Homegrown Magic

Chapter 8 Margot

8

Margot

Mid-spring

“Heartbreak-healing strawberry jam requires several ingredients,” Margot says, feeling a little like Granny Fern as she stands beside the bathtub-sized silver cauldron and brazier that are currently taking up nearly half the strawberry room in the Greenwillow Greenhouses. Margot wears Granny Fern’s favorite blue apron, and her hair is twisted into two high buns. The smell of strawberries and sugar fills the warm air, delicate and intoxicating, mixing with the scents of earth, leaves, and growing things. Normally, she would make jam in her kitchen at the cottage, but it’s too small for Margot, the cauldron, dozens of jam jars, and the baskets and baskets of strawberries she and Yael harvested. (Thanks to Yael’s help around the greenhouses over the past two months, Margot was able to turn her full attention to the weevil infestation and was rewarded with one of her best crops yet.) Not to mention Yael themself, who’s currently leaning against a table, holding a paper and a quill.

Outside, rain patters against the long glass windows of the greenhouse—now cleaner than they’ve been in years thanks also to Yael’s efforts—and thunder booms far off, like the rumble of laughter in a distant room. Like Granny Fern’s laughter, filling up the cottage as she’d sit with friends, playing cards long into the night while a young Margot dozed in the loft.

“Go on.” Yael takes a sip of their tea—freshly brewed ginger and hibiscus, which has become their favorite—and nods encouragingly. They look every inch the eager student, which is doing things to Margot’s insides, and to her resolve.

Brushing dirt off her apron and all her treacherous thoughts aside, Margot continues. “Of course, we need fresh strawberries and sugar to make them sweeter.”

“Fresh strawberries, check.” Yael gestures to the bowls of strawberries covering the long wooden tables that stretch the length of the greenhouse. The berries are washed, and their tops have been chopped off. They just need to be mashed and added to the cauldron, but Margot has discovered over the last eight weeks that unless she explains things very carefully to Yael, their flair for improvisation can cause some exciting accidents.

“Once the strawberries and sugar are simmering, we add the juice of exactly nine lemons that’ve been soaking up moonlight for two weeks.”

“What happens if you use lemons that haven’t been soaking up moonlight?

“The jam doesn’t work. Or it does, if all you want is a delicious fruit spread.”

Yael opens and closes their mouth, as if they have competing questions, but they settle on: “Why do you need the lemons?”

“They balance the sweetness of the sugar and berries and speak to the sourness that comes with heartbreak. It’s a tricky piece of magic, but one Granny Fern figured out years ago. I found the recipe in one of her books and tried it when…” Margot trails off as memories of the dark days after Granny Fern’s death fill her mind. Which in turn reminds her that the Claunecks’ deadline is creeping steadily closer, only five months away now.

“When did you get your heart broken? Was it by Sedgewick Wayanette? I knew you’d kissed him!”

That makes her laugh. “I swear, there was nothing between us. Ever.”

Yael raises an eyebrow.

Margot glares back. “And if there were—which there really wasn’t—I’m not going to talk about it now. Especially when there’s so much to do.”

The Spring Fair in Olde Post is in three days, and since the last of the berries only ripened this morning, and since tomorrow is for gathering supplies and packing, and then it’ll take at least a day to get to Olde Post and get settled, they’ve got to make the jam in the next few hours.

“Suit yourself,” Yael says, grinning. “Though if you won’t talk about your heartbreak, how about your magic?”

“It’s advanced plant magic,” Margot relents. “Accomplished by layering will, technique, intention, and perfectly grown ingredients.”

Yael whistles, a sound of appreciation that sends pride whipping through Margot. It’s been so long since she’s had anyone to share the process of making magical remedies with. Her parents didn’t care about the craft. Well, they didn’t care until it was too late—

“And of course,” Yael says, patting the cauldron’s belly like it’s a giant dog, “we need a pot.”

“Cauldron,” Margot corrects. “One made of silver and wrought by a witch in my family many generations ago.”

“Just so.” Yael jots more notes. Already, they look more comfortable in the greenhouse than Margot has ever seen them. There’s dirt in the creases of their palms, she notes with satisfaction, and a bit smeared across their forehead. It’s adorable.

