This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents arethe product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, iscoincidental.Copyright © 2024 by Sydney ShieldsExcerpt from A Letter to the Luminous Deep copyright © 2024 by SylvieCathrallCover design by Lisa Marie PompilioCover art by Trevillion and ShutterstockCover copyright © 2024 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.Author photograph by Will F. H. JonesHachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value ofcopyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists toproduce the creative works that enrich our culture.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permissionis a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permissionto use material from the book (other than for review purposes), pleasecontact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of theauthor’s rights.Redhook Books/OrbitHachette Book Group1290 Avenue of the AmericasNew York, NY 10104hachettebookgroup.comFirst Edition: May 2024Simultaneously published in Great Britain by OrbitRedhook is an imprint of Orbit, a division of Hachette Book Group.The Redhook name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette BookGroup, Inc. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are notowned by the publisher.The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors forspeaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com oremail HachetteSpeakers@hbgusa.com.Redhook books may be purchased in bulk for business, educational, orpromotional use. For information, please contact your local bookseller orthe Hachette Book Group Special Markets Department atspecial.markets@hbgusa.com.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: 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/20231031LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023038567ISBNs: 9780316568869 (trade paperback), 9780316568883 (ebook)E3-20240312-JV-NF-ORIOceanofPDF.com ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationContent WarningPart OneChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NinePart TwoChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter Fourteen Chapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OnePart ThreeChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveChapter Thirty-SixPart FourChapter Thirty-SevenChapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-NineChapter FortyChapter Forty-OneChapter Forty-TwoPart FiveAcknowledgmentsDiscover MoreMeet the AuthorA Preview of A Letter to the Luminous DeepOceanofPDF.com For my grandma Kathy, and for all the impossible girls.OceanofPDF.com Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.Tap here to learn more.OceanofPDF.com Content WarningContent warnings include:• Tattooing/needles• Burns• Blood/injuries• Sex• House fire• Bee stings• Loss of a grandparent• Death/grief• Discussions of infertility• Treatment of miscarriageOceanofPDF.com It is the spring of 1831, and Althea Murr celebrates her hundredth birthdayalone.She sits beneath the wisteria tree, her orange cat curled in her lap. Thebee-loud glade sings for her, a song worthy of the one hundred years shehas 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 shehas none.She has no wants, no needs, and no wishes that could be granted in theshort time that she has left.The springtime buds that decorate the earth remind her of childhoodwhen she wanted to grow up to be a flower. She had told her mother, “Oneday, I will be a rose. And I will plant myself somewhere so beautiful that Iwill 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 happilywithered. 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 deathis near.And thus, she has much to do.OceanofPDF.com Chapter OneSaying no—even thirteen times—is not enough to avoid tonight’s ball. Onthis unfortunately hot spring day, Marigold Claude is trapped between hermother and younger sister, Aster, in a too-tight dress, in a too-smallcarriage. It’s her sister’s dress from last season, for Marigold refuses to goto the modiste to get fitted for a new one; an afternoon of being measuredand pulled and poked is an absolute nightmare. Her blond hair is pulled uptightly so that her brows can barely move and her eyes look wide withsurprise. Her father and her younger brother, Frankie, sit across from them,likely feeling quite lucky to have the luxury of wearing trousers instead ofendlessly ruffled dresses. A bead of sweat snakes down the back of herneck, prompting her to open her fan. It’s as if the more she moves, thelarger the dress becomes. With every flap of her fan, the ruffles expand intoa fluffy lavender haze. She is almost sure that she is suffocating, thoughdeath by silk might be preferable to the evening ahead.This ball is the first event since her twenty-first birthday, so now she hasa 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 Bardshireestate. The opulent village was a gift from the prince regent himself; it isthe home of favored artists from all over the world, including painters likeMarigold’s father. Sir Kentworth, a notable composer, is hosting