Read an Extract from The Honey Witch by Sydney J. Shields

THE HONEY WITCH BY SYDNEY J. SHIELDS

A delicious debut that combines the swoon-worthy romance of Bridgerton and the whimsical sorcery of Practical Magic, with a dash of The Secret Life of Bees thrown in for good fun.

Twenty-one-year-old Marigold Claude has always preferred the company of the spirits of the meadow to any of the suitors who’ve tried to woo her. So when her grandmother whisks her away to the family cottage on the tiny Isle of Innisfree with an offer to train her as the next Honey Witch, she accepts immediately. But her newfound magic and independence come with a price: No one can fall in love with the Honey Witch.

When Lottie Burke, a notoriously grumpy skeptic who doesn’t believe in magic, shows up on her doorstep, Marigold can’t resist the challenge to prove to her that magic is real. But soon, Marigold begins to care for Lottie in ways she never expected. And when darker magic awakens and threatens to destroy her home, she must fight for much more than her new home-at the risk of losing her magic and her heart..

Read on to enjoy the first chapter!

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Saying no— even thirteen times— is not enough to avoid tonight’s ball. On this unfortunately hot spring day, Marigold Claude is trapped between her mother and younger sister, Aster, in a too-tight dress, in a too- small carriage. It’s her sister’s dress from last season, for Marigold refuses to go to the modiste to get fitted for a new one; an afternoon of being measured and pulled and poked is an absolute nightmare. Her blond hair is pulled up tightly so that her brows can barely move and her eyes look wide with surprise. Her father and younger brother, Frankie, sit across from them, likely feeling quite lucky to have the luxury of wearing trousers instead of endlessly ruffled dresses. A bead of sweat snakes down the back of her neck, prompting her to open her fan. It’s as if the more she moves, the larger the dress becomes. With every flap of her fan, the ruffles expand into a fluffy lavender haze. She is almost sure that she is suffocating, though death by silk might be preferable to the evening ahead.

This ball is the first event since her twenty- first birthday, so now she has a few months to marry before she is deemed an old and insufferable hag. The ride is far too short for her liking, as with any ride to another Bardshire estate. The opulent village was a gift from the prince regent himself; it is the home of favored artists from all over the world, including painters like Marigold’s father. Sir Kentworth, a notable composer, is hosting tonight’s event as an opportunity to share his latest works Though, the occasion is more of a way to hold people hostage for the duration of the music, and force them to pretend to enjoy it.

The carriage door flies open upon arrival, the wind stinging Marigold’s eyes, and she is the last to exit. Under different circumstances, she would have feigned illness so she did not have to attend, but her younger siblings are an integral part of the program this evening, and Frankie requires her support to manage his nerves before his performance. He’s been practicing for weeks, but the melodies of Sir Kentworth’s music are so odd that even Frankie—a gifted violinist who has been playing since his hands were big enough to hold the instrument—can hardly manage the tune. Aster will sing Sir Kentworth’s latest aria, even though the notes scrape the very top of her range. Since their last rehearsal, Aster has been placed on vocal rest and openly hated every minute, her dramatic body language expressing her frustration in lieu of words. That rehearsal was the first time Marigold saw the twins struggle to use their talents, making her feel slightly better about having none of her own. She’s spent her entire life simply waiting for some hidden talent to make itself known. So far, nothing has manifested, meaning she has only the potential to be a wife, and even that is slipping by her with every passing day. Her back is still pressed firmly against the carriage bench. If she remains perfectly still, her family may somehow forget to usher her inside, allowing her to escape the event altogether.

There are countless things she would rather be doing. On a night like this, when the blue moon is full and bursting with light like summer fruit, she wants nothing more than to bathe in the moon water that now floods the riverbanks. She wants to sing poorly with no judgment, wearing nothing but the night sky. And like all nights that are graced by a full moon, she has a secret meeting planned for midnight.

“Marigold, dear, come along,” her mother, Lady Claude, calls.

