Page 17 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Marigold nodded, watching Doris wave to someone and walk away.
She stood alone, listening to sounds she'd never noticed in the city —birds, distant laughter, the creak of the station's wooden sign in the breeze.
"Miss? Need a taxi?" A man with weathered cheeks approached, gesturing to an old car parked nearby.
"Yes, please." Marigold gripped her suitcase handle. "Cedar Lane Cottages?"
"Rose's place? Nice there." He took her bag. "I'm Frank. Town's unofficial welcome committee."
As they drove through Willowbend's main street, Marigold absorbed the small shops with hand-painted signs, a diner with red-checkered curtains, and a town square with a gazebo.
No glittering marquees announcing ballet performances.
No billboards featuring dancers in elaborate costumes.
Nothing familiar.
"Everyone knows everyone here," Frank explained, turning down a tree-lined road. "Might seem strange at first if you're from the city."
"Will they know about me?" Marigold asked quietly, suddenly afraid her story had preceded her.
Frank glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
"Only what you tell them, miss. That's how it works here. Fresh starts are respected."
Fresh starts…
That’s exactly what this was.
A new beginning.
She looked out at the rolling hills surrounding the town, feeling something unexpected — space to breathe. No prying eyes watching for her downfall. No whispers about the rejected Omega dancer. No shadow of her twin's betrayal darkened every step.
"Here we are," Frank announced, pulling up to a cluster of stone cottages nestled among apple trees. "Cedar Lane."
Marigold paid him and stood before her new temporary home.
The cottage was small but charming, with a slate roof and a blue door. Wildflowers dotted the yard, swaying gently in the breeze.
"Thank you," she whispered, not to Frank, who had already driven away, but to herself — for the courage to leave, to begin again.
For the first time since reading Magnolia's letter, Marigold felt her shoulders relax. The weight hadn't disappeared, but somehow, in this quiet place so far from everything she knew, it seemed possible to set it down, if only for a moment.
She approached the blue door, key in hand.
The lock turned with a solid click, and she stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, illuminating wooden floors and simple furnishings. Nothing like her sleek city apartment with its mirrors and ballet barre, but somehow more inviting.
Marigold set her suitcase down and moved to the window, looking out at the garden where a robin hopped between patches of clover.
"I don't know who I am without the stage," she admitted to the empty room, her voice barely audible. "Without the company. Without being someone's twin."
But as the words left her lips, she felt a curious lightness.
Maybe that was precisely the point — to discover whoMarigold Everhartmight be when stripped of all those identities.
She touched the windowsill, feeling the grain of the wood beneath her fingertips.
"But I'm going to find out. Will find her."
