Page 72 of Homegrown Magic

“You see those pole beans are just starting to flower.” She points to the delicate, vibrant green vines that curl their way up the wooden stakes. “The bush beans have been giving for months, but you can see the yellow in the leaves. The heat’s been vicious, and they’re getting tired. But they help the squash grow; they put something back in the soil, couldn’t tell you what. I never went to school for it. But my mother told me so when I was young, and I’ve found it’s true.”

“The marigolds are lovely,” Yael says, proud of themself for identifying the golden-orange flowers, which have grown about half the size of those in Bloomfield. Margot (oh gods, Margot) grew them nearly as tall as Yael.

“They keep the bees coming and keep away the bugs that spoil the tomatoes, right there beside them. I haven’t pruned those like I should this year. Mother was sick for a time this summer, and with Momma hired at one of the estates for the season, she couldn’t spare me. But see, the marigolds are propping them up—a happy mistake.”

“What’s that one?” Yael asks, pointing to a plant with egg-shaped leaves and clusters of yellow buds growing in a patch away from the rest of the beds.

“Sicklepod. You can use the roots for medicine, but mostly it’s a trap crop. Keeps some nasty bugs from eating my soybeans, since they go after the sicklepod instead. See the holes in the leaves? That means it’s working.” She walks Yael through the rest of her small garden, pointing to the squash with brown-spotted leaves. “I’ll give them a go in another bed next year, see what works for them if I can. I know it all looks a lot rougher than the greenhouse flowers, but I’ve hardly got a drop of magic in me, and they’ve got spells on them from the time they sprout; the owner hires a plant witch to do the job. You can see my melons are doing well, though, with the lavender there. It brings the bees right to them.”

Yael recalls Margot talking about all of this—companion planting and trap crops and such—but with her prodigious talent as a plant witch, they wondered why she bothered. Perhaps Yael wasn’t listening closely enough. Perhaps they were too caught up in trying to prove themself to her. If only Yael could talk to Margot now, they would—

What? What could Yael possibly say after leaving her at the ball? Would they apologize? It was right, their leaving. They made the right choice. A choice so right, they can’t even remember making it, but simply knowing it through and through.

And yet…

If they could talk to Margot, they’d ask questions that truly mattered, and maybe they’d learn how to grow a garden like a living body: with strengths and weaknesses, with unplanned disasters and unexpected support systems, with the grace to try and try again.

“Thank you,” Yael says, “for showing me this. What’s your name?”

“Miriam.” She looks as though she might ask theirs but stops herself, keenly aware of the difference in their stations.

“You know, Miriam, there is some land to be found. North of the palace and to the west of the Rookery, same side of the river. It, er, came across my desk, at work.” Occasionally, profitability analysis reports to do with land speculation and development will pass through Yael’s department, comparing a plot’s favorability to potential investors with current rates of exchange and equivalents in valuable trade goods or spellwork. “There’s a bank that’s keen to snatch it up and sell it off in parts.”

“Not to us, though.” Miriam smiles ruefully. “It’s happened before. The Rookery used to run farther east, nearly to the walls. Now we’re more jumbled together than we ever were. Folk in the Copper Court buy it up for a palmful of coins more than we can afford, then sell it for twice or three times the price. Mother says they’ve even done it without buying the land to begin with, just claiming it and selling it off quick, before we could put up a fuss. Meanwhile, we’re not allowed to grow where we don’t own, even before the banks get there. And who in the Rookery can afford even undesirable land?”

Yael ponders this for a moment, then scrapes the half-dozen jeweled rings from their fingers—family heirlooms their mother insists they wear—and plucks the watch and chain from their coat pocket. They hold out the glittering fistful to Miriam. When she only stares in confusion, they stoop down and set it all gently upon the soil. “Now you can afford it.”

“Sir’ram, I can’t possibly…I can’t take…”

But Yael is already backing away, toward the rear exit of the greenhouse. “Go right to the Copper Court once you’re let off work for the day, and you can buy a decent patch before the bank has the chance to bully down the price. Only, promise that you’ll share it with your neighbors? It’s a good deal of earth.”

Then they turn and disappear into the ripe-smelling troughs of factory-bound flowers.

30

Margot

Middle of summer

On a Saturday morning with little more than a month before summer’s end, Margot stands under the oak tree behind her cottage, her feet rooted in the soil, her heart as fragile as it has been since Yael left her on the balcony of their manor six weeks ago. In that time, much to her surprise and despair, she’s had no letters or messages from them. It’s a resounding silence, which has clipped any tendrils of hope Margot had that things between them might work out. The silence said, loudly, that perhaps Yael was telling the truth and couldn’t forgive her. That they didn’t need her or want a life together. That she was foolish to hope for anything at all from them.

At least there’s been an official extension notice from the Clauneck Company, which arrived a few days after she got home. Menorath has kept to her word and granted Margot another year’s postponement, which should be a relief, but it feels like a weight. Especially since Margot is no closer to finishing the Natural Caster Potion despite all these long nights she’s spent in her workshop poring over Fern’s remedy book.

And so this morning, with the greenhouses closed for the day, Margot decided to talk to Fern herself to see if that might help.

An absurd wish, of course, to believe that Granny Fern will give her a sign or a clue, but desperation haunts Margot’s waking hours after years of failure, and she has to try something.

“Hi, Granny Fern,” Margot says, kneeling at the base of a large tree root and running her hands over it. The sun beats down on her neck, and a small bead of sweat trickles over her temple. “It’s been too long, I know, but I’ve been busy.” She smooths her hand along the root, letting the rough edges bite into her skin, remembering how Fern would tuck Margot’s wild hair behind her ears when she was a child.

Fern’s ashes are scattered among these roots. At her insistence, there’s no marker, but over the years, Margot has hung things from the tree to remember her by. Small wind chimes, interesting feathers, wreaths woven with dried flowers, stones and shells tied with ribbons, metal spoons, some colored glass pieces, a few jam jars. All little trinkets to mark the resting place of a woman who was so much more than she seemed. A woman who was everything to Margot, and who was everything Margot can never be.

“I don’t know how to do it,” Margot confesses to the tree, putting her forehead against its rough trunk like Granny Fern taught her to do as a small child, so she could listen for the heart of a living thing. “I’ve tried everything I can think of—everything in the book too! But nothing works.”

For the last six weeks, Margot has been desperately working on the Natural Caster Potion to keep her mind off her own heartbreak and to be rid of any obligation to the Claunecks once and for all, extension or no. She’s gone through all the recipes in the book, making each remedy to the best of her abilities. Staying up into the early hours of the morning—often sleeping in the workshop or greenhouse—as pots of green or purple potions bubble away. All to no avail. Every spoonful of the Natural Caster Potion she’s cautiously tasted has given her unsettling rashes, made her lose her voice, or knocked her out for the better part of the day. Granted, she’s not even sure what the potion should taste like when it’s done, but she suspects it would feel a certain way, even as a natural caster herself. Like her reservoir of magic was refilled in an instant.

“What am I missing, Granny Fern?” Margot implores the tree. “Is there more to the recipe that you figured out? Something else I can try? I need your help, please! I…I can’t let everyone down. I can’t let you down.”

The only answer is the wind through the oak leaves, the tinkling of the chimes, and the bees buzzing in the wildflowers. Harvey slinks up to Margot’s side and nudges her hand. Margot strokes his back, and he purrs happily.