“Once we add everything in and it’s boiling, I’ll complete the spellwork that makes the jam curative.”

At least, that’s what she hopes will happen. Margot is an excellent plant witch; she knows this. But every time she brings out Granny Fern’s cauldron and remedy book, her nerves fray and her palms begin to sweat. There’s so much at stake—her reputation, her major source of income, other people’s broken hearts, and, in a way, Bloomfield itself—and she quite literally can’t afford to mess up this batch.

She lets out a long breath, loosening her white-knuckled grip on the wooden spoon.

Yael tosses a berry into the air, catching it in their mouth in one smooth motion. “So, what exactly is my purpose? Am I here for aesthetics? This is the most complimentary of my identical tunics, but I can, I don’t know, stir things?”

Margot swats at their arm. “You could not eat all the berries, for one.”

“Relax, Greenwillow. There are nearly a thousand strawberries here. Not even my parents purchase this many for their spring feasts, though hardly anyone consumes those; mostly they’re tabletop decor. Still, they ought to have ordered from you.”

Margot exhales slowly, surveying the harvest and the empty jars waiting on another table. “We should have enough for at least three dozen jars. Barely. If you stop eating them.”

Yael pops another berry into their mouth. “Make me.”

Their grin is all wickedness, infectious as root rot. Despite her intention not to flirt with Yael, she’s unable to resist the smile that curves the edges of her lips.

“You wouldn’t want me to make you,” she says, slipping her body between Yael and the piles of berries on the table.

“Don’t be so sure of that.” Yael reaches around Margot, their arm skimming past her waist. In one quick motion, they grab another handful of berries and dance away. Margot lets out a shout and chases after them, running down the aisles between the strawberry troughs, following Yael as she did when they were kids racing through her family’s manor.

“Got you,” Margot says, grabbing Yael’s arm and spinning them around. Yael’s back is pressed against the greenhouse glass, their chest heaving a bit from the chase. Unable to stop herself, Margot plants her hands on the window frame behind Yael. Caging them with her arms.

Yael’s eyes sparkle with mischief as they gaze up at her. “So you did. Now, what are you going to do with me?”

Desire snakes through Margot, hungry, edged with loneliness, battling against her good sense. As in so many moments during these last eight weeks, Margot finds herself delighted to be near Yael without meaning to. How does Yael do that? How do they turn every tedious task into something fun? Make the work in the greenhouse less of a burden, even as their inexperience adds the occasional complication to Margot’s day?

It’s not like they’re great with pruning or spellwork, but the plants respond to Yael’s presence with giddy enthusiasm, just as Margot does. She swears that earlier this week, when she walked into the cherry orchard, the trees were showing off for Yael, waving their branches in a nonexistent breeze, like women dancing to a song only they could hear.

“I’m going to get my berries,” she says primly, though she’s biting back laughter.

“Oh? These? You want these berries?” Not breaking her gaze, Yael lifts a berry, raising it up to Margot’s mouth, as if they’re going to feed it to her. Then at the last minute, Yael pops the berry into their own mouth.

Roaring in false outrage, Margot plucks another berry from Yael’s hand at the same moment they lift it toward their mouth. Margot’s fingertips brush their lips instead.

She goes very still, shocked by the softness of Yael’s berry-stained lips. Wondering if they’d taste like berries if she pushed her own lips against them.

From the look on Yael’s uptilted face, Margot suspects they might be thinking something similar.

She pulls herself together, dropping her arms and turning to the supply table. “Yes, those berries, you awful goblin of a greenhouse assistant. Now, come on. This is yours.” She puts a wooden spoon in Yael’s hand. “I’ll add ingredients, you stir.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yael says, popping one more berry in their mouth, which Margot pretends not to see.

Three hours later, the jars are filled with ruby-red jam and havecooled. Each is sealed and capped with pink cloth, a green ribbon tied around its belly, and they’re all packed into the straw- and linen-scrap-filled crates they’ll take with them to Olde Post. In addition to the jam, Margot is also bringing her best houseplants, some seedlings, and heaps of cut flowers. All of these will be packed into a wagon early tomorrow before they set out for the Spring Fair.