tonight’sevent as an opportunity to share his latest works. Though the occasion ismore of a way to hold people hostage for the duration of the music, andforce 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 wouldhave feigned illness so she did not have to attend, but her younger siblingsare an integral part of the program this evening, and Frankie requires hersupport to manage his nerves before his performance. He’s been practicingfor weeks, but the melodies of Sir Kentworth’s music are so odd that evenFrankie—a gifted violinist who has been playing since his hands were bigenough to hold the instrument—can hardly manage the tune. Aster will singSir Kentworth’s latest aria, even though the notes scrape the very top of herrange. Since their last rehearsal, Aster has been placed on vocal rest andopenly hated every minute, her dramatic body language expressing herfrustration in lieu of words. That rehearsal was the first time Marigold sawthe twins struggle to use their talents, making her feel slightly better abouthaving none of her own. She’s spent her entire life simply waiting for somehidden talent to make itself known. So far, nothing has manifested, meaningshe has only the potential to be a wife, and even that is slipping by her withevery passing day. Her back is still pressed firmly against the carriagebench. If she remains perfectly still, her family may somehow forget tousher her inside, allowing her to escape the event altogether.There are countless things she would rather be doing. On a night likethis, 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 theriverbanks. She wants to sing poorly with no judgment, wearing nothing butthe night sky. And like all nights that are graced by a full moon, she has asecret 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 handof 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 andsays, “I do not want any company other than my own, and I do not intendon staying a moment longer than required.”Her mother has long tried (and failed) to turn Marigold into a properBardshire lady. The woman has introduced her to nearly every person evenremotely 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 mostcertainly be here tonight, and like always, they will avoid each other likethe plague. Their courtship was a nightmare, but there is great wisdom to befound in heartbreak. Call it intuition, call it hope, or delusion, but Marigoldknows 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. Thisoppressive heat and the black-tinged sky remind her of a summer, almostfifteen years ago now. The summer they’d stopped visiting the only place inthe 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, andwild honeybees to watch tumble lazily over the wildflowers. And best ofall, there was her grandmother. Althea was a strange woman, speaking inriddles and rhymes and sharing folktales that made little sense, but it didn’tmatter. Marigold didn’t need the right words to understand that she and hergrandmother were the same in whatever they were. She closes her eyestightly, trying to remember the last summer she’d visited, but it’s fuzzy withage.She had made a friend—a boy her age who was dangerously curious andferociously bright. He would come in the morning with his mother, and asthe ladies sipped their tea, he and Marigold would run among thewildflowers together. She thinks of him often, dreaming of their mud-stained hands intertwined, though she does not remember his name. Afterwhat happened that day, she doesn’t know if he survived.She remembers the cottage window—always open, always sunny. Mostof the time it could have been a painting, the world behind the glass as vividas soft pastels. That day, she and her friend were told to stay inside. Theysnacked on honeycomb and pressed their sticky cheeks to the window,searching for faces in the clouds until the storm consumed the sky andturned the world gray. Her grandmother had run outside and disappearedinto the heart of the storm, and the boy tried to grab her hand before hedisappeared from her side. She remembers her mother’s cold fingers pullingon 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 tohold on to her hand? Her questions have gone unanswered, and they havenever returned to her grandmother’s cottage. She still questions if any ofthese memories are real. But her mother’s hand bears the beginnings of awhite scar peeking out from a lace glove. The truth is there, hidden in thatold wound.The other attendees spill out of their carriages in all their regalia. Theystand tall and taut like they are being carried along by invisible string. Justbefore they walk inside, her father pulls her into an embrace and whispersin her ear, “Come home before the sun rises, and do not tell a soul aboutwhere you are running off to.”He winks, and Marigold smiles. Her father has always been kind enoughto 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 makefun of a talentless lady trapped in Bardshire. She and everyone else knowthat she is not a normal woman. She sometimes wonders if she is evenhuman, often feeling a stronger kinship with mud and rain and