Page 29 of Homegrown Magic

“Did your parents pass along my well wishes? I heard you’d taken a horrible fall from one of Oreborn’s steeds at his compound and were recovering in the country, but I’m so pleased to see you up and about. And, well, here.” Rastanaya trails off, probably realizing the unlikeliness of their meeting. She eyes Yael’s unadorned violet shirt and plain brown vest and trousers: the finest of the clothes they bought in Bloomfield. “You look…at ease.”

“Yes, er, the healers thought the country air would be restorative,” they’re quick to respond; they can guess what’s happened. If word is circulating that Yael was injured, it can only have come from Baremon and Menorath, who would’ve stamped out any rumors that didn’t benefit them. This must be the story they’ve told, rather than facing the shame and scandal of the Clauneck heir galloping off from their own graduation party. “But it’s not been nearly so restorative as seeing you, darling.”

Rastanaya’s plum-painted lips curl into a knowing smile. “Flatterer. Keep going; it will get you everywhere.” She holds out an arm and Yael obediently takes it, though the bell skirt prevents them from walking directly side by side.

“Now that we know what I’m doing here,” Yael says, leading her toward what they hope is the opposite end of the lane from their cousin, “whatever are you doing here?”

“I’ve come with Araphi, would you believe it?”

“I would not!”

“We’ve just had a fitting for her engagement banquet, but of course you’ll know about that.”

“Of course.”

But Yael did not know. How could the little girl who once swallowed a lightning bug, hoping to glow, be ready to wed? Has she truly fallen in love in the two months that Yael’s been gone?

Or was the family so eager to distract from Yael’s failures that they turned to their next eldest asset?

“Araphi mentioned her plans to get away from the fuss of wedding planning for the weekend with a friend or two,” Rastanaya continues. “Well, I’m in the midst of arranging the debut of my summer collection, and I decided I could do worse than a weekend’s adventure for inspiration. Our theme is the wild places, you see. I’ve drawn my aesthetics from those still untamed pockets of Harrow. The Dire Swamp where the bog creepers grow, the forests in the Northlands, the gardens of the fae where even rangers won’t tread. And so on. There’s no place untamed in Ashaway, so I thought, why not? Alas, there doesn’t seem to be a surplus of magic in Olde Post either.” She frowns as she looks about. “They say there are fewer natural casters born in Harrow with each generation, and it seems it’s true. We’ve plundered and conquered what we ought to have let grow wild and die wild and grow anew, and now there’s little left. Or so they say.” Rastanaya waves a hand.

“There’s still magic if you know where to look,” Yael protests. “There’s a natural spellcaster just a few aisles over, at the Greenwillow Greenhouses booth.”

“Not Fern?” Rastanaya gasps. “I’ve based an embroidery pattern or ten on her creations, especially when I was coming up. But I’d heard she passed away years ago, out in the middle of nowhere.”

It was very much somewhere, Yael wants to object, though it would mean little to Rastanaya. But now Yael’s wheels are turning. Because didn’t they promise that soon people would recognize and respect the name Margot Greenwillow? And apparently, their parents are more concerned with covering up their absence than tracking them down, anyway. “Not Fern, no, but her granddaughter, an equally talented plant witch. With living creations worthy of your summer collection, I’d wager. If you promise not to tell the world where you heard of her—I’d rather not be found by my many admirers until I’m back at peak form, you see—I’ll show you.”

Rastanaya raises an immaculately shaped brow, brown eyes glittering. “Show me, and I’ll keep your secrets. Only I insist you let me dress you once you are back at peak form. You look happy, my love, but the rustic look doesn’t quite suit your skin tone.”

Yael wrinkles their nose and leads the way.

12

Margot

Where is Yael?

Margot peers through the clump of customers waiting at her sales table, looking for her missing assistant even as she discusses orchid care with the man in a leather apron in front of her. He’s a cobbler, as he’s explained three times, but his passion is orchids, as the four orchid tattoos on his forearm attest.

Margot nods, still listening, but her attention is caught by the green silk canopy overarching her table as it flutters in the breeze, twisting the blooms and vines hanging from its support beams.

Margot had some vague idea about decorating the sales tent with fresh flowers, thinking to pull people in and increase sales. But she was imagining something simple and practical, something not-fancy that got the job done. The Spring Fair stall equivalent of her garden boots, not a pair of silk slippers with silver accents. When she mentioned the idea and the shoe comparison to Yael, they laughed and dared her to dream bigger. “Fake it until you make it,” they’d cheerfully declared. And so she let her creativity run wild. Now the sales tent is more like a dreamy floral carnival or a woodland ballroom than a fair stall, and it’s been pulling people in by the dozens. At the entrance, there’s a wooden archway Yael found (or traded for, or charmed out of another merchant?), which Margot wove with honeysuckle, purple wisteria, delicate pink cherry blossoms, blue morning glories, and lush clusters of bougainvillea. The table where Margot stands is at the back of the tent, covered in slim silver buckets full of cut flowers and an artfully arranged basket of strawberry jam. Along the sides, Yael has found (borrowed?) rows of simple wood ladders, and Margot managed to make the pots of flowers cascade down the rungs, their blossoms like a rainbow-colored waterfall running down a hillside. There are small flowering trees and bushes on one side of the booth, which Margot arranged into a miniature forest complete with blankets of moss and mushrooms on small logs. The air is heavy with the scent of blossoms mixing with the smell of the pie-on-a-stick stand just across the grassy lane, along with the goat yard a bit farther on.

It’s all exquisite, and Margot is quite pleased with her efforts. Perhaps she should put Yael in charge of something other than window washing; maybe promotion of the greenhouses?

“Hello,” a wide-eyed teenage girl says, stepping up to Margot’s table and interrupting her thoughts. Her voice is soft, hopeful. “I need something to catch a girl’s eye and make her remember me.”

“I have just the thing.” Margot gathers irises, lilacs, tulips, and foxgloves into a colorful bouquet. “This will get you started.” She ties a ribbon around the flower stems. “But the rest is up to you. I suggest talking to her about something she loves, and perhaps also learning her favorite pastry.”

This was another one of Granny Fern’s traditions—selling custom bouquets and offering a small piece of advice for the buyer.

“Thank you, Ms. Greenwillow.” The young woman clutches the bouquet to her chest. “It’s perfect. So much like the one your grandmother made for my father to woo my mother. She keeps the dried bouquet in a vase to this day.”

Before Margot can reply, the girl drops some coins into Margot’s hand and hurries away, a smile on her lips. Margot smiles too, loving this work of connecting people with the plants she’s worked so hard to grow. In the morning’s bustle, she feels Granny Fern at her side, gently guiding her, encouraging her, telling her it’ll all work out. She really, really hopes it will.

It has to.

Margot turns to the next customer, a gray-haired man in a suit that’s far too buttoned up for the Spring Fair, holding a drooping jade plant. As he talks about the challenges of raising a plant that seems constantly on the verge of death by overwatering, underwatering, and one wrong glance, she resumes her search for Yael.