"But you are." Daisy crossed to her and, surprisingly, reached out to touch her cheek. "You've always been the steady one. The one who holds things together. I should have appreciated that more instead of always trying to drag you into my chaos."
"You're making up for it now."
"Am I?"
"A little." Marigold caught her mother's hand and squeezed it briefly. "Keep working on it."
Daisy laughed—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. "I'll try. No promises, but I'll try."
It was, Marigold thought, probably the best she was ever going to get. And somehow, that was okay.
"When are you leaving?" she asked.
"Would… would it be okay if I stayed until the festival?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'd like to see your dance. I'm sure it will be wonderful."
The statement was accompanied by her mother's bright, charming smile. Marigold knew better than anyone that it was probably an act, but she was willing to take it.
"Thanks, Mom. You can stay here. I'll stay with Thallos."
Daisy glanced around the apartment. "And I should probably help clean up the mess I made. What do you do with wine glasses? Is there a particular place they go?"
"In the cabinet above the sink."
"Fascinating."
They spent the next hour tidying up together—Daisy mostly watching while she did the actual work, but occasionally making helpful observations like "I think that shirt goes on a hanger" and "Is coffee supposed to be that color?" It was strangely companionable. Almost normal.
By the time the apartment was back in order, the tension had fully dissipated. They weren't exactly at peace—there was too much history for that—but they'd reached some kind of understanding. An acknowledgment of their differences and a tentative agreement to respect them.
"I am proud of you," Daisy said quietly when Marigold was about to leave. "I know I don't show it well. But what you've built here—the shop, the life, even that rather alarming satyr—it's impressive. You've made something real. Something that's entirely yours."
Her throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Your father would have been proud too. He always knew you were special."
The mention of her father made her flinch. She didn't remember him well because he'd died when she was six in a car accident on a rainy night. But she remembered his smile, his laugh, the way he'd called her "sweetheart."
"I wish he'd gotten to see it," she managed.
"So do I." Daisy reached out and pulled her into a hug—brief, awkward, smelling of expensive perfume. "Take care of yourself, Marigold. And take care of that satyr. He seems like the type who needs looking after."
She laughed against her mother's shoulder. "I think he might disagree with that assessment."
"Men always do. They're wrong." Daisy pulled back, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I love you, darling. Even when I'm terrible at showing it."
"I love you too, Mom."
As she walked down the stairs, she thought about calling Thallos and telling him what had happened. But something stopped her. This moment felt sacred somehow. Private. A victory she needed to savor on her own before sharing it with anyone else.
Instead, she walked out onto Main Street. The morning had brightened into a beautiful summer day. People walked past the shop, some pausing to admire the window displays. The vines Thallos had enchanted swayed gently in the breeze, their white flowers catching the light.
*This is mine,* she thought. *All of it. The shop, the town, the life I'm building. Mine.*
And for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn't feel guilty about it.
