Page 77 of Homegrown Magic

“Yael?” she calls, her voice wobbly with hope.

There’s a long silence.

Then Yael Clauneck walks into the living room from the kitchen, holding a pair of steaming teacups, their jaw-length hair pulled up into a messy half knot. They’re the most beautiful thing Margot has ever seen. She digs her fingers into the pillow, just to keep from running to Yael and embracing them.

“You’re supposed to be asleep still,” they say, frowning. “I got here as early as I could.”

Margot wants to weep at hearing them again.

Instead, she says, “Hard to sleep with you clattering around down here.”

The side of Yael’s mouth kicks up just the smallest bit. “Much easier to make you tea if you didn’t insist on keeping the cups up so high.”

At that, Margot’s smile breaks through any reserve she has. Yes, there is so very much they need to discuss, but at this moment, she’s just so damn delighted to see them here, in her cottage. She releases her grip on the pillow, setting it onto the couch. “Did you break into my house just to make me tea?”

“And bring you strawberry scones.” Yael nods toward the oven. “They’re not terribly fresh after the ride here, since they were in my bag, but they’re from one of my favorite bakeries in Ashaway. I didn’t get a chance to take you, uhm…before we parted. It’s just lucky I had some saved in my bag from teatime this morning. Well, yesterday morning. And I thought they might go so well with tea.”

Yael sets the cups down gently on the table. It’s then that Margot realizes they’re wearing nothing but their underwear and chest bindings. And she’s in even less than that, since she’s naked under her thin shift. As her cheeks heat, she can feel Yael’s gaze on her, which is not unwelcome but also not helping her make sense of their presence in her kitchen.

She snatches up a cardigan from a chair and slips it on, wrapping herself in the soft comfort of it.

“Why aren’t you wearing any clothing?” she manages as Yael straightens one of the daisies in the bunch in the middle of the table.

“Well, I sold my clothes for a horse.”

At least four questions come to mind all at once, but they somehow spill out as a laugh.

“Don’t make fun.” Yael beams at her. “It was a very fast horse. A mechanical one. I could’ve gotten here from Ashaway before midnight, but when the sun began to set, I stopped at a crossroads inn; you should’ve seen the face of the innkeeper. I think she let me sleep in the stables just to keep me out of view of her customers.”

Now that Margot can look Yael up and down without blushing (almost), she sees the bits of hay clinging in their dark hair.

“I’m sure I have something I can wear at Clementine’s,” Yael continues, “but I wanted—no, I needed—to see you first.”

Margot pulls her cardigan tighter, as if that will protect her heart from Yael’s smile. Their words. The way she’s desperate just to hold them again. “There’s nothing at Clementine’s,” she says instead of reaching for them. “All of your things were picked up by someone from the Clauneck Company ages ago.”

Yael swears. “Well then, I’ll have to work something out, I suppose.”

“I still have some of your things. From when you…last slept here.”

Yael meets her eye, and the words hang between them, whispering of the handful of nights they spent in the cottage together, after the show and before the Clauneck carriage came to drag them off to Ashaway. Their laughter, muffled beneath Margot’s quilts, and the strawberry wine that coated their lips as they kissed. The night Yael suggested that they go back to her mother’s private gardens, now emptied of guests and expectations, for a memory of Bloomfield to keep them company on their journey, and Margot happily agreed. Small mushrooms had sprung up under her feet with each step toward the house, the plants enchanted ever so slightly by Margot’s magic, and the many feelings inside of her…

She clears her throat, looking away. “I’ll just get the clothes.”

Turning, she hurries up the ladder and rummages through the bundle of Yael’s clothing that’s neatly folded and placed on their side of the bed. Tucked under their pillow to be more accurate. A pile of clothing that she has most certainly not been snuggling when the nights get too lonely.

Yael can never know about that.

“Here you go,” she calls out roughly, tossing the bundle down the ladder. “I’ll be right there.”

Slipping out of the cardigan, Margot pulls on undergarments and a dress. By the time she’s back down the ladder, Yael’s dressed in their simple greenhouse clothing—a goldenrod-yellow shirt and brown cotton trousers—and there’s a plate of warmed scones on the table. Steam rises from the tea. Margot sits at the table, wrapping her hands around her cup. She inhales, letting the familiar scent of lemon, ginger, and hibiscus fill her nose. Yael sits opposite her, biting their bottom lip, as if they’re not quite sure what to say.

“When did you learn how to do all this?” Margot says to break the ice—and out of genuine curiosity.

“I spent a little time in the manor house kitchens while I was…away.” They stare into the steam rising from their teacup. “I don’t know why I went down. I never had growing up. But I’d watch Zoy—that’s the spit-boy’s name—turn a boar for the evening’s supper. And I’d ask Ilke questions as he cooked. How much kindling to use to light a fire, how much wood it took to keep it going without a continual flame spell. How the scullery maid cleaned the dishes without a scrap of magic. I think they thought I was addled or something, and I couldn’t explain why I wanted to know, but…but I did. And I learned. A bit, anyway.”

“Ah. Well…I’m glad to see you,” Margot admits.

“Me too. You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you.”