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PRISON.
I’ve landed in prison yet again. I pray my stints in the doghouse don’t repeatedly occur for the entirety of my life. I don’t belong here. My first bout inside the slammer: Yes. I killed a man who put his hands on me and tried to violate me in the worst way. My second time: No. I’m an innocent woman who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d never intentionally harm anyone, and certainly not an elderly wizard who couldn’t defend himself.
My prison cell is not like the one I stayed in briefly in Yardenfeld. Where human prisons have steel bars and reek of urine and mouse droppings, Parnissi’s definition of jailhouse is... different. Thick, green vines box me into a small space that I cannot move about in, and snapdragons, hundreds of them, jut out from the vines. The pink and white flowers emit a sort of glow that pulses through me, knocks a shiver down my spine. What magical properties are possessed within snapdragons? I’ve got to know.
“P-Pardon me,” I say, voice hoarse, body thirsty for a drink of water.
A female guard peers at me over a newspaper she reads from her desk. “What is it, inmate?”
“I’m curious about the snapdragons, ma’am.”
She sneers before she lifts the paper to cover her face.
I guess I’ll have to do some research later. If there is a later, that is. I swear I’m innocent, and yet not one guard will listen to my plea. The guards have questioned me for hours on end about my accomplice—Percy. They wanted to know his first and last name, where he lives, and if he has any connection to someone named Buster Killigan, a rebel wizard who tried to destroy Parnissi almost fifty years ago.
I told them the truth. “I don’t know Percy’s last name. I have no clue where he lays his head at night. And I don’t know much about him except that he frequents the home of Vahilda Marguerite.”
Mentioning Vahilda’s name made every guard in the prison cease from asking me any more pressing questions. Whatever images Vahilda’s name stirs up in their minds surely had them retreating from me as if I foretold their coming deaths.
A couple of hours later, the vines imprisoning me shudder, and the snapdragons shrink away inside the thick green creepers. The undulating shiver that’s been coursing through me vanishes the instant those flowers disappear. I begin to wonder if maybe snapdragons suppress magical powers when Vahilda and her cat walk to my now nonexistent cell.
Vahilda is pissed. Veins throb in her forehead. Her lips are pinched into a thin line. Her rose-red dress flutters behind her as she stalks to me. Her cat, whose head is oddly bruised, a purple lump in the center, hangs its head almost shamefully.
The irate witch says not a word to me as she drags me by the arm, forcefully escorts me down the corridor, down a flight of steps, past a crew of officers, and out of the jailhouse. I want to tell her that nothing that happened was my fault, but I doubt she’d even listen to me. Worse, I left her house when I knew I shouldn’t have. I could’ve been studying the Floret Tome, expanding my mind beyond what little I know about magic and flowers.
How do I even begin to express how sorry I am?
Vahilda and I meander through downtown Parnissi bathed in the white of the crescent moon’s light. At this time of night in Yardenfeld, all the local taverns would be alive with drunkards carousing and singing off-beat to music. Yet, in the dead of night in this magical town, the only music I hear is the nocturnal creatures’ songful racket. Every shop is closed for business and every food stall emptied of produce.
At home, Vahilda is still giving me the silent treatment. She fixes supper, a steaming pot of vegetable stew, toasted baguettes for dipping, and sweet wine to cleanse our palate. As always, supper is fantastic. Vahilda is a better cook than my mum, who never actually cooked but prepared jelly sandwiches because cooking was far too hard of a task for her to accomplish.
I give Vahilda my compliments and excuse myself from the table. “Goodnight,” I say, trudging down the hall sleepily.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Vahilda swirls her wine, inhales the floral fragrances, and sighs. “You disobeyed me, Elyse. I told you to study, and you went off with Percy and got yourself into a brawl.”
“I’m sorry about that.” I’m too ashamed to look her in the eye. “You’re absolutely right. I should have been here studying and not on a date with Percy.”
Vahilda raises a single brow. “A date? With Percy.”
“Yes. He... He told me he was human and not a wizard, and my curiosity got the best of me.”
Vahilda tastes her wine, swishes the liquid in her maw, then swallows. “Yes, Percy is human. You could’ve asked me; instead, you ran off with him on a date.” Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she gestures with the empty wine glass to her bookshelf. “You’ll be studying until the break of dawn. Is that understood?”
“But I’m tired—”
She slams her glass on the table. “Tired? Don’t talk to me about being tired, Elyse. You could’ve been in bed hours ago.”
Vahilda is right. So, I acquiesce, grab the Floret Tome from the shelf, flop onto the sofa, and open the book. “I’m sorry about what happened.” My eyes are heavy with sleep, but I shake off the sandman and start reading. “I didn’t attack that man. I’d never do that.”
“Mr. Lilly confirmed your story.” Vahilda glides across the living room floor. “He told the officers that his granddaughter’s boyfriends were the ones responsible for injuring him. You’ve been cleared of all charges. However—” she stands to her full height at the edge of the sofa “—every witch and wizard in Parnissi wants to know all about the witch living with Vahilda Marguerite. Did you tell anyone that you were my niece?”