Dammit, she thinks. Escape attempt number one has failed. She huffs as she slides out of the carriage, declining the proffered hand of the footman at her side. Her feet hit the ground with an impressive thud.

“Do try to find someone’s company at least mildly enjoyable tonight,” Lady Claude pleads. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

She adjusts her corset as much as she can without breaking a rib and says, “I do not want any company other than my own, and I do not intend on staying a moment longer than required.” Her mother has long tried (and failed) to turn Marigold into a proper Bardshire lady. The woman has introduced her to nearly every person even remotely close to her in age, hoping that someone will convince her that love is a worthy pursuit. So far, they’ve all been bores. Well, all except one— George Tennyson— but Marigold will not speak of him. He will most certainly be here tonight, and like always, they will avoid each other like the plague. Their courtship was a nightmare, but there is great wisdom to be found in heartbreak. Call it intuition, call it hope, or delusion, but Marigold knows she is not meant to live a life like that of her mother.

Rain whispers in the twilight, waiting for the perfect moment to fall. Dark clouds swirl in the distance, reaching for the maroon sun. This oppressive heat and the black- tinged sky remind her of a summer, almost fifteen years ago now. The summer they’d stopped visiting the only place in the world where she felt normal—her grandmother’s cottage.

She’d always loved visiting Innisfree as a child. It was like a postcard, with fields of thick, soft clover to run through, gnarled trees to climb, and wild honeybees to watch tumble lazily over the wildflowers. And best of all, there was her grandmother. Althea was a strange woman, speaking in riddles and rhymes and sharing folktales that made little sense, but it didn’t matter. Marigold didn’t need the right words to understand that she and her grandmother were the same in whatever they were. She closes her eyes tightly, trying to remember the last summer she’d visited, but it’s fuzzy with age.

She had made a friend—a boy her age who was dangerously curious and ferociously bright. He would come in the morning with his mother, and as the ladies sipped their tea, he and Marigold would run among the wildflowers together. She thinks of him often, dreaming of their mud- stained hands intertwined, though she does not remember his name. After what happened that day, she doesn’t know if he survived.

She remembers the cottage window— always open, always sunny. Most of the time it could have been a painting, the world behind the glass as vivid as soft pastels. That day, she and her friend were told to stay inside. They snacked on honeycomb and pressed their sticky cheeks to the window, searching for faces in the clouds until the storm consumed the sky and turned the world gray. Her grandmother had run outside and disappeared into the heart of the storm, and the boy tried to grab her hand before he disappeared from her side. She remembers her mother’s cold fingers pulling on her wrist, but everything else is blurry and dark. For years, she has been asking her mother what happened. What was the gray that swallowed the sky? And what happened to the boy who tried to hold on to her hand? Her questions have gone unanswered, and they have never returned to her grandmother’s cottage. She still questions if any of these memories are real. But her mother’s hand bears the beginnings of a white scar peeking out from a lace glove. The truth is there, hidden in that old wound.

The other attendees spill out of their carriages in all their regalia. They stand tall and taut like they are being carried along by invisible string. Just before they walk inside, her father pulls her into an embrace and whispers in her ear, “Come home before the sun rises, and do not tell a soul about where you are running off to.”

He winks, and Marigold smiles. Her father has always been kind enough to aid in her escape by distracting her mother at the right moment.

“I never do,” she assures him. It’s already too easy for people to make fun of a talentless lady trapped in Bardshire. She and everyone else know that she is not a normal woman. She sometimes wonders if she is even human, often feeling a stronger kinship for mud and rain and roots. Every day, she does her absolute best to play a part— a loving daughter, a supportive sister, a lady of marital quality. But in her heart, she is a creature hidden beneath soft skin and pretty ribbons, and she knows that her grandmother is, too. These are the wild women who run barefoot through the meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moon together. Wild women are their own kind of magic.

