Homegrown Magic

Chapter 21 Yael

21

Yael

After months of living in linen shirts and work boots that never wash clean (soil is practically baked into the scratched leather by now), Yael doesn’t expect to recognize themself in their masquerade finery. But the version of themself in the mirror looks terribly familiar. It’s the outfit. Yael’s mother has consistent tastes, and much like their graduation party, Menorath arranged this ensemble without so much as a fitting or a single opinion required from Yael. She might have had it sewn for them weeks ago, for all they know, anticipating their return.

The suit itself is crisply understated: a shirt, vest, and trousers all in varying shades of black silk. The jacket is glossy, closer to a deep plum in color. The vest is darker, embroidered with black roses, reflecting just enough light to contrast with the shirt—black as the water at the bottom of a well on a moonless night. Over it all, there’s a heavy, gold-trimmed black tailcoat that seems mercilessly warm for a summer night in the city, with thickly embroidered gold roses adorning the shoulders like pauldrons and thorny golden vines twining like chains around the buttoned cuffs. Polished, thin-soled black boots complete the outfit, and of course, there’s the mask: a golden half mask that covers their cheekbones and the bridge of their nose, with a long ram’s horn curling backward from each temple. It’s heavy when Yael slips it on; their neck will ache by the end of the night from holding up the horns, they can already tell.

They pluck the last item from the satin-wrapped package a courier delivered to their room—a tiny stone pot of liquid gold lip paint. Yael hates that they don’t hate the aesthetic. They’ve just finished brushing it on with one finger when they hear Margot behind them.

Her sharp intake of breath sets Yael on fire before they even turn around.

Margot stands in the doorway of the bathing chamber in her slip, revealing acres of soft curves and smooth skin. Gods, she’d look good with golden lip prints stamped all across her; Yael intends to make that a reality as soon as the night’s done. She takes in Yael’s outfit with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, her gaze tracing a slow path from the gleaming horns to their painted lips, down the small buttons of their vest and the sharp lines of their slim-legged black, ankle-length breeches, all the way to their boot buckles. Margot licks her lips. “You look…”

“Worthy of escorting you?”

“More than.”

Yael hopes that’s true. “And when do I get to see your gown?”

“I took it out while you were in the washroom, but can you help me put it on? This corset is relentless, and I can hardly bend to pick the dress up. I’m scared to try by myself.”

“Of course.”

Yael scrubs the lip paint from their hand in the washbasin, flexing their fingers as they trail behind Margot to remind themself that they’re not allowed to tear the fabric either. Not until afterward. With great care, they pick up the ballgown laid out on the bed—a sleek bouquet of feathers and gems and green silk.

Turning away from them, Margot raises her hands above her head. Yael pauses briefly to press a kiss to her spine above her corset—lightly, so the paint doesn’t stain—and she shivers. They stand on their toes and stretch to guide her hands into the sleeves, letting the dress slip slowly down over her body. The clip holding her hair out of the way comes loose, and Yael brushes the waving purple strands over her shoulder to pull the laces tight at her back. She hands them a collar of stiff black feathers, and Yael clasps it at the nape of her neck.

When Margot spins around again, she’s transformed into a kind of magical, exotic bird from the raindrop-jeweled forests of southern Harrow. Below the unattached collar, the black sweetheart bodice that dips low between her breasts is covered by black feathers, tiny green gems twinkling among the plumage. Sheer, voluminous sleeves leave her shoulders bare, billowing winglike down her arms. Layer upon layer of green and black silk flows down from her tightly cinched waist, pooling around her delicate heeled boots. She’s dangerously stunning.

“That settles it,” they declare, sliding their hands to her waist to draw her in. “I am, in fact, wildly unworthy. We’ll have to find you another date on the way to the estate. Maybe the coachman—”

“All right, all right.” Margot pushes them gently away. She’s laughing, but when Yael clasps their hands around her wrists to hold her close for just a moment longer, her hands are trembling.