“That was exhausting,” Yael says, stretching out their back. Strawberry juice stains their shirt, and their stomach growls audibly as they walk toward the shop door.

“Be glad we only make this much jam once a year.” Margot slips a jar into her basket and locks up the greenhouse. “It’ll be smaller batches after the Spring Fair.”

“I cannot believe you do this by yourself every spring.”

Margot shrugs. “It just takes longer. Thank you for your help.”

“You can thank me by joining me for an ale at Clementine’s.”

“I can do that, but first I have to make a stop.” She wants nothing more than to head straight to the tavern and spend the evening laughing with Yael and Clementine and the gathered townsfolk. But as she does every year on the first jam-making day, she’s got to drop off one of the jars at the Bloomfield Care Cottage. It never helps her parents, whose ailment unsurprisingly can’t be cured by heartbreak magic, but she has to try. Together, they step outside the greenhouse, and Margot inhales. The rain has stopped; twilight paints the sky in soft pinks and grays like cherry blossoms. The air smells of petrichor and the magic that clings to their clothes after jam making.

“Well, I’m in no rush. I’ll come with you.” Yael slips an arm through Margot’s.

“You don’t have to do that.” She really shouldn’t let them. What is Yael going to think when they see the once dazzling Iris Greenwillow and her husband, Welton Sameshoe, reduced to husks dozing in their beds? What if Yael tells their parents about hers? Maybe that would be a good thing, so they might know exactly what they’ve done to Margot’s family…

“I want to come,” Yael insists. “Besides, dinner will taste better the hungrier I am. So really, you’re doing me the favor.”

Margot should tell Yael to go on to the tavern. She knows that. But their company has been so nice these past weeks. So comforting. Would it really be so awful to share this truth of her life? All of Bloomfield knows where her parents are, anyway; Yael’s bound to find out sooner or later if they stick around, and they haven’t left yet.

Whatever the reason, Margot squeezes Yael’s elbow, trying to put a thousand things unsaid into the touch. “This way,” she says, walking toward the west end of the village.

Margot’s parents have been living at the Bloomfield Care Cottage for three years. Not because Margot doesn’t want to take care of them, but because she can’t. Not at her gardener’s cottage, at least. She tried, but there wasn’t enough room for the two extra beds, and she didn’t have enough money to send them to a place in Ashaway or Olde Post. Luckily Tulip, a lovely middle-aged woman who had grown up with Granny Fern as her mentor when it came to remedies and healing plants, and her daughter Ruby, a healer with a degree from Auximia thanks to Granny Fern, had space for Margot’s parents at the Care Cottage.

The Care Cottage is just that: a large, cozy house in the center of town, built for the sick and the older citizens of Bloomfield as they aged. It has ten bedrooms, a large garden, a fishpond, and lots of space for sitting in the sunlight, passing time with friends.

“Hi, Margot!” Tulip calls out, not looking up from the loaf of bread she’s kneading as Margot and Yael walk into the round, yellow-and-blue kitchen of the Care Cottage. Tulip has golden-brown skin and long braids wrapped into a bun high on her head. Soup simmers on the stove, and Margot would bet her entire greenhouse that Tulip has woven all sorts of healing enchantments into the bread and soup.

“I brought jam.” Margot pulls the jar from her basket.

“And a friend, I see,” says Tulip, finally looking up and smiling at Yael. “We’ve heard you had some help at the greenhouse. We were surprised but pleased!”

Yael makes an elaborate bow. “Yael Clauneck, at your service.”

Tulip’s eyebrows shoot up at their surname.

“It’s a long story,” Margot says quickly. “But Yael’s assisting me in the greenhouses for a bit.”

“For longer than that, if I’m not fired,” Yael puts in.

Tulip looks between them again and then holds out a hand for the jar. “I’ve seen stranger things for sure, especially in Bloomfield. Thanks for the jam, Daisy. I’ll serve some tonight at dinner.”

Margot shifts from one foot to the next, a sliver of sadness piercing through her at the sound of Granny Fern’s nickname for her on Tulip’s lips. “Well, I guess we’ll be going…”

“There’s been no change,” Tulip says softly. “But you should look in on them. Just to say hello.”

