Page 74 of Homegrown Magic

I won’t go into how I discovered the secret, though I will admit it originated from a clue in a book I found in a library on one of my rare visits to Ashaway. (A book that is no longer in that library, nor anything but ashes in a faraway hearth.) From that clue, however, a new trail emerged. One that only recently led me to an awful, grim truth:

The only way that I have found to make the Natural Caster Potion is to grind up the bones of a natural caster—all of them are necessary for a permanent effect—then mix the resulting material into a three-part potion. Drinking it will forever fill the well of magic in a person, and give them the ability the other natural caster possessed.

Margot stops reading, clapping a hand over her mouth. Has she read that right? To make the potion, she must grind up the bones of a natural caster?

Her small supper of bread and cheese threatens to come back up. Suddenly, the workshop is too small. Her head is pounding. She rises, stepping backward and nearly tripping over Harvey.

“I just—” she says to the cat before pushing open the workshop door and stumbling into the greenhouse. The smell of plants, earth, and growing things fills her nose, offering instant comfort.

“The bones of a natural caster,” she murmurs to herself as she clenches the bottom of her cardigan with shaking fingers.

What an absolutely terrible truth. And yet, if that’s the only way to make the potion—and the only way to save Bloomfield…

No. She cannot possibly create a potion that requires the bones of another person.

Can she?

Of course not. Perhaps there is some other way. There must be another way!

Margot takes a few more deep breaths and then returns to her workshop table to keep reading.

It’s a terrible thing, this knowledge. To know I could change the lives of so many people for the better. Perhaps in some hypothetical world, aged natural casters would donate their bodies after death to give others their magic. But I also know all too well the measure of my fellow man. They are impatient and hungry for power. If they knew how this potion worked, it wouldn’t be long before natural casters were murdered for the magical potential in their bones.

I cannot let that happen. I will not, and so I’m tearing these pages from my spellbook. I know I should burn them, but I haven’t the strength right now to light a candle, let alone a fire. I need to rest, and so I’ll hide them until I’ve regained enough strength to properly dispose of them—

Here, Fern’s handwriting trails off, and her words stop. Margot can almost see her beloved grandmother, stumbling upon this terrible secret even while her own body crumpled.

But now the secret isn’t just hers. It’s Margot’s too. And she can never reveal it. As Granny Fern wrote, the only thing this potion would bring—no matter the good intentions it might carry—is suffering and misery.

Slowly, Margot feeds the page with Fern’s written confession to the candle flame. The fire eats the ink, not knowing it’s devouring her only hope for saving Bloomfield.

Granny Fern was right: This potion isn’t the way. It’s never been the way. Margot isn’t sure what she’s going to do or how she can save Bloomfield, but she’ll find another path. Sage’s words echo in Margot’s ears: Talk to the people who care about you in Bloomfield, okay? This isn’t something you should carry alone!

Yes, talking to the town—after a good night’s sleep—is exactly what she must do. Granny Fern would’ve wanted her to.

“Thank you, Granny Fern,” she whispers, touching the small painted portrait of her and her grandmother on the workshop table. “For guiding me still.”

Margot can almost hear the gentle voice of Granny Fern, as if from the next room, as she blows out the candle and heads for home.

31

Yael

Leaving Bloomfield behind was the right thing to do, even if it meant leaving Margot.

Joining the company and rejoining the family was the right thing to do.

On their walk back to the office from the perfumery greenhouse, Yael sifts through these notions like the gemstone specialist on the fifth floor inspecting twinkling piles of jewels for flaws or curses.

Or for fakes.

Because they’re thinking of Margot again. The smell of her: earthy, like rain on good warm soil, and the clean scent of the herbs she adds to her tea, and the lightly sweet sage she grows for cooking and for spellwork. Her habit of tucking berries into her dress pockets to toss to the chickens that wander the lanes of Bloomfield. The titles of her favorite books, and the tunes she’d hum while potting plants at the workbench. How it felt to fall asleep with Margot wrapped around their body, her long legs braided with theirs, and how it felt to wake up to Margot blinking sleepily down at them, her clear gray eyes soft in the morning. Each of these memories feel so much more true than a palmful of hollow ideas about Yael’s place in the family, or in the company, or in the world.

Yael may be their parents’ heir, but they’re still just a cog jammed into the machinery the Claunecks built to benefit themselves. The fact that Yael never fit—a failure of the part, according to their family, rather than a failure of the machinery—was why Yael left Ashaway in the first place. They’re sure of that much, at least.

Yael’s family doesn’t care that Miriam’s family goes hungry while farmable land lies within walking distance, yet far beyond reach. No more than the Claunecks care about Bloomfield, itself a living thing, like a garden that constantly reshapes itself to support what’s fragile and discover its strengths. Yael’s family would rip the whole town and everyone in it out by the roots to make space for foul-smelling factories and ornamental lawns, and never let it trouble their sleep.

So how can Yael’s obedience to them possibly be good?