She is standing in between her twin siblings when Aster, stunning with her deep blue dress against her pale white skin, is immediately approached by handsome gentlemen. Aster was not meant to come out to society until Marigold, as the oldest, was married. After a time— really, after George— Marigold abandoned all interest in marriage, and the sisters convinced their parents to allow Aster to make her debut early. It was a most unconventional decision, one followed by cruel whispers throughout Bardshire at Marigold’s expense, but she has lost the energy for bitterness. She tried love, once. It didn’t work, and it is not worth the risk of trying again with someone new. Now Aster is the jewel of the Claude family, and Marigold is simply resigned.

Frankie clings to her side, his hands clammy with preperformance nerves. She flares her fan and waves it in front of his face, calming the redness in his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mari,” he says with a shaky voice. She hands him a handkerchief to dry off his sweaty palms.

“You’re going to be fine, Frankie. You always are.”

He scoffs. “This music is nearly impossible. It was not written for human hands.”

“Well, we’ll get back at him next time when you have fewer eyes on you,” she says with a wink. She and Frankie have always found some way to playfully disrupt events. Snapping a violin string so Frankie won’t have to play. Pretending to see a snake in the middle of the dance floor. Stealing an entire tray of cake and eating it in the garden. Anything to escape the self- aggrandizing conversations. She leads Frankie through the crowd while noting the tables lined with sweets and expertly calculates how much she’ll be able to eat without any snide remarks. She can probably get away with three— the rest, she’ll have to sneak between songs.

The dance floor has been freshly decorated with chalk drawings of new spring flora. The art perfectly matches the floral arrangements throughout the ballroom. Decor of such elaborate design is not common, but Sir Kentworth is known for his flair, and he is exceptionally detail- oriented. His signature style shows in his music as well, though his latest works are growing increasingly baroque, as are his decorations. As they stroll toward the banquet table, Marigold catches the eye of her mother, who is leading a handsome young man toward her. She tries to increase her pace, but the crowd around her is impenetrable. In a matter of seconds, she’s trapped in the presence of her mother and the young man while Frankie leaves her alone, set on taking all the good desserts.

Lovely. My freedom is thwarted, once again.

As she turns away from her brother, she flashes a vulgar gesture at him behind her back. Her mother places a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Marigold, this is Thomas Notley,” her mother says. She knows this name— Sir Notley was the architect who designed the remodels of the Bardshire estates after they were purchased from the landed gentry. The man in front of her is the famed architect’s grandson. They have seen each other many times, across many rooms, but this is their first proper introduction.

Her mother looks up at Mr. Notley. “And this is my beautiful daughter, Marigold Claude.”

“It is an honor to be introduced to you, Miss Claude.” His smile is bright and earnest as he takes her hand and kisses it. His cropped hair allows the sharpness of his facial features to be fully admired, while his warm brown skin glows in the yellow light of the ballroom. He is extremely handsome, but like Marigold, he is plagued with a very poor reputation as a dancer. It is likely that not many people will be fighting to add his name to their dance card, despite his good looks.

“The pleasure is mine,” she replies with a clenched jaw. It is embarrassing enough to be her age with no prospects or talents, but her mother makes it so much worse with these desperate matchmaking attempts.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to dance,” her mother says as she pushes them slightly closer together and disappears into the crowd. She glares in the direction that her mother left. Normally, she at least gets one bite of something before she takes to the ballroom floor. “Mr. Notley,” she says, “I know not what my mother said to you, but please do not feel obligated to dance with me. I should warn you I have no rhythm.”

“Nor do I. My talents are better suited for sitting behind a desk and drawing architectural plans,” he says with a smile.

“Then who knows what disaster will take place if we take to the floor together? It may become dangerous for all others involved.”

“I disagree, Miss Claude. I believe we’ll make a perfect pair.” She often has trouble filling up her dance card, and she must get out of this place as quickly as possible, so she devises a plan to make this work in her favor. Softening her demeanor, she looks up at him through her thick lashes. “All right then, Mr. Notley. Would it be too bold of me to request that you have all my dances tonight?”

He looks stunned, but then a pleased smile inches across his face. This proposition is perfect— she doesn’t have to wait for anyone else to ask for a dance or feign interest in multiple stuffy artists all night long. If she can hurry through the obligations of the evening with this gentleman, she’ll be able to leave with plenty of time for her own nightly plans. Now, if she can simply pretend to have a good time long enough to get through her dance card . . .

