The_Honey_Witch_-_Sydney_J

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Sydney Shields
Excerpt from A Letter to the Luminous Deep copyright © 2024 by Sylvie
Cathrall
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover art by Trevillion and Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2024 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Author photograph by Will F. H. Jones
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Redhook Books/Orbit
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10104
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First Edition: May 2024
Simultaneously published in Great Britain by Orbit
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Shields, Sydney J., author.
Title: The honey witch / Sydney J. Shields.
Description: First edition. | New York : Redhook, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023038567 | ISBN 9780316568869 (trade paperback) |
ISBN 9780316568883 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3619.H54325 H66 2024 | DDC 813/.6—
dc23/eng/20231031
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023038567
ISBNs: 9780316568869 (trade paperback), 9780316568883 (ebook)
E3-20240312-JV-NF-ORI
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Content Warning
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part Five
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Meet the Author
A Preview of A Letter to the Luminous Deep
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For my grandma Kathy, and for all the impossible girls.
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Content Warning
Content warnings include:
• Tattooing/needles
• Burns
• Blood/injuries
• Sex
• House fire
• Bee stings
• Loss of a grandparent
• Death/grief
• Discussions of infertility
• Treatment of miscarriage
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Part One
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It is the spring of 1831, and Althea Murr celebrates her hundredth birthday
alone.
She sits beneath the wisteria tree, her orange cat curled in her lap. The
bee-loud glade sings for her, a song worthy of the one hundred years she
has lived.
A century of honey, earth, stone, and sky.
Of blood, venom, blooms, and ash.
She thinks of everything that was, and everything that could have been.
The stars peek through the twilit sky, asking her to make a wish, but she
has none.
She has no wants, no needs, and no wishes that could be granted in the
short time that she has left.
The springtime buds that decorate the earth remind her of childhood
when she wanted to grow up to be a flower. She had told her mother, “One
day, I will be a rose. And I will plant myself somewhere so beautiful that I
will never want to leave.”
Her mother laughed. “And what if someone wants to pluck you?”
“That is what the thorns are for,” she said.
Since then, she has bloomed, she has thorned, and now she is happily
withered. So, instead of granting her a wish, the spirits send her a message.
From the sky descends a crow, an omen, a warning—she knows that death
is near.
And thus, she has much to do.
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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 her 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 with 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. Marigold 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?”