“Margot, are you—”

“It’s nothing,” she insists, slipping free. “I’m just nervous. It’s a lot of people all at once, and your parents…” Margot shakes her head. “Let’s just get the evening over with so we can be alone together?”

“Of course, Daisy.” Yael would love nothing more.

“I still have to pin my hair up. Can you bring me my mask from the side table? I need to put it on first.”

Yael bows deeply, and Margot’s gaze settles on their lips for a long moment before she turns and swishes into the washroom to use the mirror.

It could be just like this, a treacherous voice inside of them whispers suddenly, and this time, Yael can’t tell if it’s their patron’s or their own. Margot dressed in gowns befitting her beauty, and you riding beside her in fine carriages, fulfilling a few family duties before collapsing onto silk sheets together every night. Life could always be this easy, this comfortable. All you really have to do is pretend, and you’ve spent the better part of twenty-three years doing just that. It’s not a high price to pay, is it?

No. No, no, no. All of this is temporary, they remind themself.

It’s true that the two of them have passed a generally pleasant three days in the city. Margot seemed quiet and on edge when she returned from her dress fitting—time spent with Menorath Clauneck could do that to a person—but since then, Yael’s aimed to make it up to her by properly showing her around Ashaway, from which she’s been estranged far longer than they have. She had no desire to revisit the street of boutiques and fine dress shops and haberdasheries, but had no objection to the many pastry and tea shops sprinkled across the heart of the capital. They sampled spiced lavender and honey scones, cheese and black pepper turnovers, cinnamon custard that somehow smelled of sunset, and a pot of rich red tea that tasted just like piecrust. They walked the winding footpaths of Auximia, where Yael pointed out their old dormitory tower but steered well clear of the hall of economics named for their family. They rented horses on Clauneck credit and rode along the banks of the Willowthorn. Or at least the slice of the river that’s been built up for promenading; farther east from the Golden Court are the alga-slicked ferry docks that transport residents of the Rookery to and from their day’s work, but here, there are clean cobbled paths and a flower hedge to keep loose children from tipping into its fast-flowing waters, with pixies nesting in the foliage.

When it was only the two of them, with no old school acquaintances or Clauneck hangers-on to stop them in the streets or taverns or tea shops, it didn’t feel so different from their afternoons in Bloomfield. At least they were together, and anyplace with Margot was better than anyplace without.

Still, Yael doesn’t belong here anymore. They don’t want to belong here. They don’t…

“Yael? My mask please? We shouldn’t be late!” Margot calls.

Yael hurries across the room and snatches the mask from her nightstand without truly seeing it.

Their carriage ride from the Glowing Coin is almost a straight path down the Queens’ Road, out the courts, through the closely built mansions of the rich-but-not-Clauneck-rich, and into the greenery of the sprawling estates at the southern tip of Ashaway. Along the winding private road to Yael’s former estate, palm-sized purple fires burn in iron lanterns strung from the branches of the exquisitely manicured trees lining the path.

Beside them on the carriage bench, Margot fidgets. She hasn’t sat still since they left the inn, and even her mask—glittering green and black, with a regal crown of feathers and a miniature flock of jeweled birds rising from it—can’t disguise her pale skin or the quickness of her breathing.

Yael doesn’t blame her. The closer they’ve drawn to the ball, the more frantic the butterflies in their own stomach. When they clear the trees and the manor house rises up in front of them—six stories of dark-gray stone silhouetted against the summer-bright evening sky—Yael forgets how to breathe entirely.

Why are they so terrified? True, they hardly ever felt a moment’s peace with themself in this cold, lonely castle of a home, but that’s why they chose to leave it behind. They’re grown now, and they have Bloomfield, and they have Margot, and they shouldn’t feel like…

Like a child again.

Like they’re thirteen years old, and all they want to do is sneak away and hide in an attic tower with one of their only true friends, eating strawberry jam and pretending they never have to come back down.

