Breathing deeply, I sank the shovel into the ground and leaned against the handle. A wave of dizziness caused the remaining chunks lying in the grass to tilt and spin. I massaged the symbols on my palm and let the feeling pass. The mark should have faded already, but the imprint remained on my skin. It worried me. Illusions lasted minutes or hours at most. Like everything else when it came to magic, this was further proof I wasn’t normal.
“Yoo-hoo!”
I tensed at the warbled call. My neighbor, Sylvia Trager, stood near the gate, resting her weight on her cane. Maybe if I stayed still, her aging eyesight might fool her into thinking I was a garden statue or a scarecrow—an exhausted, not up for visitors sort of scarecrow. It didn’t work. Sylvia motioned toward the pumpkin debacle and wrinkled her nose, setting off a chain reaction of flutters around her lips that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh.
“Rough night, dear? Did you drink your potions again?”
My shoulders slumped. Why hadn’t I locked the gate? This amount of humiliation required seclusion.
“No, Sylvia. I didn’t drink my potions.”
“Ah, must be booze then.” She clucked her tongue and shook her wrinkled chin. “You’re too young to be addicted to the devil’s brew. Though, given your difficulties, I’m not surprised.”
Sylvia was a fine one to talk. She frequently slipped the devil’s brew into her tea when she thought no one was looking. I bit the inside of my cheek, keeping a sarcastic remark at bay.
“Did you need something?”
The old woman’s eyes lit up with the spark of unshared gossip, which was never a good sign. “I heard the most horrific news at the market this morning. You must join me for breakfast.” She stabbed her cane into the dirt and trudged back toward her house. That was my cue to follow.
Since I’d been on my own, Sylvia had taken it upon herself to make sure I stayed well-fed, but her food came with a non-negotiable price: gossip. Endless, soul-sucking gossip. Still, the promise of a free meal remained in charge of my feet even if the prospect of infinite chatter caused my mind to rebel.
I followed her into the house and entered the living room, where a fire crackled in the hearth and ruffled powder-blue curtains let in swaths of muted light. The cream-colored walls hosted long shelves lined with porcelain figurines. They stared at me from their paralyzed positions with fixed smiles that seemed to say, “Get me out of here.” The room might appear to be a cozy haven, but looks were deceiving. I made sure to check the thick-woven carpet for signs of Sylvia’s cat, Fuzzlebottoms, before taking a hesitant step toward the sofa. The sly animal with the ridiculous name lived to bite my ankles and take swipes at me from under chairs. It was completely unfair. I loved cats. They did not love me. Somewhere, my ancestors were cackling at my inability to befriend the one animal that was supposed to be my familiar.
“Here you are.” Sylvia trundled into the room carrying a tray loaded with muffins and a pot of tea. The heavenly scent of baked goods made my stomach growl. Sitting on the sofa, I selected a muffin while Sylvia took her usual seat by the window. I was tasting my first bite, savoring the tart flavor of fresh blueberries, when razor-tipped claws sank into my calf. Stifling a yelp, I jerked my leg. The cat hissed and ducked under the sofa.
“Sylvia, your cat—”
“Isn’t she the sweetest thing? Light of my life.” Sylvia busied herself with the pot of tea.
The monster’s claws found their target again, and pain stabbed through my leg. Magic built in my palms, and before I could stop it, sparks shot from my fingertips, striking the carpet near Fuzzlebottoms’ furry tail. The cat screeched and bolted, unharmed, but the magic left a burn in the rug. I moved my foot over the still-smoking hole.
Sylvia missed her cup and spilled tea into the saucer. “Good heavens, child. What has gotten into that cat?”
I stuffed both hands into the folds of my skirt, cutting off any residual magic. “You said you had news?”
“Yes!” Sylvia took a dainty sip and settled deeper into the chair. Her hand shook as she lowered the cup into the saucer. “When I was in the market earlier, everyone was talking about the prince’s ball.”
“How fascinating.” I chewed another mouthful of muffin and prepared for a lengthy list of who wore what and who danced with who. Torture, all in the name of baked goods.
Sylvia dotted her lips with a napkin. “It is fascinating, what with the party ending in murder.”
“What?” I coughed, inhaling a blueberry. “Who?”
“Lady Lockwood’s stepdaughter, Ella.”
“Ella Lockwood?” The muffin turned to dust in my mouth, and I struggled to swallow. Ella couldn’t be dead. There had to be a mistake. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. They found her submerged in the palace fountain. Drowned.” She pursed her lips and placed a wrinkled hand over her heart. “According to my sources, the killer staged her body. She had a rose tucked between her fingers. Can you believe it?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Do they know who killed her?”
Sylvia leaned back and lifted her teacup to her lips. She took her time, enjoying the fact she had a captive audience. My fingers itched to snatch the cup out of her hand and hurry her along.
“Unfortunately, no. The family is shattered. Her stepmother and stepsister are demanding answers. The poor things. They lost Sir Lockwood last year after a dreadful illness, and now this.”
Guilt made the muffin I’d ingested churn in my gut. I thought of the ring Ella had given me as payment. What should I do with it now? Return it to her family, or try to sell it as quickly as possible?
Return it, whispered my conscience.
