Page 76 of Homegrown Magic

Could that really be true?

Yael thinks once more of a spindle press inside Harrow’s mint. Really, how can a mighty machine be such a marvel if one little, apparently unimportant piece might spell its doom? That seems a lot less like a failure of the part than a failure in the machine’s design.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business these past twenty-three years,” they tell their once-patron, tucking the Greenwillow ledger against their chest, “but I think I shall be withdrawing my account from the Clauneck Company.”

Yael has spent those twenty-three years listening to their patron berate and bully them, whispering poisonous thoughts into being. But they’ve never heard Clauneck howl, sounding very like the devil he is. Their eardrums ring with it, and their bones vibrate like violin strings, boiling their blood inside their body. They drop to their knees, afraid that they’re shattering apart.

Then the violent clamor is gone.

Clauneck is gone.

Yael is more completely alone than they’ve ever been, and suddenly, the thing they’ve always feared feels like the greatest possible gift.

It won’t last. Having abandoned Yael for good (and Yael knows with every part of their being that it’s for good), Clauneck will muster Baremon and Menorath, who must have arrived for the scheduled meeting by now. Their parents will come running to stop them. Which means that Yael will need to get moving and then keep running until they’re well out of reach of the Claunecks.

They set the ledger aside and dip back into the file, pulling out what they recognize immediately as a profitability analysis, same as the one on the fields neighboring the Rookery that came across Yael’s desk last week. They loosen the leather thong and pull back the portfolio flap to take a look at the contents, flipping through the opening pages until a map drawn into quadrants and annotated with measurements and proposed sums catches their eye. They recognize it by its shape, encircled by a thick, inked stone wall, and by its coordinates.

This is Bloomfield. Or Bloomfield as it was four years ago, judging by the written dates. This report was compiled while the Claunecks were weighing their options, deciding whether Margot might become an asset of greater value than the land itself, worth granting an extension. The map is followed by sheets of some anonymous number cruncher’s notes on the past appreciation of property values, and at the very back of the folder…

Yael finds the last thing they expect, but exactly what they need.

It’s funny, really. The Claunecks were so afraid that Yael, ill fitting as they’ve always been in the family apparatus, might bring the whole thing down.

Which means that, just maybe, Yael can bring the whole thing down.

They tuck all of their findings into their coat, then rush toward the door that opens for them at their touch. The wards can’t tell the difference between blood and family, after all.

On the Queens’ Road dead center of the three courts, there is a public stable that lets out mounts, bridles, and carriages to renters according to their wealth and needs. To Auximia students wanting to impress one another during the courting season; to merchants, couriers, and cabmen who can’t afford to purchase and keep a mount or cart; to poorer folk with a rare patch of land that needs plowing in spring. The Claunecks have no need for an account there with a stable of their own, and Yael has nothing to pay nor barter with, having given away whatever jewelry they had on them hours before. All they have now are the papers and plans stolen from the office.

That, and a very fine suit.

Not quite as fine as the suit they traded to Arnav the tailor for a rough wardrobe and work boots, but then, they knew at the time that they were far underselling it. This one—a plum-colored frock coat, vest, and trousers—has buttons of pure gold, and luck spellwork stitched into the lining.

Which is how they came to be galloping through the southern gates of Ashaway on a mechanical steed-for-hire named Gloom Stalker, wearing only their undershorts and linen bindings, their socked feet in the iron stirrups, and the ledger and two portfolios strapped to the saddle.

32

Margot

Aclattering noise wakes Margot in the early hours of the morning. She sits bolt-upright, nearly bashing her head on the low loft ceiling. Was that outside? Maybe hooves on the flagstones? Is someone from the Clauneck Company here to evict her?

Of course not. Not yet, at least. Despite Menorath’s yearlong extension, Margot knows she’ll have to tell the Claunecks that the Natural Caster Potion is never happening, can never happen. Her anxiety over the consequences of doing so has slipped into her dreams and she’s slept fitfully, tossing and turning as visions of someone coming in the night to force her from her home fill her sleep.

There’s another noise, clearer this time, like a spoon against a teacup. So, not a horse. Adrenaline lights her veins. Looking around her loft, Margot grabs the first thing at hand, a fluffy down pillow. Nerves tingling, she scoots to the edge of the loft.

There’s a thump and the murmur of an almost familiar voice. Another rattle—ceramic against metal—brings a whispered string of swear words.

Yes, that was definitely coming from her kitchen.

Margot’s fairly certain she won’t need her pillow—and a pillow won’t do much good against someone here to evict her, anyway—but she won’t go down without a fight. Even if it’s a pillow fight.

Ridiculous. She isn’t thinking properly. She needs a good cup of tea to clear her head and wake her up.

There’s another soft thump and then, almost as if reading her mind, the smell of hibiscus and ginger tea floats upward to the loft. Margot inhales deeply, letting the delicious, familiar scent wrap around her.

Did someone break into her house to…make her tea?

There is only one person who would do that. But they wouldn’t be here after six weeks of heartbreaking absence. Would they? Still clutching the pillow, Margot steps down the loft ladder and lands softly on the living room floor. There’s a fire dancing in her hearth, and not a log is out of place. A small bundle of freshly picked daisies sit in an empty jam jar in the middle of the kitchen table next to the vase holding the everlasting daisy.