“No.” It’s the truth. The officers tried and tried to lift information out of me about my connection to Vahilda. All I told them was that she was an old friend. I tell Vahilda the same, and she lets go of a breath she’s been holding.
“You would have been disqualified from the Flower Trials.” Vahilda beams, an unsettling wispy smile on her lips. That’s all she cares about, isn’t it? Not my safety or the officer who aggressively put their hands on me. But what can I expect from her? We just met days ago, and, honestly, in comparison to my mum, Vahilda has shown me more warmth than my mum ever has.
“I can’t afford—we can’t afford that,” Vahilda says. “Your win is my ticket to becoming an Elite.” Her voice is chipper, maybe even a touch soused from the wine. “Things are going to change in Parnissi when I take my rightful place.”
“About that.” I’d hate to burst her bubble, not when she’s on a high about my hopeful win that will open the door to the Elites. “I’d like to have you by my side when I become an Elite.” The witch’s jaw drops, a muscle twitches under her eye. I then add, as peacefully as I can, “You gave me this wonderful second chance at life, and I thank you for that. But I’ve never been in a position where people paid attention to anything I said. I’d like the honor of being a part of something in which I can be a voice to all witches.”
Vahilda’s face is a stone mask that I can’t read. “The choice is yours, Elyse.”
“I know you wanted this bad, but now I do, too.” The thrill of being more than just the girl ignored excites me. It’s like my self-worth has doubled by the mere thought of becoming the first witch—the first woman—to be part of the Elite. “I was always too ugly. Or too weird. Now, I can be more than what others have limited me to be. And that’s all thanks to you.”
Vahilda fixates her brown eyes on me, and I feel my lungs spasm. This unwarranted stare-off is unnerving. Yet, I understand the hurt behind her eyes. She wanted this even more than what a new witch like me can imagine. When she shared her story with me about the Flower Trials, I could tell it was something she trained her entire life for. She hoped to become an Elite after my father died but was denied solely on the basis that she is a witch.
Vahilda says nothing more as she departs the living room, leaving me alone to study.
***
MY FINAL DAY OF TRAINING has come and gone just in time for the Fleur Cotillion. Vahilda has coached me on what to say to other nosey witches and wizards if they ask about our relationship. I’m supposed to say, “Vahilda is an old family friend.” Nothing more. Nothing less. If anyone should further interrogate me beyond that statement alone, I must graciously bow and excuse myself. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing that a lot come the Cotillion. Vahilda, a very private witch who, from what I gather, has no friends aside from Percy, chooses to be utterly and completely alone.
I haven’t gathered the courage to ask her why she is the way she is when she is so beautiful. Vahilda would make someone very happy. Aside from her... strictness, which, to me, is her way of showing tough love, I think she’d be a good catch.
The Fleur Cotillion is the pre-party before the Flower Trials early tomorrow morning. All witches and wizards—participants or not—are welcome to join for a celebration before the big day. According to what I’ve read in books, many witches and wizards take this opportunity to find love before the trials start. It’s kind of bittersweet, though. No one knows if the participants will make it out in one piece. And yet, love is what most desire after all.
Could I get so lucky tonight?
Vahilda says a bigger, grander party is thrown for the winner after the Flower Trials are complete. She and I haven’t much discussed the plans for when I win. For one, I have this feeling that the witch is still displeased about the change in plans. I know this was her dream. It had been her dream. And I’ve crushed it. I’ve asked for her forgiveness as I attempted time and time again to explain my reasoning, but the witch doesn’t seem to care. I want to win because I’ll finally be more than just Elyse. I’ll be an Elite. Every witch and wizard across the magical world will know my name.
Vahilda tightens the strings to the bodice, squeezing my ribs together. “Stand still, Elyse.” She ties the strings into a bow shape. The witch assesses me from a few steps away, motions with her finger for me to twirl around.
I give Vahilda a show. Pirouetting in my white heels, I twirl in my sheer, white, organdy hoop skirt. The layers of gauze-like fabric catch the breeze, fluttering like leaves caught in autumnal winds. I’ve never felt so... beautiful. It’s a bizarre feeling, to be honest. I’m all done up like a princess, ready for a ball. My lips and cheeks are colored ruby-red like the roses in Vahilda’s garden. My hair, which has taken its sweet time to grow, is like a close shave most men like to sport.
My witchy caretaker was kind enough to show me how to properly care for my hair. Unlike my mum, who never dared to touch my mass of tight coils and instead left me to figure out how to style my hair, Vahilda took the time to teach me a lot. Interestingly enough, Vahilda says using magic on hair is not a good idea. She swears by natural products that she can concoct at home. Even the creams and lotions she uses for her skin are all made by her flawless hands.
“You’ll be the talk of the Cotillion, Elyse,” Vahilda observes every inch of me, her face glowing happily.
“T-Thank you.” I still haven’t gotten used to her compliments, her meaningful words that come from a place of honesty. The witch may have her mean streak, especially when the training sessions grew hellish, but Vahilda possesses a kindness about her that is truly genuine. I may still have my issues with trusting her completely, but I think that’s due in part to my upbringing.
