Page 84 of Enchanted Village

Margaret wished she were angrier, but when she saw Wyatt, she saw a scared boy. A boy consumed by his own grief and his desire to prove himself to his father.

“Miss Nettle,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything.”

“Wyatt’s been tending to the plants,” Elliott said. “He brought me here to show me the degree of damage, and to get my assistance with some repairing spells. With your permission, I’d like to allow him to continue working on it.”

Margaret looked at Wyatt. She could refuse, and then he’d suffer like she was suffering. But she didn’t want that.

“Once his work concludes,” Elliott continued, “I will personally respell the entrance to be unfindable for both myself and Wyatt.”

Margaret considered the offer, rubbing her temple. After a moment of consideration, she spoke, eyes finding Wyatt’s.

“We’ll figure it out together,” she said. “I appreciate what you did to try to fix this, Wyatt. Maybe . . . maybe I might also ask for your help at the pub. To pay things back.”

He nodded eagerly. “Whatever you need.”

Elliott nodded as well. “You can go back to the castle, Wyatt.”

Then, he was gone, and the real question on Margaret’s mind returned.

She glanced at Elliott. “And Silas?”

Elliott regarded her. “He packed his bags earlier.”

A lump formed in her throat. To hear he had already left . . . the cold bit into her heart.

“I’m curious,” Elliott said. “What brought you back to the garden?”

Margaret looked down at one of the stripped plants. “I thought . . . maybe it might still be magical. Maybe I’d made a mistake in thinking it was gone.”

“But?”

“But there’s nothing here. Not now.”

“It could come back.”

“Or it might not.”

Elliott nodded. “That’s true. We won’t know until we know, I’m afraid.”

Margaret looked around. There was so much she needed to do. And even then, it might be for nothing.

Next to her, Elliott waved his wand. Several bags of soil appeared, along with seed packets. He glanced at her.

“Now, Miss Nettle,” he said. “You have two choices, and I’ll respect either one. Would you like some help planting these, or would you like to be left alone?”

Margaret didn’t bother fighting off the smile that twitched at her mouth. She let it happen, then inhaled the scent of earth all around her.

“Some help would be much appreciated,” she said.

And then they got to work.

Chapter Forty-Three

When Margaret returned to the pub hours later, it was with fresh soil under her nails, sweat along her brow, and snow in her hair. But there was also peace in her heart. The garden wasn’t magical, but it might be one day. Something in the pub might even be handing her slight touches of it in the meantime. She might not be as dependable as she had been, but there were snatches she could hold on to.

And she wasn’t alone.

Even now, as she stepped from the painting into her room, she heard voices downstairs. Liza, for certain, and probably Imogen. Had they opened for her? If so, the crowd had to have been disappointed. She checked her watch. Time to begin. And was it ever.