Page 9 of Homegrown Magic

Margot blushed again. “I just like Granny’s strawberries, okay?” she mumbled around her own spoonful.

It’s been ten years since that night—the last time Yael visited the Greenwillows’ country estate, as they knew it would be—and nearly that long since they last saw Margot. Yael had gone away to finish their secondary education at boarding school, as planned. It was tradition in their family, as it gave them a head start in mixing with their peers beyond the realm. A mutual friend had told Yael that Margot’s family left the city in the spring before Yael came home to attend Auximia, and they’d expected her to return at the end of summer as well. She hadn’t, though. Yael never saw her at the academy, or in the alehouses, or at parties. Never saw her parents, who used to be fixtures in the Copper Court. Eventually, they’d accepted that life must have led her elsewhere.

It would be so nice to see Margot again.

Yael turns Sweet Wind off the Queens’ Road and down the rutted lane. The ride seems longer than they remember, even if it has been forever, and they’ve truly started to worry, when at last they see the stone walls of the old outpost, the abandoned watchtowers blotting out the stars behind them. The landscape that would’ve been cleared of scrub and trees in its military days is dotted with dormant berry bushes. No fires burn in the seemingly empty towers, and the heavy entrance gate stands open to travelers.

Baremon would scoff at the lack of fortification, as he did years ago. But Yael could hop off Sweet Wind and kiss the open gate with gratitude.

They ride through, and at last, after half a mile of forested road where they pass nobody, they see the manor. Or rather, the entrance gate. Two familiar statues stand at either side, moss grown up over their stone hooves, creeping vines twined around their legs and the bars of the shut gates. The starlight is thin through the trees above, but what looks like bird droppings spatter their antlers. Strange. Yael remembers Margot’s parents being just as worried about appearances as Baremon and Menorath. Probably more so, since the Greenwillows could never quite rely on setting trends and dictating tastes the way the Claunecks always have. Near-infinite wealth and power will do that; were anyone to spot bird droppings upon the gates of the Clauneck estate, they’d be in fashion by the end of the week.

Yael peers through the thickly grown trees, attempting to see the house, but only the round tower pokes above the treetops, its little window dark. Obviously, the Greenwillows will be in bed at this late (or early?) hour. Yael could leave Sweet Wind at the gate, making their way to the house on foot, where they’ll…what? Knock until they wake a maid? Charm them into popping down to the kitchen and putting some soup on the fire while they wait for Margot and her parents to rise for the day? They could throw pebbles at the window of Margot’s old bedroom and hope for the best, but of course she might not even be in there. Maybe she’s still away at school, wherever she ended up, or is managing an estate of her own. She could be married by now, settled down and all grown up like Yael is supposed to be.

The thought of their close childhood friend as a partner or parent suddenly fills them with longing. For what, they’re not sure, but a Margot who no longer runs wild in the woods or sneaks up to secret towers to avoid dinner parties would be the world’s loss.

Yael looks ahead up the lane. Margot mentioned a tavern in Bloomfield where Granny Fern drank for free. If it doesn’t have rooms for rent, Yael can sleep on the bar counter, then ride back to the manor to bluster their way through that awkward conversation in daylight. They won’t smell any better than they do now, but at least they won’t be shivering and pathetic in the dark.

It’s only another mile or so to the outskirts of the village, where they’re relieved beyond belief to get their wish: a dark wood tavern with a thatch roof, the frames painted tomato red around windowpanes lit from within. No stable that they can see, and they hesitate to abandon Sweet Wind outside. The steed is all they have. But apart from the sounds of laughter and song inside, the rest of Bloomfield appears to be in bed.

Anyway, you’d have to know how to ride a mechanical steed to steal one. In a middle-of-the-countryside place like this, that seems unlikely.

After hours of riding on wood and iron, Yael can hardly feel their tingling thighs and buttocks as they climb down from the saddle (perhaps the inn has a healer on retainer who can lay on hands). Slowly and painfully, they make their bowlegged way to the red tavern door, where they push through and are greeted by a welcome blast of warmth. A hearth crackles in the corner, casting flickering shadows and dim light across a handful of patrons clustered at small, round, rough wood tables. Probably townsfolk rather than travelers; passers-through would keep their heads down in their drinks, but nearly the entire tavern looks up at Yael as they enter.

Self-conscious, Yael swipes their fingers through their wind-tangled hair to fluff it up and comes away with a palmful of road dust. “Evening,” they say, aiming for charming as they wipe their hand on their hopelessly wrinkled trousers.

A teenage boy in a linen apron passes by with a tray of food, trailed by a sleek black weasel with a dustpan brush clamped in its jaws; a familiar, no doubt. Leaning in subtly to smell the brown bread and stew and golden ale held aloft, Yael feels their stomach nearly consume itself.

They hobble over to the bar counter, hoping for quicker service, and sink gratefully onto an empty stool. There’s only one other customer at the counter, currently draining a large tankard with her head tipped toward the ceiling. From the corner of their eye, Yael sees a thick braid, dark in the shadows beyond the firelight, dangling halfway down her back. Her dress, roughly embroidered with strawberries, is streaked with soil. Another traveler? Garden boots and a cardigan seem like strange riding attire…but then, look at Yael in their dusty silk party suit.

“What’ll you have, love?” a pretty young woman with an abundance of champagne-colored curls pulled back with a ribbon asks from behind the bar. “Kitchen’s closing soon.”

“The bread and stew, please.” Yael flashes a smile despite their pounding head and sore backside, hoping for an extra ladleful. “And have you got a good wine here? I bet you’ve got a good wine.” The purse at Yael’s belt feels awfully light for good wine, but they decide that’s tomorrow’s problem. Especially if they can put off their hangover just a little longer.

She giggles. “We do, pressed from grapes grown in the village vineyard.”

“Excellent. One for me, then, and one for my new friend…” They turn expectantly toward the customer in the muddy dress. No need to sleep at a tavern table if they can flirt their way into curling up in a fellow traveler’s room, after all.

The woman sets her now empty tankard on the counter and looks their way, rosy mouth dropping open in shock. Yael nearly falls off their barstool at the one person they’d hoped to find in this town, but the last person they expected to see in a humble tavern after midnight, still wearing mud-caked gardening boots.

“Margot?”

4

Margot

“Yael?” Margot chokes on the dregs of her ale, coughing. Some of it splatters the bar in front of her.

Smooth.

Almost as smooth as sitting across from her childhood friend and crush—whom she recognizes immediately, since they haven’t changed all that much in the last ten years—in a stained strawberry-print dress and garden boots.

Margot swears inwardly and gestures for Clementine to refill her tankard. “Yael Clauneck?” Margot repeats, desperate to give herself time to think.

What is Yael gods-be-damned Clauneck doing in Bloomfield, of all places, wearing silver basilisk-skin slip-on shoes with jade buckles, looking like they’ve been quite literally dragged here? Are their horrible parents here too? Oh gods, what will Margot say to—

“In the flesh.” Yael interrupts Margot’s thoughts. They run a hand over their dusty-yet-expensive-looking green silk suit coat (how long has it been since Margot wore something that nice?) and then through their hair. Somehow they manage to floof it even higher as they peer up at Margot.

Self-consciously, Margot mirrors their movement, brushing an errant swath of hair off her forehead. She comes away with a strawberry leaf. Wincing, she shoves the leaf under the full mug of ale Clementine has just placed in front of her.