They feel fingers close around theirs and look down to find Margot’s gloved hand clasping their own. “Ready for this?” she asks shakily.

Yael squeezes back, and slowly they remember how to breathe again. “Let’s go in, and be done with it, and go home.”

A butler whom Yael doesn’t recognize greets them at the doors. What happened to Flatwater, the stoic figure who, if never a warm presence from their childhood, was at least familiar? This man doesn’t seem to know Yael at all until they announce themself and Margot. Then the butler simply nods, signaling a footman to lead Yael and Margot up to the grand ballroom. As though Yael needs an escort.

When they reach the great arched entrance to the ballroom, Yael sees that the purple heartwood doors have been removed from their hinges and an elaborate, wrought-iron gate has been installed in their place. Black iron vines curl and wind among the barbed pickets through which a room half filled with guests is visible. As another pair of footmen swing the gates open to let Yael and Margot inside, the theme of this year’s masquerade becomes clear.

The ballroom has been remade into a garden.

The marble pillars bordering a temporary dance floor of pale-pink tiles have been wrapped with mats of forest moss from floor to ceiling. Massive silk butterflies are pinned to the greenery, with wings like stained-glass windows. The cold purple candlelight of Yael’s graduation party has been replaced by lanterns full of captured fairy light; they float in clusters above curved settees, where guests lean in to converse under the cover of boisterous music from a hired quintet. Hundreds or thousands of silk flowers half as big as Yael obscure the starred black ceiling. Hung upside down, they create a dome of giant petals and palm-sized stamens, an occasional puff of gold “pollen” drifting down like stardust.

Margot cranes her neck all the way back to stare up at them.

“I’ve never seen it like this,” Yael says, puzzled.

“Why do you think—” Margot starts, but presses her lips together as Menorath slithers in between them.

Yael’s mother is dressed to match the massive flowers overhead in a fitted gown that hugs her narrow figure from chest to knees, stemlike, with a skirt that poufs dramatically into layered petals of crepe and satin. But the fabric is all in black, with a mask of sheer gold lace to match Yael as well.

“Mother,” Yael mutters as Menorath leans down to press a brief kiss to their cheek.

“So glad you both could join us. What do you think of our garden of delights?”

“It’s…unexpected,” Yael admits. “Aren’t your parties usually themed around some stuffy old Harrow legend, or just ‘wealth’?”

“We had a different theme in mind, it’s true, and had to scrap it all at nearly the last moment, which cost us what some might consider a fortune. But it’s worth it to celebrate your companion’s reentry to fine society, is it not?”

“What exactly are you up to, Mother?” Yael demands. “Is this some sort of…” A bribe? A threat? A gift?

“It’s an investment, Yael. Margot made an impression upon a scant handful of Ashaway’s elite, and Rastanaya has risked much on this collection. She told me herself. Structure was said to be the trend this season—sharp tailoring and metal embellishments and clean-cut lines. Now, with our taste and position, everyone will be throwing nature-themed balls and bacchanalia, and wanting Rastanaya’s pieces to wear. She’ll be in higher demand than ever, and Margot, as her muse, will rise into the public consciousness.”

Margot’s face is half inscrutable behind her mask, but Yael can imagine the furrow in her brow as her lips part speechlessly. There’s something off here. Menorath Clauneck isn’t the generous patron she’s pretending to be. Yael starts to protest, suspicion coiling in their gut like a poisonous snake.

But Margot speaks first. “Thank you for your gracious welcome,” she says to Menorath, clearly selecting her words with care. “It’s a lovely party.”

“And you look as exquisite as expected, dear.”

Yael doesn’t like the way their mother’s looking at Margot, appraising her. They don’t like it when she reaches out to adjust the feathered collar around Margot’s neck, as though Margot is just another piece of party decor for Menorath to dictate and fuss over.

