Page 23 of Homegrown Magic

Gods.

“Of course I’ll get the supplies.” Yael tears their eyes away, holding a hand out for the list.

“Great. Just tell the shopkeepers to put it on my account. I’ll come around to settle up when we get back from the fair. Ask for help if you don’t recognize an item; you don’t need to guess.” She says this as though they’re a child being given an errand to keep them busy, rather than because they can be trusted to complete a crucial task.

Staring down at the ruined rug, Yael can hardly blame her. “This wasn’t Granny Fern’s, was it?” they dare to ask.

Instead of answering, Margot rests a hand on their shoulder, shaking them lightly. “This was…a nice thing to want to do. Wildly unnecessary, of course. Please don’t do it again. But still, nice.” Her grip on Yael’s shoulder tightens momentarily, fingertips twitching, before her hand slips down their arm (perhaps more slowly than needed) then away. “Come to the greenhouses when you’re done, and we’ll load everything into the cart.”

“Right.” They clear their throat.

Margot climbs back up the ladder rungs, her long legs gone in a blink, leaving Yael alone in the ashes of their good intentions.

First stop is the bakery, run by a tiny sprout of an old woman named Estelle, where Yael acquires a few loaves of crusty brown bread for their travels, then Yvonne’s butchery for a small parcel of dried and cured meat. The nature of the “meat” isn’t defined by either Margot or Yvonne. Whether it’s sheep or badger or blood hawk or giant toad, Yael doesn’t ask. Next, it’s Javril the cobbler’s, where Yael picks up Margot’s only pair of traveling boots, which have needed to be resoled since last spring.

On their way to Marvel’s blacksmithery for a replacement hub band for one of the cart wheels, villagers wave and call out to Yael. How quickly things change. Two months ago, they were a stranger in Bloomfield, met with incredulous stares. Now the librarian/bookshop owner stops them to talk about a romance novel he’s just gotten in. “It’s a story as satisfying as perpetual stew!” Mike raves, promising to bring it to the tavern tonight.

Unbelievably, they’ve settled into a routine here. Six days out of seven, they wake just before sunrise to the pounding of a broomstick handle on their floor from below—an arrangement they made with Clementine that first day and have regretted every morning since. She knocks when the morning’s delivery from the baker arrives, and Yael goes down to have a bite in the tavern—also included in their arrangement, but much preferable to the alarm broom. Then it’s off to the greenhouses, arriving after Margot no matter how hastily they devoured a bowl of current and honey porridge or a cinnamon bun. Once there, they begin their list of daily chores:

Check the trellises to make sure the vining plants are growing in the right direction, delicately untwining any tendrils that have coiled where they shouldn’t and adding ties as necessary. Yael enjoys this job; guiding the tendrils of a sweet pea plant to curl around the correct pole, like helping a toddler to grip and pull themself upright for the first time.

If Margot’s spotted any pests, discolored patches, or fungi in the soil on her own morning walk-through, Yael tends to the simpler, non-magical problems, like replacing soil or plucking ordinary, non-magical, squishable bugs from beneath the leaves. Yael does not so much enjoy the bug plucking.

Take a midday survey of any fruits, herbs, or petals that seem ready to harvest, but do not harvest it themself; they simply make a list for Margot, as Yael is not yet trusted around the plants with a pair of shears.

After that, it’s on to whatever tasks Margot has in mind for them that day, from hauling soil to fetching lunch to weeding the path. After work, it’s back to the tavern to wash up and then collapse (or collapse and then wash up, depending on the day) until they head downstairs for dinner. Sometimes Margot will already be there, or she’ll join them later, but it’s never planned. Except for community dinners, that is, which include everyone in Bloomfield.

The gods know Yael has been to banquets. During the social season, it seems the Clauneck estate hosts more dinner parties than private meals. Elaborate, hours-long rituals for exclusive guest lists, involving opulent table settings of handwoven tablecloths (not Clauneck hands, of course), golden candelabras, and exotic fruits in glass pedestal dishes, destined to rot in the bins after serving their decorative purpose. There are up to a dozen courses, all strictly ordered—salads, nuts, soups, cheeses, fishes, meats, greens, and always some sort of magical elixir to combat the latest illness embattling the capital. There’s conversation of the most calculated sort, meant to impress and intimidate but never offend. If children are present, they are silent until called upon to recite some practiced speech or song, as Yael and their cousins often were.

Community dinners are another story altogether. Yael has attended a handful so far, one for each of their eight weeks in Bloomfield. To put it generously, these dinners are gentle chaos. Dozens of hands passing dozens of dishes back and forth with no particular order or logic while children dart between their grown-ups’ legs. There in the middle of it is Yael, somehow feeling a part of it all, even if they don’t understand half of the jokes being tossed about. They’ve had their hands in the soil that grew the herbs that flavor the dishes, and that seems to be enough for folk who’ve known one another for a lifetime to treat Yael as one of their own.

Except, perhaps, for Margot.

Clouds gather overhead, and the noontime sun has vanished from the sky by the time Yael completes their errands. They reach the greenhouses just as rain splatters the road around them and duck inside the shopfront. “I’ve returned—with unspecified meat!” they call out.

No answer from the empty shop.

They shake the raindrops from their hair, then move through to the strawberry chamber, where, shockingly, Margot isn’t. Nor is she in the succulent grotto, or butterfly garden, or any of the greenhouses, until the last option left is Margot’s workshop. The painted, peeling yellow door is shut, as ever; they’ve yet to be allowed inside. She claims it’s because the room is a mess and one wrong step might send a dozen pots and delicate cuttings tumbling to the floor.

They hesitate, then rap against it with one knuckle. “Margot?”

No answer.

“Daisy?” they try.

A moment later, the door opens, only for Margot to poke her head out through the narrow gap. “Don’t call me that. Found everything on the list?” she asks, brushing strands of violet hair that’ve slipped loose from her braid out of her face. The nightshirt has been replaced with a sensible pale-green work dress.

Yael peers over her shoulder. “You know, if you wanted help to tidy up your workshop, I did clean every pane of glass in this complex without breaking any.”

“And yet you set my cottage aflame with a teapot.”

“I didn’t!” they protest. “I never even got to the teapot.”

Margot presses her teeth into her bottom lip (whether she’s biting back a smile or an insult, Yael can’t tell), then says, “Let’s just…focus on the work. The cart is out by the shed, but we can’t pack it in this mess, anyway.” She sighs, glancing up at the rain that beats against the glass roof. “Go and mind the shop for now, just in case somebody braves the weather, and I’ll meet you there with tea.”

Yael perks up. “Ginger hibiscus?”

“Naturally.” With a last worried glance, Margot squeezes back inside her workshop, shutting them out once more.