roots. Everyday, she does her absolute best to play a part—a loving daughter, asupportive sister, a lady of marital quality. But in her heart, she is a creaturehidden beneath soft skin and pretty ribbons, and she knows that hergrandmother is, too. These are the wild women who run barefoot throughthe meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moontogether. Wild women are their own kind of magic.She is standing in between her twin siblings when Aster, stunning withher deep blue dress against her pale white skin, is immediately approachedby handsome gentlemen. Aster was not meant to come out to society untilMarigold, as the oldest, was married. After a time—really, after George—Marigold abandoned all interest in marriage, and the sisters convinced theirparents to allow Aster to make her debut early. It was a mostunconventional decision, one followed by cruel whispers throughoutBardshire 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 tryingagain with someone new. Now Aster is the jewel of the Claude family, andMarigold is simply resigned.Frankie clings to her side, his hands clammy with preperformancenerves. 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 ahandkerchief 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 forhuman hands.”“Well, we’ll get back at him next time when you have fewer eyes onyou,” she says with a wink. She and Frankie have always found some wayto playfully disrupt events. Snapping a violin string so Frankie won’t haveto play. Pretending to see a snake in the middle of the dance floor. Stealingan entire tray of cake and eating it in the garden. Anything to escape theself-aggrandizing conversations. She leads Frankie through the crowd whilenoting the tables lined with sweets and expertly calculates how much she’llbe able to eat without any snide remarks. She can probably get away withthree—the rest, she’ll have to sneak between songs.The dance floor has been freshly decorated with chalk drawings of newspring flora. The art perfectly matches the floral arrangements throughoutthe ballroom. Decor of such elaborate design is not common, but SirKentworth is known for his flair, and he is exceptionally detail-oriented.His signature style shows in his music as well, though his latest works aregrowing increasingly baroque, as are his decorations. As they stroll towardthe banquet table, Marigold catches the eye of her mother, who is leading ahandsome young man toward her. She tries to increase her pace, but thecrowd around her is impenetrable. In a matter of seconds, she’s trapped inthe presence of her mother and the young man while Frankie leaves heralone, 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 himbehind her back. Her mother places a hand on each of their shoulders.“Marigold, this is Thomas Notley,” her mother says. She knows thisname—Sir Notley was the architect who designed the remodels of theBardshire estates after they were purchased from the landed gentry. Theman in front of her is the famed architect’s grandson. They have seen eachother many times, across many rooms, but this is their first properintroduction.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 brightand earnest as he takes her hand and kisses it. His cropped hair allows thesharpness of his facial features to be fully admired, while his warm brownskin 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. Itis likely that not many people will be fighting to add his name to their dancecard, despite his good looks.“The pleasure is mine,” she replies with a clenched jaw. It isembarrassing enough to be her age with no prospects or talents, but hermother makes it so much worse with these desperate matchmakingattempts.“Well, I’ll leave you two to dance,” her mother says as she pushes themslightly closer together and disappears into the crowd. Marigold glares inthe direction that her mother left. Normally, she at least gets one bite ofsomething before she takes to the ballroom floor. “Mr. Notley,” she says, “Iknow not what my mother said to you, but please do not feel obligated todance with me. I should warn you I have no rhythm.”“Nor do I. My talents are better suited for sitting behind a desk anddrawing architectural plans,” he says with a smile.“Then who knows what disaster will take place if we take to the floortogether? 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 ofthis place as quickly as possible, so she devises a plan to make this work inher favor. Softening her demeanor, she looks up at him through her thicklashes. “All right then, Mr. Notley. Would it be too bold of me to requestthat you have all my dances tonight?”He looks stunned, but then a pleased smile inches across his face. Thisproposition is perfect—she doesn’t have to wait for anyone else to ask for adance or feign interest in multiple stuffy artists all night long. If she canhurry through the obligations of the evening with this gentleman, she’ll beable to leave with plenty of time for her own nightly plans. Now, if she cansimply pretend to have a good time long enough to get through her dancecard…“I would be honored. Shall we make our way to the floor?”