Homegrown Magic

Chapter 6 Margot

6

Margot

Despite her late night, Margot still wakes early. A sparrow chirps from the eaves of the cottage, and wind whispers through Granny Fern’s many chimes in the yard with a gentle tinkling that’s simply the sound of home. Margot hoists herself onto her elbows, peering out the round loft window as she does every morning. The morning sky is shot through with pink and orange, and the oak leaves from the enormous tree behind the cottage rustle.

She yawns and stretches, shifting on her feather mattress, digging her bare feet into her nest of silk sheets—the one luxury item she managed to steal from Greenwillow Manor before everything was seized and sold off by the bank. Gods, she’s tired. A dull pounding fills her head, and her back aches. Surely, she can stay in bed just ten more minutes? Half an hour? An hour even?

Her ankle brushes up against an unfamiliar object. Margot flexes her foot, curling her toes around a lump of blankets or perhaps a lost sock. But no. It’s solid and warm. Clearly, another human foot.

Yael’s foot.

Margot yanks her own foot away as last night comes back in flashes. The tavern. Sage heading off on her adventure. Ordering one last ale. A stranger sitting beside her, striking up a conversation. That stranger being Yael Clauneck, somehow. And then they had…what? Come back to the cottage and…

Margot’s memory is a little fuzzy after that point. She closes her eyes, feeling Yael’s arms wrapped around her waist in the garden, their lips pushed against hers. (The rumors were true: Yael Clauneck is an excellent kisser.) Margot fumbling to open the cottage door. Yael stumbling up to the loft to get cleaned up. Margot slipping out of her garden boots and strawberry dress, hopeful, nervous…and then climbing the loft ladder to find Yael deep in the blankets, snoring. Margot tried to sleep in one of the chairs by the fire, but she’d given up after an hour or so of tossing and turning and snuck into the loft, curling up on her own side of the mattress while making sure there was as much distance as possible between her and Yael.

Yael is still snoring softly, the noise nearly lost beneath the birdsong and wind chimes. They’re hidden somewhere under Margot’s many pillows and quilts, a lump of a human tucked into the back corner of the large mattress, which is how Margot missed them. How could she have forgotten she’d brought Yael Clauneck home last night?

Or, better question: Now that she’s remembered, what’s she meant to do with them?

She was supposed to have one night of fun. Something quick, easy, and uncomplicated. Margot was supposed to break her incredibly long dry spell, but that hadn’t worked out.

Six months and fourteen days now.

Should she wake Yael? Tell them to leave? Try to pick up where the two of them left off last night? That would be nice, to kiss passionately as the sun rises. Or to cuddle, or to just be held.

Margot stretches again, reaching for the shape of Yael. She pauses, though, halfway through.

Last night was all about putting off reality, but today there would be questions— real things that needed to be asked and answered—and far less liquor to soften it all. Better to get up and leave before Yael wakes. Shifting carefully, Margot swings her bare feet over the loft ladder. With practiced steps, she moves down into the main room of the cottage. She searches through her laundry baskets— really, she must do laundry today —and plucks her last clean dress from the clothesline that stretches across the living room. This one is dark green, so it hides the stains of her work, and is embroidered with flowers. Then, sliding the letter from the Claunecks into her pocket—she certainly can’t leave it around for Yael to find—she puts on shoes, places a meowing, hungry Harvey into a basket, and slips out of the cottage, having managed not to wake Yael.

Hopefully they’ll be gone by the time she comes back for lunch.

Hours later, Margot returns to the cottage, Harvey at her heels. She pushes the front door open, making dust motes spin in buttery slants of light. The door creaks, but beyond that, quiet fills the small house. Nothing has moved since this morning. Her piled-high dirty-laundry basket is still next to the front door, embers of a fire smolder in the grate, and yesterday morning’s teacup rests on the kitchen table.

“Yael?” Margot whispers, her voice loud in the stillness. She closes the cottage door and steps into the living room.