“I see our guests of honor have arrived.” Baremon greets them both in a voice meant to carry as he cuts through the crowd, and Yael is grateful for the mask that hides their flinch. Their father stops beside his wife to wrap a possessive arm around her waist. “How fine you look for your grand reentrance to civilization, Yael.” Their father wears no mask—rules are beneath Baremon, even his own—and is clad in a suit in varying shades of black uncomfortably similar to Yael’s, albeit with a taller cut and broader shoulders and chest.

“Thank you, Father. It’s good to be here,” they lie without looking him in the eye.

“And you, Ms. Greenwillow.” Baremon holds out a hand.

Reluctantly, as if she’s reaching inside the jaws of a coiled fire snake, Margot gives him hers. Their father kisses her knuckles, and a shiver runs down Yael’s spine.

“Will you grant me the first dance, Ms. Greenwillow?” Baremon asks. “I’ve not seen you since you were a child and would cherish the chance to reacquaint myself with such a lovely young woman.”

“Father—”

“Of course.” Margot cuts them off, squeezing their linked arms before Baremon leads her away from Yael and out onto the tiled dance floor.

The hired musicians strike up an elegant waltz at Baremon’s cue. From the edge of the room, Yael watches them, watches Margot’s face remain impassive as Baremon leads her authoritatively in the dance.

“She really is lovely, darling,” Menorath says. “Country living has clearly done well by her.”

Yael can feel their fake smile faltering, and they grind their teeth together to keep it in place. “Yes, poverty is so flattering for the complexion.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I know what you did to the Greenwillows. What our family did.”

“What we did?”

“Bankrupted them. Took their home in Ashaway and drove them out of the city, then took the manor in Bloomfield. Forced them into a cottage on the edge of the only land they had left. I know, Mother.”

“Darling, you can’t believe that any of that was personal! That was business. Margot’s parents made poor investments, defaulted on their loans, and cost the company money we had to recoup elsewise. Poor choices must have consequences, and you cannot reasonably expect us to bear them. Did she tell you everything, then?”

“Of course she did.”

Their mother studies them, dark eyes burning out of her golden mask. They flare a cold, bright purple at the center, and Yael shifts uneasily under her attention, which seems to fill their head with smoke, fogging their thoughts for a sliver of a moment. Then she blinks and smiles, seemingly satisfied. “Well, it’s Margot’s great fortune that she’s smarter than her mother and father by far, and with real talent. A natural caster, darling; this family could do far worse.”

“Don’t act as though you know the first thing about her,” Yael snaps, their facade collapsing.

Menorath laughs, as light as the bubbles in her champagne flute, and waves at a guest in a whiskered dragon mask from across the room. “Someday, Yael, when you’re grown, you’ll understand that everything this family has done, they’ve done for you. Every decision of ours that you so righteously spurn was made so that your choices will be easier. And devils know you’ve always preferred the easier path.”

Yael is just about to protest, to find some way to object to what feels horribly true, when a familiar voice asks, “Can I claim this dance, cousin?”

Araphi stands before them, radiant in a fluttering, lilac-colored gown. It’s a moment before Yael realizes the fluttering is due not to the dress’s layers of tulle or wispy sleeves caught in a draft but to silk butterflies sewn along her gown from neckline to hem, each seemingly enchanted to flap its wings independently.

Yael draws in a steadying breath. “You’d better.”

As Yael follows their cousin onto the floor, the violin players begin a lively tune, and Yael and Araphi bend the knee to bow to each other.

“What have you been up to this midsummer eve?” they ask, appraising the lace mask made to look like a broad pair of deep-purple butterfly wings resting askew on her lovely face, and the artful pile of dark hair that’s come slightly unraveled atop her head, and the glittering blackberry lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth.

She presses her palm to Yael’s as they circle to the right. “A Clauneck never confesses,” Araphi answers, smirking.

“Just between us, have you left Denby in a closet somewhere?”

She snorts. “Whomever I’ve left in a closet, you of all people have no right to judge me, Yael Clauneck.”

“The heart wants what it wants, I’m sure, and I’ll not judge you for it. But… Denby ?”