I couldn’t trust my mum, the one person I should’ve been able to put my blind faith in. Mum has failed me on numerous occasions, and I believe her failures have forced me to build a wall of protection. I appreciate all the witch has done for me, but until I grow closer to Vahilda, I’d like to keep her at arms-length.
Picking up my scarf from the table, I stretch the fabric and press it to my forehead to conceal my short hair. Vahilda gently places her hand on mine, shakes her head, and removes the scarf from my hand.
“This clashes with your attire,” Vahilda says as she folds the scarf and lays it back on the table. “Let your natural beauty shine.”
“I’ll try.” I shrug and stare down at my dress. I’m not sure what she means by “natural beauty,” and I don’t think I’ve mastered anything in the beauty department.
“I could have easily purchased a wig for you.” Vahilda offers me the crook of her arm. Looping my arm with hers, she continues, “You would’ve looked like all the girls there if I had. If you want to be noticed, you’ve got to work with what you have. You’ll be much more memorable if you do.”
Vahilda escorts me from her home, out into the magenta-hued world of Parnissi. The sun sluggishly says its farewells for the day, casting rays of marigold and copper along the front lawn. A carriage awaits us at the end of the walkway, and a dapper male driver in a blue suit, bowing at the hips, assists us inside.
The driver whips the reigns. His Percheron horse whinnies obediently. The carriage jerks forward, then abruptly stops shortly after.
“Wait!” The carriage door slides open to reveal Percy, as handsome as ever.
I haven’t seen a hint of him since the brawl downtown, and I must admit that I missed him. Every day while I trained, his wellbeing was on my mind. I worried about his safety and if he was ever apprehended by the police for assaulting an officer. His sudden reappearance lifts my lips into a smile and flares my cheeks in warmth. He’s no longer wearing his old, tattered suit. Instead, the blonde-haired man is stylishly clothed in a sparkling black suit, which makes his blue eyes pop.
“P-Percy,” I stutter, alarmed by his presence.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Vahilda scoots forward in her chair, grips the handle on the carriage door, ready and willing to slam it shut. “I told you to stay away from my home. That includes staying away from Elyse, too.”
“I’m sorry for holding you up.” Percy wipes his forehead slick with sweat. He inhales a deep breath and asks, “may I have this dance with you?” His eyes are wide, pleading like a pup.
My head snaps from him to Vahilda, a question forming on my lips as the witch slams the carriage door. Vahilda knocks on the partition glass to request the driver to move it, and quickly.
“Stop.” I pull the door open, fingers wrapped around the handle for dear life. Poking my head out as the carriage trundles onward, I am met by Percy, who runs alongside the cart.
“Elyse,” Percy says my name between long-legged strides.
“Elyse!” Vahilda’s tone ice cold. The witch snatches my hand away from the door. “Why are you so smitten by that boy?”
I’m at a loss for words. How do I honestly answer her when I don’t know what’s come over me? Any answers I can give Vahilda would make a heck of a lot of sense, but I refuse to share them with her. At the end of each day of training, during dinner, and while in bed, all I thought about was Percy. All I dreamed about was him. Though our first date wasn’t what I hoped it to be, it was still my first. Had I developed feelings for him shortly after? Or had these feelings been planted inside of me when the foolish man protected me from the aggressive patrol wizard?
I shout at the driver to stop once more. When the horse judders to a displeased stop, I leap from the cart like a frog.
“Yes, I’ll dance with you!”
“Really?” Percy looks as if he’s going to burst into a happy bout of tears.
Vahilda hisses through her teeth. “You’ve got five minutes to get on with this. And only five minutes.” The witch slams the carriage door closed so hard the entire thing rattles from its wheels to the windows.
“You’ll be the girl everyone talks about at the Cotillion.” Percy shyly approaches me, hands trembling at his sides. “I wanted to be the first to ask you to dance.”
Cheeks burning, I chuckle, “I don’t think I would’ve danced with anyone. Vahilda says the Cotillion is a place to scope out the competition, not to fool around and make friends.”
He scoffs, “I don’t think Vahilda has ever been asked to dance—”
“Make that two minutes!” The witch growls through the open window, where she watches the two of us so intensely. Her brown eyes extinguish the embers blooming on my cheeks.
Bowing, Percy gracefully and silently asks for my hand. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” I giggle like a girl swept up in a whirlwind of giddy emotions.
Percy’s hand in mine. The gentleman twirls me about once, twice, then pulls me close to his chest. My palm lands right over his rapidly beating heart, a rhythmic yet panicked drumming that runs through my arm and up my spine. I shiver, toes curling as Percy leads me into a formal ballroom dance. He’s light on his feet, a blue-eyed angel who guides me away from Parnissi and into the clouds. Percy pulls me in closer, tighter. The tips of our noses graze, lips but a breath apart.
“Thank you,” Percy says. His ocean blue eyes are hypnotic in the setting sun. “This is exactly what I wanted. But there’s just one thing missing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, licking my lips as I slowly close my eyes and brace for his lips to meet mine.
“This...”
His lips are a sigh away from mine when the witch’s voice knocks the both of us out of the clouds and back to Parnissi. “Time’s up.”