Page 30 of Homegrown Magic

Finally, the crowd shifts as a troupe of musicians threads through the lane playing a merry tune, and Margot sees Yael strolling toward the flower stand. They’re confident, grinning, with their arm looped through that of a beautiful middle-aged woman. The woman’s extravagant dress is purple as the allium and lavender in a jar in front of Margot, and it looks more suited to a drawing room in Ashaway than the trampled grass lanes of Olde Post’s Spring Fair. A spike of something (jealousy? Surely not—why would Margot be jealous? Yael can talk to whomever they want) shoots through Margot at the way Yael inclines their head, whispers, and then laughs along with the woman.

As they approach the entrance to the stall, Yael waves to Margot. She waves back, wondering despite herself what new surprise Yael is bringing into her life. The man with the jade plant moves away, pocketing the bottle of homemade plant food Margot’s sold him. The next customer slides into his place, asking for a large bouquet of sunflowers. Before she can gather them, Yael steps behind the sales table, bumping Margot playfully with their hip. The woman in the purple dress stands in front of a waterfall of flowers, one eyebrow raised, her elegant hand outstretched to touch a pale-pink hydrangea blossom.

“Where have you been?” Margot asks. “And where’s our lunch?” Suddenly, the smell of the pies across the way is overwhelming, and Margot’s scone at dawn feels entirely inadequate.

Yael beams, clasping Margot’s wrist for a moment in excitement and then releasing her. “I’ve done better than lunch. That vision in purple over there is Rastanaya.”

The name sounds familiar, like a whisper from a different lifetime, but Margot’s head is full of seed prices and bouquet arrangements. It’s stuffed with the dozens of plant-related questions she’s been answering and the snippets of customers’ stories she’s been told. For the life of her, she can’t place who Rastanaya is or why it matters.

She stares at Yael blankly.

“Rastanaya!” Yael exclaims, still whispering, practically vibrating. “The famous designer! She’s looking for inspiration for her summer collection, and I told her all about you. She was keen to meet Fern’s granddaughter.”

Ahhh, that’s why she sounds familiar. Margot looks again at Rastanaya, taking in the unique tailoring and the skillful drape of her dress. She’s the embodiment of chic in so many ways, and now Margot remembers that her mother had loved wearing her ballgowns back in that other life.

“I’m sure she doesn’t want to see my flowers.” Margot smooths a hand over her messy braid and her soil-stained apron.

“Of course she does. She’s here for you!”

Margot furrows her brow. It seems more likely that she’s here for Yael, but perhaps this is what opportunity looks like: a renowned designer and darling of Ashaway in her Spring Fair tent. “Fine. I’ll go talk to her. But you have to watch the counter.”

Before Yael can agree or Margot can approach, Rastanaya turns, holding a bundle of onyx tulips and eyeing them critically. “Yael, darling, introduce us already. I’m meeting your cousin at the Wilting Bear Tavern soon, but I must know more about these divine blossoms.”

Yael bows. “This is—”

“I’m Margot Greenwillow,” Margot says, cutting off Yael and offering Rastanaya her hand. “Honored to meet you, sir’ram.”

Rastanaya smiles and takes Margot’s hand, her smooth palm against Margot’s callused one. “No need to be so formal, darling. Yael here was telling me about your exquisite blooms, and I came to see what they were on about. Your grandmother’s greatness continues in you!”

Margot can feel her cheeks heating with a blush. If only that were the case. She releases Rastanaya and fiddles with one of the flower buckets in front of her, fighting the urge to reach for the ever-present letter in her pocket.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Yael chimes in. “I wish you could visit the Greenwillow Greenhouses in Bloomfield; that’s where Margot’s family’s estate is. If you think this stall is incredible, the greenhouses will inspire you!”

Margot steps on Yael’s foot for complicated reasons she’s not entirely sure of. She wants them to hype up her greenhouses, yes, but it feels awful to hear them talk of Greenwillow Manor without knowing the whole truth.

“I’m already inspired.” Rastanaya hands Yael the tulips to hold, then lifts a bouquet of plate-sized blue hyacinths to her face, inhaling. “These are decadent. Just the wild extravagance I love to see in nature.” She looks upward at the flowers hanging from the ceiling and taps her lip with one polished fingernail. “Yes, imagine it…” she murmurs.

Yael rests a hand gently on Margot’s lower back. “Go on,” they urge in a low voice. “Tell her more about your work. Sell her on you. Clearly, she’s ready to buy!”

Margot can’t do that, can she? But how often will someone like Rastanaya stand in her flower stall, waiting to be impressed? Margot has to try.

Her heart races as she steps away from the counter. “Don’t give anything away for less than the stated price,” she whispers to Yael. “And please, don’t offer horticultural advice. Just come ask me if you have any questions.”

Yael salutes Margot with Rastanaya’s tulips and turns to the customer at the front of the line. Pausing in front of the table, Margot touches one of the tattooed strawberries on her arm for luck and picks up a jar of jam so she has something to give Rastanaya to remember her by.

“Stay with me, Granny Fern,” Margot whispers as she walks forward.

“That was incredible!” Margot says for what’s got to be the tenth time in the last hour. Her words are a bit sloppy from the bottle of wine she split with Yael, and as they approach the Abyssal Chicken, she does a little happy turn nearly on beat with the fiddle music floating down the street from the fair. It’s long after midnight, but the inn is still full of people eating, singing by the fire, and talking to one another at drunken volumes. Margot wants to go up to each of them, pull Rastanaya’s perfumed card from her pocket, and tell them the good news: She is going to help with Rastanaya’s next collection!

Well, she isn’t going to help, but her flowers and plants will be the inspiration behind a few late additions among the garments Rastanaya’s set to debut just about two months from now, at summer’s start. (Margot refuses to contemplate how soon summer will be upon them; it would only bring her crashing back to earth. She wants to float for just a little while longer.) And the amount of money she’s paid Margot for nearly half the stock she brought to Olde Post? It makes Margot’s head spin more so than the wine.

“You were incredible,” Yael says. “You charmed Rastanaya entirely.”

Margot waves a hand as they walk through the common room of the inn, heading upstairs to their room. “It was all your doing. You may not be able to make tea, Yael Clauneck, but you have an excellent eye for opportunity.”

Yael holds one hand over their heart. “And you for flower arranging.”

“And me for flower arranging,” Margot agrees, because if she hadn’t decorated the stall as she had, Rastanaya would’ve never seen the possibility in her work.