The pair drift apart to weave among their fellow dancers in the predetermined pattern, reuniting to spin each other in turn. “Alas, the heart has little to do with it,” Araphi continues, low enough that the nearest couple can’t hear them; Yael can just make her words out over the music. “Alviss Oreborn is the only person who knows what really happened the night of your graduation party, aside from this family. The guests were all told that you’d drunk too much and taken to your bed, and our parents spread word of your supposed accident in the days after. But Oreborn’s mount was gone when he and his son went to leave that night, and when pressed, the stable hands admitted they’d not checked on the animals for three hours—just about the time you’d disappeared from the party. He’s not a stupid man, however thick his boots.”

Yael’s impressed with Oreborn, actually, until the implications sink in. “Good gods. Did he blackmail us?”

“Of course not,” Araphi scoffs. “And risk being found at the bottom of one of his precious silver mines?”

“They wouldn’t…”

“Oh, wouldn’t they? No, Oreborn swore not to say a word. What happened next was your parents’ idea, passed along to mine. The Claunecks don’t like debt—their own debt, anyway—and Oreborn’s silence was a commodity more precious than his missing steed. Our family thought it needed to be properly purchased.”

“So you mean to say…” Yael stops in the middle of the floor until Araphi prompts them into their next turn. “You mean they offered you to Denby?”

“They proposed a match,” she corrects them, “no less than what Alviss Oreborn intended to propose to them before you fled, only it would’ve been between Denby and you. Anyway, there were worse bargains to be made. The son of a mining empire is a solid match.”

“I’ll say Denby’s solid.”

“Don’t, Yael,” she scolds, her eyes sharpening behind her mask as she dips in a graceful curtsy.

“All right, all right. But even so, you’ve not yet graduated from Auximia! You can’t possibly want to marry so young.”

“Oh, what is the point of wanting? We aren’t all lucky enough to ride off into the sunset—quite literally—and stumble upon some better, blissful life.” Araphi says this not with disdain but as though explaining the world to a very young child, even though she’s seen no more of that world than Yael has. “Do you think our family hasn’t given me the ‘where does the true power in Harrow lie’ speech? The Claunecks thought they’d let their heir, their greatest asset, slip between their fingers. They needed to conjure up another, and that’s what I was raised for.”

So, then, Araphi has outpaced them in seriousness, after all.

“Is that what we are, Phi?” Yael murmurs as they guide her backward across the floor. “Company assets?”

She sighs. “You’re asking bigger questions than I can answer after this much wine.”

Yael’s had nothing to drink yet this evening, they’re suddenly and keenly aware. Their mouth feels parched as a dragon’s hide. Where are those servants with their champagne trays? Yael could use something strong to wash down the idea that their leaving had consequences beyond their own happiness, for which their cousin is currently bearing the cost. And the pressure on Araphi to perform will only increase once Yael leaves Ashaway again for good.

“Oh, don’t look so gloomy, cousin.” Araphi breaks their grip to reach up and pinch Yael’s cheek. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll find another dance partner to pass the evening with once you’ve rescued Margot from your father’s clutches.” Her gaze darts across the floor toward Margot and Baremon. “And…take care of her, all right? I’ve never been in love before, you know—wouldn’t want it if I had it—but I think it looks marvelous on you.”

They scoff on instinct. “Phi, I’m not in—”

“Well, she certainly is,” Araphi cuts in with a wink. Then she bows and backs away just as the musicians end the waltz, leaving Yael alone and stunned.

Can that be true?

No. What would Araphi know of Margot’s feelings? They’ve gone to one dress fitting together, and suddenly their cousin is Margot’s confidante? She hardly speaks her feelings to Yael, and they’re close, aren’t they? Childhood friends. Present friends. Lovers.

But… in love ?

Something vast blooms inside of Yael, as though their ribs are garden gates that can no longer contain their own heart. Because of course Yael is in love with Margot Greenwillow. Margot is the tender of every good thing inside of them. They want nothing more than to leave this city and take Margot home, and maybe—just maybe—Margot wants nothing more than Yael.

