Page 14 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
She'd been apologizing for existing ever since the gala.
The city smelled of exhaust and fresh bread from the corner bakery where she'd once been a regular. The owner caught her eye through the window and offered a small, pitying wave.
Marigold nodded back, unable to summon a smile.
A poster for the ballet company's new season fluttered on a nearby lamppost. Magnolia's face stared back at her, serene and triumphant in the role that should have been Marigold's.
"They airbrushed your scar," she told the image of her twin, noting the perfect smoothness where a childhood accident had left a small mark on Magnolia's chin. "You always hated that scar."
A passing woman gave her a concerned glance, and Marigold realized she was talking to a poster in public.
She clutched her suitcase tighter and continued down the crowded avenue, her dancer's posture both a comfort and a curse — it was impossible to disappear when your body had been trained to command attention.
Even now, with her career in ruins, her spine refused to slouch, and her chin maintained its proud angle despite the shame weighing on her shoulders.
A taxi splashed through a puddle, sending dirty water across her shoes.
Once, she would have been horrified.
Now, she barely registered it.
"The city's giving me a proper farewell," she murmured, finding an unexpected flicker of humor in the moment. The realization startled her—she hadn't found anything amusing since the betrayal.
Perhaps leaving truly was the right decision.
The thought settled in her chest with surprising certainty as she continued her journey through streets that had once felt like home but now seemed as foreign as her own reflection.
The crowd thickened near the shopping district, forcing Marigold to navigate a sea of bodies. Each face she passed seemed carefree, untouched by the kind of betrayal that had hollowed her out.
"How did I miss it?" she whispered, dodging a businessman rushing past with coffee in hand. "All those late-night 'rehearsals' when she was watching me, learning my routines."
A memory surfaced — Magnolia sitting in the audience during practice, notebook in hand, claiming to be "supporting her sister" while secretly cataloging every movement, every technique Marigold had spent years perfecting.
I was that naive…
"She was always there, wasn't she? Taking notes on my life while I thought she was taking notes on dance."
The realization burned.
Marigold paused at a crosswalk, her fingers tightening around her suitcase handle.
"I let her in. I showed her everything." Her voice was barely audible above the street noise. "God, I even introduced her to Rowan."
The pedestrian signal changed, and she moved forward mechanically.
"Ma'am? You dropped this." A young man held out her scarf.
"Thank you," she said, taking it with trembling fingers. Such a small kindness from a stranger when those she'd trusted most had orchestrated her downfall.
She wrapped the scarf around her neck and continued walking, the bitter wind matching her thoughts.
"She couldn't create, so she decided to steal instead," Marigold muttered. "But I won't let her have this victory. My life isn't over just because she took my role."
The train station appeared ahead, its grand facade a monument to departures and arrivals.
Marigold slowed her pace.
"One ticket to Willowbend," she rehearsed under her breath. "Just say it and go."