“I would be honored. Shall we make our way to the floor?” She pauses, for she absolutely requires a scone while they are still warm and fresh.

“Might we get refreshments first? We have a lot of dancing ahead of us,” she says sweetly, and he obliges as he leads them to the table. The luxurious scents of ginger, cinnamon, and cardamom grow stronger as they approach.

“I am guessing you are a fan of sweets?” he says with a bewildered laugh.

She nods as the excitement falls from her face, replaced by embarrassment. “Eating sweets is perhaps my only talent.”

“I was not teasing. Please forgive me if it felt as if I were. I am known to have a sweet tooth as well. Shall we select our favorites and share them with each other?” he says politely, and his idea is delightful—less dancing, more eating. The pair find themselves stuffing each other’s faces with scones and marmalades and other small nameless cakes that are too tempting to ignore. She removes her glove with her teeth and picks up a small square of honey cake. The white icing is covered in a thick layer of warm honey that drips onto its sides, so it must be eaten quickly.

“Open,” she commands, and he almost cannot stop smiling long enough to allow her to feed him, but he does, and she drops the cake into his mouth before taking her fingers to her lips and sucking off the dripping honey.

“That is fantastic,” he says with a full mouth, and she laughs as she nods in agreement.

“People always overlook the honey cake because it’s messy and impossible to eat with gloves. But I don’t care. I refuse to walk past a tray of honey cakes without tasting them. They have always been my favorite, and the only part of these events that I actually enjoy,” she says as she takes another and pops it into her mouth, savoring the sweet golden liquid that coats her lips.

“Miss Claude, you have a little . . .” he says, gesturing to the corner of her mouth. She tries to wipe where instructed but continuously misses the mark. He finally removes his own glove and wipes away the small bead of honey from her lip. He licks it off of his thumb and smiles.

“There. All better,” he says, and she blushes. They maintain eye contact, the heat of his fingers lingering where he touched her face. The two of them are currently breaking a number of etiquette rules, but she doesn’t care.

“Well, I recant my earlier statement. It turns out that I am not exceptionally talented at eating sweets either, or I would be able to do so without making a mess of myself,” she says, wiping around her mouth to ensure there aren’t any lingering crumbs.

They share a genuine laugh, and at this moment, she thinks that maybe marriage wouldn’t be the worst fate in the world. Mr. Notley is extremely handsome, comes from an exceptional family, and seems very agreeable, which is an important trait of any person who is going to attempt to fall in love with her.

But something still does not feel right. It would be like painting the walls of her life beige. It would be a safe choice, a comfortable choice that no one could fault her for, but it does mean that every day she would have to sit in her room and look at her beige walls and wonder what could have been if she had painted them bright yellow or pink. What if she had forgone paint entirely? Or better yet, what if there were no walls at all? Only sky, sunlight, salty water, fresh rain, and spring flowers and no one else around to comment on the paint color of the walls. That would be perfect, and that is why it is only a dream.

“What is that?” Marigold asks as she points over Mr. Notley’s shoulder at nothing in particular. When he turns, she quickly takes a honey cake and wraps it in a piece of cloth before carefully hiding it in the small reticule purse that hangs from her wrist.

It’s not for her, though. It’s for her midnight meeting, so she must be sneaky. Mr. Notley turns back around and says, “What? I’m afraid I don’t see anything.”

She shrugs. “Ah, must have been my imagination. Shall we attempt to dance?”

He smiles as he follows her lead. She takes him in front of the band, where Frankie, Aster, and the other musicians are positioned like statues behind Sir Kentworth as he raises his sparkling conducting baton. Aster’s voice fills the room, and though the melody is strange, it seems the vocal rest worked— she sounds undeniably angelic.

“Your brother and sister are extraordinary,” Mr. Notley says.

“I hear that often,” Marigold says quietly.

