Page 57 of Homegrown Magic

The ballroom has been remade into a garden.

The marble pillars bordering a temporary dance floor of pale-pink tiles have been wrapped with mats of forest moss from floor to ceiling. Massive silk butterflies are pinned to the greenery, with wings like stained-glass windows. The cold purple candlelight of Yael’s graduation party has been replaced by lanterns full of captured fairy light; they float in clusters above curved settees, where guests lean in to converse under the cover of boisterous music from a hired quintet. Hundreds or thousands of silk flowers half as big as Yael obscure the starred black ceiling. Hung upside down, they create a dome of giant petals and palm-sized stamens, an occasional puff of gold “pollen” drifting down like stardust.

Margot cranes her neck all the way back to stare up at them.

“I’ve never seen it like this,” Yael says, puzzled.

“Why do you think—” Margot starts, but presses her lips together as Menorath slithers in between them.

Yael’s mother is dressed to match the massive flowers overhead in a fitted gown that hugs her narrow figure from chest to knees, stemlike, with a skirt that poufs dramatically into layered petals of crepe and satin. But the fabric is all in black, with a mask of sheer gold lace to match Yael as well.

“Mother,” Yael mutters as Menorath leans down to press a brief kiss to their cheek.

“So glad you both could join us. What do you think of our garden of delights?”

“It’s…unexpected,” Yael admits. “Aren’t your parties usually themed around some stuffy old Harrow legend, or just ‘wealth’?”

“We had a different theme in mind, it’s true, and had to scrap it all at nearly the last moment, which cost us what some might consider a fortune. But it’s worth it to celebrate your companion’s reentry to fine society, is it not?”

“What exactly are you up to, Mother?” Yael demands. “Is this some sort of…” A bribe? A threat? A gift?

“It’s an investment, Yael. Margot made an impression upon a scant handful of Ashaway’s elite, and Rastanaya has risked much on this collection. She told me herself. Structure was said to be the trend this season—sharp tailoring and metal embellishments and clean-cut lines. Now, with our taste and position, everyone will be throwing nature-themed balls and bacchanalia, and wanting Rastanaya’s pieces to wear. She’ll be in higher demand than ever, and Margot, as her muse, will rise into the public consciousness.”

Margot’s face is half inscrutable behind her mask, but Yael can imagine the furrow in her brow as her lips part speechlessly. There’s something off here. Menorath Clauneck isn’t the generous patron she’s pretending to be. Yael starts to protest, suspicion coiling in their gut like a poisonous snake.

But Margot speaks first. “Thank you for your gracious welcome,” she says to Menorath, clearly selecting her words with care. “It’s a lovely party.”

“And you look as exquisite as expected, dear.”

Yael doesn’t like the way their mother’s looking at Margot, appraising her. They don’t like it when she reaches out to adjust the feathered collar around Margot’s neck, as though Margot is just another piece of party decor for Menorath to dictate and fuss over.

“I see our guests of honor have arrived.” Baremon greets them both in a voice meant to carry as he cuts through the crowd, and Yael is grateful for the mask that hides their flinch. Their father stops beside his wife to wrap a possessive arm around her waist. “How fine you look for your grand reentrance to civilization, Yael.” Their father wears no mask—rules are beneath Baremon, even his own—and is clad in a suit in varying shades of black uncomfortably similar to Yael’s, albeit with a taller cut and broader shoulders and chest.

“Thank you, Father. It’s good to be here,” they lie without looking him in the eye.

“And you, Ms. Greenwillow.” Baremon holds out a hand.

Reluctantly, as if she’s reaching inside the jaws of a coiled fire snake, Margot gives him hers. Their father kisses her knuckles, and a shiver runs down Yael’s spine.

“Will you grant me the first dance, Ms. Greenwillow?” Baremon asks. “I’ve not seen you since you were a child and would cherish the chance to reacquaint myself with such a lovely young woman.”

“Father—”

“Of course.” Margot cuts them off, squeezing their linked arms before Baremon leads her away from Yael and out onto the tiled dance floor.

The hired musicians strike up an elegant waltz at Baremon’s cue. From the edge of the room, Yael watches them, watches Margot’s face remain impassive as Baremon leads her authoritatively in the dance.

“She really is lovely, darling,” Menorath says. “Country living has clearly done well by her.”

Yael can feel their fake smile faltering, and they grind their teeth together to keep it in place. “Yes, poverty is so flattering for the complexion.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I know what you did to the Greenwillows. What our family did.”

“What we did?”

“Bankrupted them. Took their home in Ashaway and drove them out of the city, then took the manor in Bloomfield. Forced them into a cottage on the edge of the only land they had left. I know, Mother.”