Page 36 of Homegrown Magic

“So…sort of your great-great-great-great-grandfather is your patron?”

“Yes. But I don’t like to call on him. He’s not very nice. I hear his voice in my head sometimes—I have since I was a child, as all Claunecks do, or so I assume—usually when I’ve disappointed him in some significant way. I suppose that running away from home to become a greenhouse assistant qualifies.”

For whatever reason, this sends Margot into a fit of hysterical laughter, until she falls against Yael for support once more. Only Yael wasn’t braced this time. The two of them go tumbling to the tower floor, Margot still cackling. Yael leans back on their elbows to watch her, their heart swelling even as their rear end aches from the impact.

“It isn’t funny,” they giggle.

“It is a little.” Margot wipes the tears from her cheeks, flopping over to lie on her back on the floor and gaze up at the conical rafters of the tower roof.

Lying back, Yael joins her. They decide that they could lie here next to Margot for hours. For days. For another decade, happily surviving on strawberry jam while the world spun onward without them. Yael has all the world they need up here, and Margot Greenwillow has somehow become its core.

14

Margot

The first day of summer

Almost exactly three weeks after the arrival of Rastanaya’s letter, and Margot’s almost full confession in the tower of Greenwillow Manor (she couldn’t bring herself to tell Yael about the Claunecks’ claim on Bloomfield—her parents’ last secret, the heaviest burden she bears, and one she doesn’t know how to share with anyone, especially with the deadline a mere season away now), she finds herself standing in front of the only mirror in her cottage, fidgeting with the low, low neckline of an absolutely stunning, entirely impractical dress. It’s an elegant confection with a shimmery blue-and-purple bell skirt that looks like it’s made from starlight-kissed hyacinths, along with a gold-and-purple-corseted bodice that accentuates her curves and plunges deeply, leaving a swath of creamy skin exposed.

Rastanaya, who has been in town for nearly a week to prepare and set up with her entourage, presented both Margot and Yael with gold-wrapped boxes after dinner at the tavern last night. She declared that the manor and Margot’s flowering arrangements had “exceeded her wildest whims and most fanciful dreams.” Yael had tried desperately to peer inside her box, but Rastanaya chided them, telling them both to open their gift only when they were alone so that it was a surprise.

Yael is certainly going to be surprised. Whether that’s a good thing or not, Margot’s not sure. But really, when it comes to Yael Clauneck, there’s much she’s unsure of, so this feeling is nothing new.

Pushing thoughts of Yael away for the moment, Margot turns, examining herself from all angles. Her purple hair is swept up into a pair of elaborate five-strand braids and pinned into place with her mother’s silver combs—another small memento Margot found in her mother’s things after she’d slipped into the coma, and that Margot couldn’t bring herself to sell. Her tattoos are fully on display, and Margot feels powerful, lovely, and entirely not herself. Perhaps she should wear her garden boots under the dress just so she doesn’t get swept into the fantasy of this day? After all, when the guests go home tomorrow and the flowers are cleared from the manor, Margot will be right back to working in the greenhouses with Yael.

She’s not even sure about that, though. How will Yael feel seeing all these people from their old life? How will Margot feel? After all, she hasn’t seen or been seen in high society for years. What will they think of her now? Her stomach flips at the thought, and she takes a sip of tea—fortified with brandy—leaving a ring of purple lip stain on the edge of the cup.

She’s going to be fine. This will be fine. Seeing people from her old life is fine, and if they ask questions about Margot’s parents, well…

She isn’t quite sure what she’ll say, but she’ll think of something that doesn’t involve the truth or the contents of the letter that’s now tucked into a box under her mattress. For tonight, at least, she can leave it here. Doesn’t she deserve one fantastical day free from it?

A small tinkling sound startles Margot out of her thoughts. She looks around for the source, expecting to find someone walking through the cottage door, but no. It’s just the enchanted compact Sage gave her, resting on the table. It trills again and Margot flicks it open. A message in Sage’s handwriting scrawls itself across the mirror glass in silver ink.

Don’t even think about wearing your garden boots today. Or anything with a strawberry on it.

And then a second later: I’ll be there before the show starts. My horse threw a shoe, and I’m running late.

Margot still can’t believe Sage is coming to the fashion show. To any fashion show, really. It’s entirely not her scene, but when she’d messaged Margot a few days ago, fresh off her latest adventure in the Swamplands and suggesting that she come to Bloomfield for a quick visit before the next two-month expedition she had lined up, Margot told her everything. Well, almost everything. She’d told her about Yael Clauneck (Sage swore prolifically when she heard the Clauneck name) and how they’d found their way to Bloomfield. About working in the greenhouses together for the last few months, and how the fashion show was being held at the manor now that Yael had introduced her to Rastanaya. Margot very deliberately did not mention the way that Yael made her laugh. Or the extremely complicated mess of feelings they inspired within her.

Sage promised to be at Rastanaya’s show, declaring herself more than able to sit through a few hours of high-society nonsense in order to meet this Clauneck…

They’re not so bad, Margot had insisted. Really. You might even like them.

We’ll see. Sage had signed off then, since a fight was breaking out behind her in the tavern.

Margot just hopes Sage doesn’t want to fight Yael for some reason. (There are so many reasons Sage might want to fight Yael. Perhaps it’d be best never to leave the two of them alone.)

Margot finds a scrap of paper on which to scribble her reply to Sage: Don’t be late! And don’t worry, I’m not wearing anything you’ve seen before, I promise.

As she’s putting the compact into her dress pocket, a knock sounds on the door. “Margot?” Yael’s voice drifts through, eager and tentative all at once.

Margot smiles to herself. Casting a final, satisfied look in the mirror, she flings the door open.

Yael stands out in the garden, wearing their own gift from Rastanaya: a formfitting merlot-red suit embroidered with a pattern of black vines and nearly black plum roses. A single low-placed button holds the jacket closed, revealing the lack of any shirt beneath, just a black swath of fabric across their chest. The suit clings to Yael’s narrow hips and accentuates their shoulders in the most delicious way. Their dark hair hangs loose, waving about their face, grown out past their cheekbones after these months in Bloomfield. They hold a bottle of wine and lift it as they start to speak, but their mouth only hinges open as their eyes roam over Margot, something boiling in their gaze.

Unable to stop herself, Margot smirks.

Yael makes a small, helpless noise. “What are you wearing?” they ask, their voice jagged, as if in physical pain.