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THIS IS PARNISSI? THIS is the underworld where all the evil magical beings are born? This is the place where I, a newfound witch, was supposed to burn for all eternity? Yet, the only warmth this world has to offer is from the noon sun high above. There aren’t screams of endless torture or pleas for the Goddess to forgive the damned of their sins. I hear laughter from children who frolic about in a nearby playground. There are cheers of celebration from a nearby sanctuary of some sort packed with well-dressed people. A bride, clad in a flowing white gown, and a groom in a dapper blue suit, are met with a downfall of rice and confetti.
The confusion on my face and the gasp that leaves my body is all that I can muster as I try to make sense of Parnissi. Parnissi is not what I’ve been told it should be. Parnissi is... captivating. Parnissi is a wonderland of flowers, people, shops, and fruit stands. It’s like... It’s just like Yardenfeld but bigger, grander, and fresher. My lungs aren’t clogged with the heavy stench of horse manure or smog from the textile factories.
Inhaling a breath, I am not only greeted by the smell of flowers but by the zest of something magical. Something akin to watching the sunrise on the horizon. I always get goosebumps whenever I witness the golden-yellow sphere yawning awake. But, still, everything I can think of to adequately describe Parnissi is not enough. Everything I thought would exist here... doesn’t.
Everything I’ve read, everything I’ve been told, is a lie.
Vahilda eases down the grassy knoll, flowers tilting politely away from her as she ambles toward the pavement buzzing with life. Fruit vendors wave at her as she passes by each stand, offering her the best quality fruit in all of Parnissi. Vahilda’s cat bounds from one stall to the other, its nose twitching as he smells every odd-shaped fruit.
“We’ve got fresh dragon fruit here.”
“Plums. Plums. And more Plums.”
“Kiwi’s and bananas.”
I trail a few steps behind Vahilda. I’m still captivated by pretty much everything happening around me. The smells. The sights. The sounds. A harpist strums a melodic tune that’s music to my soul. The harpist is surrounded by men, women, and children smiling from ear to ear as they bob their heads side to side. I find myself even feeling the music; rocking on my heels as I try to keep up with Vahilda. She moves easily on her feet, almost like she’s in a rush.
Vahilda, the cat, and I walk for what feels like fifteen minutes before we reach a one-story, gothic home. The house, coated in a deep obsidian black, rests on an isolated plot of land far away from the noise of the town. Vahilda descends a smoothed, pebbled pathway that snakes toward the stained-glass front door of a rose in bloom.
Opening the door, Vahilda announces, “Welcome home.” She points a finger to a door down a short hall. “Please freshen up before supper.”
I nod my head, turning this way and that as I enter the witch’s domain. The floorboards creak beneath me, giving away the age of the house, which must be over a hundred years old. The home’s living area features a velvet loveseat with plush, tasseled pillows at both ends and a coffee table lit aglow from a quartet of white candles atop. And my favorite, a bookshelf that’s twice my height, is stocked with so many books that I stop to observe Vahilda’s fascinating collection. The spines of most of these books are worn and falling to pieces, which means they have more of a story to tell than the newer, shinier ones.
Reaching for the bookshelf with eager fingers, I am startled by Vahilda as she clears her throat.
“You’ll have plenty of time to read, Elyse.” Vahilda comes to stand beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. With her free hand, she plucks a rather thick book from the shelf. Blowing off the years of dust, she reads the cover. “The Floret Tome is required reading for any witch or wizard. With the Flower Trials in two weeks, I say you haven’t much time to waste.”
My head snaps to her. “T-Two weeks?” I’m practically breathless as I speak, “How in the world can I learn so much in such little time?”
“Fear not, young witch.” Vahilda holds her head high, poised. “Are you forgetting that I completed the Flower Trials nineteen years ago? With my help, you’ll be a winner just like your father.”
Just like my father? I don’t even know the man, and yet hearing about his success stirs something confident-like within me. I have no clue what the Flower Trials entail, but I’m excited about the magical possibilities ahead. Excited to start my new life in Parnissi.
After washing off the smell of death and prison from my body, Vahilda awards me with a wardrobe of exquisite dresses and nightgowns, which she used to wear in her youth. Slipping on a silk nightgown in my new bedroom, containing a single, twin-sized bed and a window overlooking a small flower garden, I hurry to the dining room.