She turns her head and pushes through the dance. Mr. Notley is slightly better than she is, and they keep with the beat as best as they can. Focusing on her steps helps her forget the rest of the world for a small moment. The music is demanding— heavy, punctuated beats dictate a complicated dance. The command of the strings and the swift obedience of the dancers fill her with ferocious envy. How unfair that she may always desire but never earn that much control over a room.

A brief intermission follows so that the musicians may rest their overworked hands. People are still filing into the room like ants back from foraging, eager to show off their finds— an artifact that should not be in this country, a new wife wearing the late wife’s dress. And then, as if he was waiting for Marigold’s eyes to land on the door so that she would have no choice but to witness him, enters George Tennyson: a poet, a prodigy, and the most beautiful monster she has ever known. She has not spoken to him— beyond obligatory pleasantries— in two years, not that he would have given her the chance if she wanted to. He has not even looked at her for more than a few seconds since she was ten and seven and he left her on her knees outside of a ball just like the one they are attending tonight. Bardshire is a small world, so his occasional presence is unavoidable, but she always pretends that he is a ghost when she sees him. A hollow, transparent creature of only the past. Tonight, though, he is too close. She can feel the warmth of him from here. He is so undeniably and mercilessly alive.

He looks at her, intentionally so, surveying her body and settling on her hand intertwined with Mr. Notley’s. His cheeks flush red and a devilish grin stretches across his face. His eyes find hers, and she cannot withstand the memories conjured by his gaze. Flashes of promenades and poetry and promises that proved to be empty. He starts walking toward her, and she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole. He’s smiling, and she surprises herself when she smiles back. Hers is a cautious smile— what if he grants her the closure she has always wanted but never sought? Will he take back the worst of his words? Or could she, with one sharp sentence, ruin him? Words sit heavy on her tongue behind her saccharine smile. He’s right in front of her, so happy and so handsome that she almost forgets what made her hate him so. Were they that bad? Could they be good again? His hand is reaching toward her. She takes a breath, moves to reach back, and then realizes too late that his hand is not reaching for her. He sidesteps her. From over her shoulder, she hears, “There you are, my love.”

She turns slowly, against her better judgment, to see him kissing Priya Gill’s white- gloved hand. The pair moves as one through the crowd and stops in the center. George calls for the attention of the room, and oh God, she knows it before it happens, hears it before he says it, the nightmare is both almost over and only just begun— he proposes to Priya Gill. He does so loudly and with such flair that there are no dry eyes in the room. Everyone else sees a beautiful couple, a grand wedding, another romance for the poets to wax on and on about in their leatherbound journals that apparently everyone takes as law. It’s sick, all of it. His gaze locks onto Marigold for one brutal moment, as if to say, “This could never be you.”

His hand is wrapped around Priya’s, but it’s soft. It’s not a death grip where he’s pulling her back in line or squeezing her knuckles when she says something out of place. There is something prideful about the way he holds on to Priya, and it’s maddening. He never loved Marigold like that. It was never soft, never gentle. George is a decade older than her, and during their courtship, he often cited his age as if it meant that he could never be wrong. He was too wise, too well versed in the nature of people to make an improper judgment. No—George always had to be right, and it killed him every time he was bested by her: a young girl who was only meant to be a muse.

The hold George once had on her was punishing, like he was trying to mold her into a different shape, make it so she took up less space in every room. She blamed his father, high society, social pressures, and the like. Maybe things could have gotten better if they weren’t trapped in Bardshire with all eyes on them all the time, if they simply gave up on everything except each other and ran away. She begged for that as he left her. She prayed at his feet like he was a god who might listen if her suffering was compelling enough. He never wanted her, though— not in any true way. He only wanted a bride who would succumb to his violent pursuit of civility.

Congratulations to dear old George. He has all that he wanted and did nothing to deserve it. The men will shake his hand and the women will watch Priya slowly realize that she is trapped, and they will teach her how to pretend that she is not breaking. Marigold, decidedly, will never be broken by him, or anyone, ever again.