Of course Margot should. She knows it. What kind ofdaughter doesn’t want to look in on her comatose parents?

One who put them here in the first place.

“Thanks, Tulip,” Margot says, turning away from the kitchen and all its delicious smells.

“Did she call you Daisy?” Yael asks, following. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Margot scowls. “It was Granny Fern’s nickname for me. Some of the people in Bloomfield still remember it, and I guess I’ll always be six in their minds, making daisy chains for the entire village.”

“Can I call you Daisy?”

“Never. It’s only for friends and family.”

Yael looks almost wounded for a moment, putting a hand across their heart. “I will earn the right to call you Daisy.”

Margot smirks at that. “We’ll see.”

They walk through a living room where an elderly couple dances to music from a gramophone and a young woman does a puzzle on her own near the fire.

“This way,” Margot says, pulling on Yael’s arm. Her heart hammers as they walk up the wide wooden staircase and down the carpeted hall. She raps softly on the third door on the right. No one answers, of course, and she turns the knob and pushes the door open.

As she does every time, she hopes, just for that first moment, that this might be the visit when she finds her parents awake. Smiling. Greeting her as the beloved daughter they’ve not seen in many years.

That doesn’t happen tonight.

“Oh,” Yael says softly as they both step into the room.

The bedside lanterns are turned low, and the curtains are still open, letting in the sunset. Margot’s parents lie in separate beds facing the windows, covered with thick blue quilts that Margot took from Granny Fern’s cottage. The air in the room is fresh, the product of a cleanliness spell Tulip casts every morning to keep things as healthful as possible, especially on mornings when it’s too cold or hot or damp to open the windows. There are flowers on the nightstand between the beds, looking a bit wilted, and Margot makes a note to send more over in the morning.

Margot’s mother, Iris, is still beautiful, even though her high cheekbones stand out more these days and her skin is as pale as a winter-frosted window. Her long purple hair—now shot through with silver—fans out on her fluffy pillow, and her hands are clasped at her waist. She breathes softly, a wistful smile on her face. Margot’s father’s cheeks are ruddy beneath his beard, his hair still curling, though it and his beard are salted with more gray these days. Like his wife, he sleeps peacefully with a smile on his face. Whatever they’re dreaming, Margot has no idea, but she hopes it’s lovely and comforting.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” Margot says, walking between their beds. Her feet sink into the thick rug, muffling her steps. She can’t look at Yael. Doesn’t really want them to see this: the true downfall of the Greenwillows. But also, she needs them to see exactly what their family has done to hers, even if they don’t realize it. She needs somebody to know. “How are you both tonight?”

As usual, her parents don’t reply. Margot brushes a bit of hair from her mother’s forehead. Straightens her father’s covers. If Yael weren’t here, Margot would pull up a chair and tell her parents about everything going on at the greenhouse. But tonight, she’s self-conscious with Yael waiting in the doorway, limned in the soft light from the hall.

“I left some jam with Tulip,” Margot whispers, holding her mother’s hand. Her skin is papery thin but soft. “Be sure to try it. I think it’s our best batch yet.”

Regret surges through her as she kisses both her parents on the forehead. It isn’t supposed to be like this, and she has to fix it. She will fix it. No matter what it takes.

“See you when we get back from Olde Post.”

Yael’s usually large eyes are huge in their face as Margot carefully closes the door.

“What happened to your parents?” they ask once Margot has said goodbye to Tulip and they’re walking back down Bloomfield’s main street.

Anger burns through Margot, fierce as the evening wind that pulls her hair out from its braid. Shame and regret chase the anger, and every emotion flares and flickers out as fast as it appears. Margot is left feeling empty, hollowed out, and so very tired.

That her parents are in the Care Cottage is more her fault than Yael’s family’s, but how can she tell them that?

“It’s a long story,” she says. “And not one for the end of such an exhausting day. Let’s get dinner, and then we have to get to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be another tiring day.”

Margot feels Yael’s eyes on her. Feels their questions, their pity, their confusion. But they don’t say anything, and for that Margot is grateful.

She really is starting to like Yael Clauneck more than she should.