“Thank you so much, Vahilda,” I say, nostrils flaring, attempting to successfully uncover what Vahilda has cooked for supper. “I feel so much better after my bath—” I lose my train of thought and freeze the instant I round the corner to the dining room.
A young man with golden curls, pearly white skin, deep ocean blue eyes, and a dashing smile greets me with a glass of wine in hand. “And who might this lovely lady be?” He scoots back. The chair he sits in scuffs the wooden floor beneath. On his feet, he bows at his hips in a suit too baggy for his thin frame. “I’m Percy. Nice to meet you.”
I jump back, alarmed by the handsome man in Vahilda’s home. Covering my newly bald head, I tremble from my shoulders to my toes. “V-Vahilda. There’s a-a man here.”
“I’m aware, Elyse.” Vahilda removes piping hot bread from the stove and balances the glass dish between her hands, protected by oven mitts. “Don’t be rude; say hello.”
“H-Hi,” is all I can muster before I race back to my room to grab the satin scarf Vahilda loaned to me. The fabric smells of roses as I quickly and sloppily wrap it around my head. Back in the dining room, I half-smile at Percy. “Hello again.”
“Hello to you too.” Percy inhales the pink wine in his glass. “Perfection.” He kisses the tips of his fingers in praise. “Where o where did you find this Pink Elephant?”
Vahilda, seated at the head of the square table, sips at the wine. “Yardenfeld.” She wets her lips and shudders. “This is quite foul, if you ask me. Humans aren’t the best at making wine.”
“Yardenfeld?” Percy downs the wine, wipes his mouth. “Is that where you’ve been off too? And here I thought you found a mate.”
Vahilda chuckles and rolls her eyes playfully.
Seating myself, I look from Percy to Vahilda to, finally, the food. Sweet, buttered bread, seared swordfish, salt, and peppered Brussel sprouts. For dessert, marigold pie.
“Serve yourself.” Vahilda hands me a glass plate from a stack. “We’ve got training in the morning.”
“I take it your new accomplice is going to enter the Flower Trials?” Percy is on his fourth glass of wine but doesn’t seem to slur his words as he speaks.
“Elyse will be joining the Flower Trials.” Vahilda carves the bread and plates a hot slice for herself. “She’ll be a last-minute entry. The Elite have no idea about her.”
“How long have you been practicing magic?” Percy asks me.
Holding up a finger as I chew on the delicious fish and swallow, I answer, “I haven’t.”
He blinks at me. “Is she joking?” This question is aimed at Vahilda.
“No. Only yesterday did Elyse find out she was a witch. And that she’s the daughter of Edwin—”
Percy chokes on the wine and pounds on his chest for a few scary moments. Face red with embarrassment; he stares at me. “Y-You’re Edwin’s daughter. Goddess on a cracker am I gobsmacked.” He finishes off the remaining dregs of liquid and pushes his glass away. “I never knew he had a daughter.”
“I never knew I had a father.” I shrug, then wipe my hand on my nightgown.
“Aren’t you familiar with the birds and the bees?” Percy raises a golden eyebrow at me.
I snort. “I take it wizards aren’t keen on jokes.”
He pinches his lips into a thin line and slowly, strangely, regards Vahilda with a frazzled look. “Uh, yeah, a wizard.”
“You should take your leave, Percy.” Vahilda steeples her fingers under her chin. “Stop by tomorrow morning for breakfast and a show.”
He shakes his head. “No can do. I’ve got some bird watching to do.”
“A wizard who watches birds?” I smile at him. Who knew wizards were so... normal?
I can imagine that I’ll be surprised by just about everything and everyone in Parnissi. Nothing is as it seems here. No screams of terror. No eternal flame. It’s peaceful and quaint. Even the moonlight that slips through the open window is a beautiful spectacle to behold in this supposed underworld.
Percy bows his head at me, and leaves us, two witches, to our lonesome. “Found your cat,” is all he says as the door slams, and Vahilda’s cat slinks around the corner, yellow eyes wide at the assortment of food.
“He was... nice,” I say. “A little strange but nice.”
