logs farther back in the hearth so the embers don’t spit out into the room.” Margot frowns at the fireplace.

They nudge a log that’s nearly fallen out of the hearth back with the toe of their sooty boot. “I’d hardly call it breaking in when your door wasn’t locked.”

“It’s never had to be, but perhaps I’ll rethink.”

“I really am sorry. I was trying to…I wanted to do a nice thing for you, because…” They make the mistake of meeting her eyes, as gray as the last ice to melt in spring, and know she must see the scene at the Care Cottage reflected in theirs.

“Well, thank you,” she says again, stiffly, “but I can make my own tea. If you want to be of use, there’s a list of supplies we still need before we set out for Olde Post tomorrow, and I’ve got to head to the greenhouses to pack the wagon, and I’ve yet to begin preparing for the community dinner tonight.” She pulls a list from the pocket of her dressing gown…

And Yael just now realizes that Margot is wearing a dressing gown loosely tied over a whispery thin, white cotton nightshirt that doesn’t quite reach her knees. She rubs one mile-long leg against the other absentmindedly as she reads over her list.

Catching Margot in her nightshirt was never part of their plan, any more than setting the cottage ablaze or proving themself as useless as ever.