What an unlikely, unbelievable, magical thing.

Pressing a hand to Yael’s cheek, Margot gently turns their head to face her, having escaped their father’s clutches all on her own. She leans in close, closer than any of the dancing couples had, her cheek brushing Yael’s. “Suddenly it’s very warm in here,” she murmurs. “I know we’ve only just begun to dance, but should we get some air?”

Yael shivers as her lips graze their ear. “We should, at once.”

They flee the dance floor before the next song can begin.

There’s a balcony off the ballroom where they might find a decent summer breeze, but it’s currently bustling with guests and clouded by cigar smoke. So Yael leads Margot back through the halls of the manor, up to a seldom-used parlor on the fourth floor that used to be their nursery and has since been converted. There’s a small, private balcony where they remember their governess would sit in the sunlight to mend clothing while they played. Menorath would toss away anything with the slightest evidence of repair, anyhow, but their governess liked to keep her hands busy.

Yael leans out over the railing, and the sprawling estate unfolds before them. The sunset, just beginning now, casts its pink glow upon the ornamental pond, the stable roofs, the sharply trimmed hedges. The manicured gardens where nothing to be eaten is grown, nor any flora particularly beneficial to beasts or pollinators. Acres and acres of land, and so much of it comprises shorn grass and packed-down trails for easy strolling or riding; not that their parents spend much time traversing the grounds.

When they peer over the side, they’re looking down on the ballroom balcony below, situated so that any guest looking up would clearly see them and hear them. Notes of flirtatious conversation and hard bargaining drift upward on the light breeze. But for the moment, no one looks up.

“Are you all right, Yael?” Margot asks, resting her elbows on the railing beside them.

I love you, they could say. They could tell her right now and put an end to their wondering. I love you, I love you, I—

“I’m just…on edge,” Yael says instead: the least part of their feelings, and the easiest to confess. “It’s being here, in my parents’ world…They don’t mean any of it, you know? All their talk of feeling glad to have me back? They lied to everyone for months rather than admit that their plans for me drove me away, and they never even cared to look for me until now, all for the sake of keeping up appearances. And I let them lie. Hells, I helped them lie.”

Margot sighs deeply. “So did I, Yael.”

“You only went along with their story because I convinced you it’d be easier.” And what did easier even mean? Easier for whom? What’s been easy about chipping off a piece of their own heart every time they let Rastanaya, or Oreborn, or even Denby believe the falsehood that the Claunecks were a family before they were a company?

“No, that isn’t—”

“Believe me, Margot, you’ve nothing to do with my parents’ schemes. After what my family did to yours, you’re the least culpable person here tonight.”

She reaches back behind her head to undo the ties of her mask, pulling it free even as it tangles in her spiraling crown braids, tugging strands of hair loose around her temples. Margot tosses the mask to the parquet floor of the balcony. “I’m not as good a person as you think I am, Yael. And you’re a better person than you think you are.”

Yael sniffs around a tight throat and burning eyes.

“Listen.” Margot rests a hand on their shoulder and turns them around so that she can peer through their own mask, still snugly tied in place. “Forget for just a moment what your family, or I, or anyone else wants, and please, just tell me what you want.”

A dozen glib responses sit on the tip of Yael’s tongue.

But no.

Yael has to be serious, because it’s possible that no question has ever mattered as much as this one. “I want…I want the chance to figure out who I could be in this world without the burden of who my family’s decided I’m supposed to be. I want a life of my choosing.”

Margot’s gaze burns into theirs, her eyes like candles in the twilight. “There’s really no part of you that misses this life?”

Yael turns the question over in their mind for a long moment before confessing, “I don’t know. This is where I was born and how I was raised. But I know that the better part of me would be happier in a cottage in the woods with you for as long as you’ll have me there.”

That much they do know is true.