“Stay away from boys.” Vahilda’s voice is charged with motherly concern. “Percy may be nice, and he may be cute, but, just like all boys, they only want one thing.” She squints her eyes to slits at me, resembling a snake. “The Flower Trials are your sole priority, Elyse. Boys will have to wait.”
“What exactly are the Flower Trials,” I ask. My curiosity raises the small hairs on my arms. Vahilda has been on and on about the trials that it’s almost obsessive. “I know the winner will become an Elite—unless they’re a girl, of course.”
Vahilda slams her hand on the table. I jump in my seat, knocking over my empty glass. “I am not one for jokes, Elyse. The Flower Trials are a matter of life and death.” My jaw drops, and I ready to interject with my concerned thoughts when she continues. “The Flower Trials are a rite of passage for witches and wizards who hope to become an Elite. There can only be one winner. The losers, some of the unlucky ones, are met with an early demise.”
Jerking to my feet, I cup a hand on my collarbone. “You never said anything about dying, Vahilda. I can’t... I’m sorry.”
“You can, and you will.” Vahilda stands; her looming shadow climbs up the walls and flickers in the candlelight. “I saved you, Elyse. Don’t make me go back on my word and send you back to that prison.”
“You saved me only to tell me that I’m going to possibly die.”
“If you do as I say, you will not die. Your fate is in your own hands and in mine.” She opens her palm to me, face up. “Trust me.”
“No!” I hurry for the front door to escape this mad witch. But when I open the front door, Vahilda stands in my way like a prison guard. Her eyes bore into me, malicious and angry.
Gripping my shoulders, the witch hisses in my ear. “Disobeying me will not get you far. You will do as I say or face the consequences.” A wave of her magical aura hums in the air, whirls around me like a deathly breeze. Vahilda is powerful, perhaps much more powerful than I could ever imagine. I wouldn’t dare cross a witch like her. Not now. Not ever.
The witch draws in a breath and relaxes her shoulders. Grabbing my hand, she leads me to the loveseat and silently tells me to sit. Doing as she says, I clasp my trembling hands together as I watch her every move. She glides a finger over a selection of books on her shelf, removes one, and hands me the heavy thing. Family is spelled out on the front cover, and a picture of a man, woman, and two children, is glued to the center. It’s a picture book. Why has she given me a picture book?
Vahilda, seated beside me, legs crossed, urges me to open the book. “I’ve been hiding something from you, Elyse.”
Skimming through the photos worn by age and slightly fading away, I am greeted by the loving smiles of the same family on the cover. Each picture tells the story of a man and his wife, their son, and their daughter engaging in daily activities. From walks in the parks on a sunny day to extravagant birthdays to magical feats caught on film, I am puzzled for a few minutes until I begin to recognize the daughter. Vahilda.
“Why are you showing me this?” I pause on a picture of her and her brother wielding unidentifiable flowers, noses pressed against blue petals. Vahilda says nothing. She wants me to figure this out on my own. But for what purpose? What does she want to reveal to me that she can’t say aloud?
Vahilda sniffles, dabs her eyes with a cloth napkin. She’s worked up about these photos; her eyes are misty, sad even. I’m nearing the end of the photo book, only two pages left, two more chances for me to solve the mystery Vahilda wants me to unfold.
My breath catches. The boy, now a grown man of about twenty years of age, is wreathed by a halo of light on a newspaper clipping. Edwin Marguerite, the headline reads, the wizard set to take Zerachael Duth’Kurr’s seat has passed beyond the veil. It’s my father’s obituary. It says he died under mysterious circumstances that only someone of magical blood could have done. There are no suspects. Not a witness to the crime. According to the obituary, Parnissi laws do not extend beyond the perimeter of thorns. Witches and Wizards, who are ordained officers, could not thoroughly investigate his death because my father perished in the human realm. So, in short, his death is an unsolved mystery.
“Edwin Marguerite is survived by his sister... Vahilda Marguerite.” I’m silent as I process the newfound information about my father. I stare, silent, at Vahilda, mouth opening, and closing, attempting to form a coherent question.
Vahilda removes the photo album from my hands. “We have an early morning tomorrow,” she says, her voice fading into the night as she disappears down the hall.