There’s no reply. Surely Yael’s left by now. There’s no sign of their mechanical steed, but then, she wouldn’t hear or smell the thing, and in the blur of last night, she can’t quite remember where they left it, or if they set it loose to roam. Margot isn’t going to check the surrounding woods; that seems wildly unnecessary. It’s almost one o’clock, and what grown-ups sleep past seven? Or nine at the latest? Certainly not Margot or anyone in Bloomfield. Most of the village’s residents, including Clementine, who works late, are get-up-early souls who gather every morning in the town square, no matter the weather, for coffee and morning gossip or, occasionally, heated debate.

Margot yawns and slips off her boots. She’s up the loft ladder in a few seconds, her tired body already dreaming of the midday nap she’s going to take before returning to work. But she pauses at the top, swearing silently.

There, sitting up and framed by the light coming in through the round window, is Yael. They smile at Margot, looking adorable and well rested.

“Morning to you,” Yael says, giving a huge yawn.

“Hardly morning.” Margot can’t keep a waspish note from her voice. “It’s nearly one.”

“Oh! Not surprising at all, given how hungry I am.” Yael peers out the window and nods, as if satisfied that the sun is exactly where it needs to be. “I suppose we worked up quite an appetite last night?”

Margot opens and closes her mouth, not quite sure what to say to that. Yael isn’t meant to be here. They’re meant to be gone, just a strange dream, with no impact on Margot’s real life. “You don’t remember?” she finally gets out.

“I remember kissing you.” A wicked grin curls Yael’s lips. “And I remember riding to your house, climbing the ladder…” They run a hand over their face and look up through their long, dark eyelashes, sheepishly. “And then, um, it’s a bit of a blur.”

“That’s because you fell asleep.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were snoring. Loudly.”

Yael groans, falling back among the bedding. “I swear, that’s just like me.”

“So much for your reputation.” Margot can’t keep a teasing tone out of her voice.

Yael flings a pillow at her, which Margot dodges. It goes sailing out of the loft, landing with a thump in the living room below.

“Let me buy you breakfast or lunch or whatever meal you want,” they say, sitting up again, “to restore at least some part of my legend.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Margot says, “twice. But I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Or we could skip tea and drink more wine?” Yael’s voice is hopeful. “Isn’t that the best cure for a hangover? Drinking again? It worked last night.”

Margot rolls her eyes and heads down the ladder.

When Yael joins her in the kitchen a few minutes later, she puts a steaming mug of tea in front of them. “Drink this.”

“This isn’t wine.”

“Clearly.”

“That was fast.” Yael sits down. Their shirt collar (the same shirt from last night) is wet, their hair partially slicked back, as if they attempted to wash but gave up halfway through. Yael is probably used to a heated bath daily. “Though what do I know,” they amend. “I’ve never made tea in my life.”

Never made a cup of tea in their life? How Granny Fern would’ve cackled at that. She had always insisted that Margot learn to perform necessary skills—from making tea to doing laundry, weeding the garden beds, and grinding up dried plants for remedies—despite the protests of Margot’s parents. “You might have servants now,” Granny Fern would say, “but there’s no guarantee in the future. Best you learn to do for yourself.” And so Margot had. With a little magical help here and there, of course.

“It does take time for water to boil, but I use spellwork to make tea,” Margot explains.

Yael’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Aren’t you a plant witch?”

“Tea is plant-adjacent, and it’s a magic kettle.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning water boils the minute I fill it and recite the spell. Something I picked up years ago. Want to try it?” Margot holds up a green-and-blue ceramic teapot covered in runes.

Yael looks vaguely terrified at the thought. “I’m not…great…with magic.”

“Don’t you have a fancy degree in something?”

“Animal handling,” Yael mutters.

“What? Really?” Margot can’t keep the shock from her voice. Yael has made a point of scooting away from Harvey, who’s roughly the size of a loaf of bread. How in the world do they manage griffins or manticores?

“No, it was a joke. A terrible one. Which I blame on the tavern’s excellent local wine and my crushing hangover.” Yael blows steam off their tea. “My degree is in law. Arcana and transmutation law, specifically.”

“Of course it is.” Margot can’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Going to work for your parents?” Margot stirs honey into her own cup of tea and offers Yael the jar.

They take it, not meeting her eye. “That was the plan. Join the family business, start a family of my own, you know the drill. What kind of tea is this? It smells delightful.”

“Ginger and hibiscus.”

Yael groans. “Hibiscus?”

“It’s good for hangovers, trust me. Just drink it.”

