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Thankfully, that was the moment Imogen arrived, early as ever. She took one look at the sight before her—the mostly full box on the ground, the floating décor—and perched herself in her usual spot.

“Right,” Margaret said. “Hot chocolate, Imogen?”

Imogen nodded. “Yes, please.”

“All right,” Margaret said. “But I’m telling you to prepare yourself for disappointment. I don’t even know if I have enough nectar to finish this one off.”

Liza squeezed her hand. “Sarah dropped off some nectar.”

Margaret regarded her sadly. “I’m afraid it’s not the same.”

Still, with the two of them looking at her with hope, she couldn’t exactly decline. Besides, it felt good to be making something, to be moving her hands with purpose. It woke something in her that she thought might have broken along with her heart.

Silas. She hated that she still thought of him constantly, even now, as she poured the chocolate into the steaming milk, as she added in all the ingredients, including Sarah’s non-magical nectar. She hated that she could still close her eyes and feel his kisses on her neck, could hear his laugh in the carriage, could smell him on the scarf he’d given her. Hated that she accidentally made four cups instead of three out of habit for making one for him.

No one commented on the extra drink, though Imogen and Liza did look at each other when they thought Margaret didn’t see them. She took her own hot chocolate and faced away from the pair of them, staring at the bottles behind the bar, at her reflection distorted in the glass.

Waited for the judgment to fall.

Instead, she heard nothing. Not disappointment. Not uncomfortable whispering. Just . . . sips.

When she turned, both Liza and Imogen were drinking. Smiles lit up both their faces.

“Mags,” Liza said. “It’s perfect.”

Margaret didn’t understand. She chocked it up to residual magic, something her grandmother had left behind. Was it in the glasses? The tools Margaret used? The pub itself? But it all seemed too vague, too nebulous, for there to be magic tied here. After all, the glasses broke occasionally. The tools had to be replaced. None of them seemed porous enough or strong enough to hold a spell for this many years.

Margaret went to the garden for answers, preparing herself emotionally for the devastation she would find.

It was different than it had been, though. Someone had been here. Silas, possibly, which made her heart ache. Things had been tidied, soil moved back to its proper place.

She waited, tried to feel the thrum of her grandmother’s magic, something that had survived, but the night air felt as dead as it had the other night. Margaret stifled a sob.

“Give it time, Margaret,” Elliott said, stepping around the corner. “You’ll be able to bring it back.”

She wanted to hate him for bringing all of this into her life. She wanted to hate him for being here—clearly Silas or Wyatt or both had let him in. Most of all, she wanted to hate him because he had the nerve to watch her with pity, after all, as if he hadn’t wrought all of this in some way. But she’d gotten too tired. Grief weighed on her, heavy and exhausting.

“I let this happen,” she said. “I let her work be . . . destroyed. What if the plants don’t come back?”

“Won’t they?” Elliott asked. “Are you not Fiona Nettle’s granddaughter? Does her blood not run in your veins?”

Margaret turned away from him. Another person who didn’t understand.

“Grief tells you that you are alone,” Elliott said to her back. “But in reality, it is the one thing we will all face. Maybe not at the same time. But it will come for us all. Grief doesn’t divide us, Margaret. It binds us together in life.”

Margaret took a breath.

“I appreciate you trying to give me sage headmaster wisdom,” Margaret said, trying but failing to keep her voice from shaking. “But I’m not really in the mood for bullshit.”

Elliott laughed. He stepped up beside her, surprising her with a softness in his eyes.

“That’s fair,” he said.

She looked around. “I do appreciate you cleaning up, though. Honestly. It looks . . . less awful.”

“Oh, this wasn’t me,” Elliott said.

He nodded around the corner. A figure appeared. Wyatt.