The music resumes, and Mr. Notley sweeps her away into a new dance, twirling her until George and his betrothed are out of sight. But she cannot escape the whispers that snake through the room.

“Priya is a much better choice.”

“Remember when he was with the Claude girl? What a lark.”

“It’s too late for her. She will never, ever marry.”

She scrunches her nose in a way that makes her look like a lapdog, so says her mother. A bitch, Aster once said before she knew exactly what that word meant. Marigold laughed then—what is so wrong about being a bitch? It is the closest a girl can be to a wolf.

Mr. Notley studies Marigold’s face for a moment. “Miss Claude, will you allow me one prying question?”

She squeezes his shoulder as they turn in time with the music. “It seems I am trapped. How can I refuse?”

“How is it that you are not married?”

Marigold flinches. “What makes you think that I should be?”

“You are beautiful and full of life, like springtime,” Mr. Notley says.

“And why should those qualities merit promising myself to another? Perhaps there is a reason you cannot marry the spring.”

“But I could marry you.”

“You speak as if that decision belongs to you alone.” Marigold steps on his toes and does not pretend that it is an accident. “I am not married because I have yet to find someone who makes me feel seen.”

He steadies himself on his throbbing toes. “You don’t believe that I could see you?”

“No. You see only springtime. What happens when I am winter? I will tell you, Mr. Notley. When winter comes”— she leans in close so their noses are almost touching— “you will freeze.”

Heat lingers on her lips, and surprisingly, Mr. Notley smiles.

They dance through six songs, enough to fill an entire dance card. Aster makes eye contact with Marigold, her eyes full of apology as they flit between her and George. Marigold bites the inside of her cheek and shakes her head as she makes her final curtsy to Mr. Notley. She begins to walk away from the floor, fighting against an ocean of tears behind her eyes. It gets easier with every step, and so it is decided— she will walk through the whole night if she must, for she will not shed one more tear for that man. He is not worth the energy, and neither is anyone else. As soon as she reaches the door, her elbow is caught, and Mr. Notley pulls her around to face him.

He looks at her as if he thought his hand might pass through her, as if she were only a wish. “Are you leaving, Miss Claude?”

She swallows the last of her sadness. “Yes, I’m afraid all that dancing has left me feeling quite faint. I must rest,” she says breathlessly, hoping to make her story more believable.

“Might I help you to your carriage, then?”

Her eyes widen, for there is no carriage waiting. She intends on escaping on foot, through the gardens.

“That will not be necessary. I feel that the fresh air is just what I need,” she says as she attempts to turn back toward the door.

“Have I done something wrong? I must admit I thought we were having a lovely time,” he says. His words are kind enough, but nothing he says can change the fact that there is somewhere else she would rather be. Her skin starts to burn underneath his unwavering grip.

“My haste has nothing to do with you. I simply have somewhere I must be. Have another honey cake for me,” she says as she yanks her arm away and then shakes his hand firmly in the same manner that she has seen her father do many times to end a meeting with a patron that has dragged on for too long. He holds her hand there, still seeming somewhat dazed and confused at her rush.

“Is there someone else, Miss Claude? Another man waiting for you out there?”

She cannot help but laugh wildly. Since George, Mr. Notley is the only man in Bardshire that she has been able to stand speaking to for more than five minutes, so the idea of having two men who she would want to spend an evening with is a hilarious joke that seems to be entirely lost on him.

“There is no other man. I can assure you.”

“Then why must you leave me so suddenly? I will not let you go before I understand.”

She lets out a sigh of frustration. “Mr. Notley, I intend to run out to the meadow barefoot and soak up the blue moonlight. I intend to sing loudly, to dance freely, maybe even scream if I wish. I intend to ruin this dress with the mud and the rain. And if I don’t go now, then I will miss the brightest hour of the blue moon, which only happens once a year. Now, if you will excuse me,” she says. She looks back at him as he stares at her with absolute bewilderment.

“You are a wild creature, Miss Claude. I hope to see you again,” he calls after her. She waves goodbye and then takes off iin a run, knowing that she will not allow herself to be tamed.

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