“You’re the plant witch.” Yael spoons honey into their tea and takes a sip. A small, satisfied noise escapes their lips.

Margot sips her own tea, settling into the chair across from Yael. “So…”

“So…”

If last night had included a few awkward silences, they’re nothing compared with this afternoon. What is she supposed to say to Yael now that they’re not flirting and Margot’s not recklessly thinking about kissing them again?

She is definitely not thinking about kissing them again.

Yael looks around the cottage, and Margot follows their gaze, her eyes moving over the rough river-stone fireplace, the painting of Granny Fern done by one of her friends that hangs above it, the mismatched armchairs with their stuffing poking out, and Margot’s mountain of laundry. Suddenly, it doesn’t look humble, charming, beloved. It’s dirty, down-at-the-heels, the type of place where rich folk like the Claunecks probably wouldn’t let their horses sleep.

“What’s your plan, Yael?” Margot asks, setting down her cup of tea more aggressively than she intends. “Why are you really in Bloomfield?”

They exhale slowly. “Well, what I told you last night is true. I did run away—”

“You told me you’re a fugitive.”

“I did steal a mechanical horse. Though I’m certain my parents will pay off the owner, if they haven’t already, so it’s hardly a real crime.”

“I’m sure the owner of the horse might feel otherwise.”

Yael shrugs. “Also, I did flee my parents’ house with no possessions or plans.”

Of course they did. It’s the ultimate act of a spoiled child who thinks the world is going to conform to their whims. And they’re probably right.

“Can’t you just go back?” Margot blows out a long breath, exhaustion and exasperation warring in her.

“I mean, yes, I’m sure I’m expected to, and I intended to when I started out, but now…I don’t want to.” They set their tea down on the table. “What I want is…Well, I don’t know, except that I want some time to figure it out. What I need is a place to stay in the meantime, and a way to pay for it.” They look around the cottage.

Oh gods, they can’t stay here. But maybe…

“I suppose I could just keep going,” Yael continues. “Move on to the next town, find a position there. Perhaps somebody out here needs an expert in law.”

Maybe…

Slowly, the seeds of a plan begin to sprout in Margot’s mind.

Somehow, impossibly, Yael Clauneck is drinking tea at Margot’s kitchen table, like a gift from the universe. The scion of the very family who snatched up and divided the Greenwillow assets with a brusque efficiency that still takes Margot’s breath away. It seems impossible that Yael doesn’t know that their parents now own Greenwillow Manor—or at least the Clauneck Company does, which is the same thing—and have been letting it sit empty for the last few years.

The idea in Margot’s mind grows tall, bearing fruit.

She looks down at her dirt-stained hands, gripping her mug of tea. Her lower back gives another twinge. She is drowning in work at the greenhouses, though realistically, someone like Yael (who doesn’t even know how to make tea) would be of little help. Still, that hardly matters, because Yael won’t stay in a place like Bloomfield for long no matter what they claim. They’ll return to Ashaway in due time—to the social circles they move in and to the people who once dined at her parents’ table. People who were perfectly happy to make money investing in her family’s company when Granny Fern was in charge.

But if Margot can keep Yael close in the meantime, perhaps they can be helpful in more ways than one. Yael is a direct line back to their parents and would surely be willing to speak for the childhood friend who helped them. Perhaps they can convince their parents that Margot is living up to her promised potential and can crack the Natural Caster Potion with just a little more time.

If she’s smart about it, perhaps Margot can crack the potion, save Bloomfield, and take back everything her parents lost. What other choice does she have?

Certainly, it would be easier done with a Clauneck on her side.

Besides, an extra pair of hands to help haul dirt and pots around won’t hurt, nor will having somebody to talk to who isn’t a wheelbarrow. “Are you serious about wanting a job?” Margot asks.

Yael nods.

“Then finish your tea. You’re coming with me. We’ll stop by the bakery on the way.”

Yael looks as though this is the best idea they’ve heard yet, and they flash Margot a grateful grin. Margot returns the smile, ignoring the familiar twist of guilt in her belly. They could both use the help, after all.

Granny Fern taught her how to do everything herself, and that’s just what Margot’s going to do. Even if it means tricking Yael Clauneck into believing she’s so much more than she actually is.