Chapter One
Alora Pennigrim loved a good, enchanted lane, and the lane to Opulence Mansion was a great deal more enchanted than most. Smooth, pale stones smaller than her palm were fitted together tight and beneath her heeled boots a pleasant clack resulted, echoing against white-barked trees lining either side. They were thin but tall as towers, these trees, and nestled among them were silver-tipped ferns that glittered in the mid-morning light and signs that flashed brilliantly every few steps.
THIS WAY,they said.
NEARLY THERE.
Do NOT Stray from the Lane.
Alora gently brushed aside a butterfly come to nudge against her nose, its colors a splattered paint mix of pink and orange. Another took up residence on the bodice of her knee-length dress, its antennas wiggling with expectation.
“Those flowers aren’t real, I'm afraid. Sorry to disappoint.” But the insect appeared unperturbed by her confession, settlingin instead for the ride. “Okay. Suit yourself.” By the time she reached the end of the lane she was covered in butterflies.
Pale stone walls rose to greet her, high and wrapping, with a golden gate so intricately swirled and spired she couldn’t make out what was hidden behind it. Posted directly in front was a singular guard. He stood straight and tall, a spiked crimson helmet causing him to appear stretched even higher, with golden armor heavy upon his shoulders—quite a misery, she thought, beneath the unfiltered sun. The trees had ended as the lane did, and the ferns, too, leaving only one sign remaining:No Admittance.Then below:Except by Membership Only.And below that:Or Appointment.
Alora adjusted the satchel draped across her chest and started toward it.
The guard awaited her approach, still as the stacked stone behind him. Nearing, Alora noted he’d not yet focused on her, his copper eyes staring straight ahead, trained upon the lane. When she stopped, close enough to note the runs in gold paint smeared across his skin, she cleared her throat in announcement. The guard, however, didn't react to this either.
Perhaps she’d been mistaken? If this wasn’t a real man at all, the statue made a remarkably impressive replica.
She stepped closer, bending forward, the sun beating down on the scooped back of her dress to heat her skin in an instant. She peered up into his face—as she couldn't see if he breathed through his chest plate—and when she noticed the slight flare of his nostrils, released a rushed breath.
“You poor man! You’ve overheated, haven't you? Out here in all that armor, it’s no wonder. I’ll find you something to drink.” She leaned back to peer into the satchel slung against her hip, rummaging through samples of fabrics and paints, pencils and a notebook, her fingers searching but coming up empty. She’d forgotten the bottle. Of all the days.
It was a large bottle with thick glass in a sleeve of tanned leather, stitched with florals and insects, bees and butterflies—not unlike the dress she’d chosen that morning, though the creatures covering her now fluttered their wings. And the water inside would be mountain-spring-cold, perfect and clear, so refreshing after a morning standing beneath the summer sun.
When she next reached in, she removed such a bottle.
“Have a sip of water. You’ll feel much better.”
At the word “water”, the guard’s gaze finally shifted toward her, but slower than it should have. He really appeared a concerning level of unwell. Beneath his attention, the butterflies took flight in unison, swirling around them both before vanishing into the trees. “Can’t,” he croaked.
“Sure you can. It’s only water, see?” She poured a little into her hand, cold and clear.
At the sight of it, the guard promptly looked one way and then the other before taking the bottle from her and drinking it dry.
“Thank you,” he said, returning it. His voice, no longer parched from thirst, was a pleasant tenor. “I’d begun to dream. Of lakes and rivers and springs. I didn’t notice you at all. Quite the guard, I am.”
In response to such dejection, Alora couldn't help but chime, “It's the heat-fever. You can't be expected to stand outside in all that armor in the peak of summer without so much as a cloud to protect you.”
He grunted and stared awhile at his golden boots, the toes pointed and curled, before finding her eyes again. Abruptly, he stood tall once more and turned out a hand, palm up and crimson gloved. “Name?” he said, and though his tone had become business-like, his eyes were soft.
“Alora Pennigrim,” she replied and shook his hand.
She wondered if she’d imagined the fleeting stutter in their embrace, or the slight widening of his eyes? Then, with suddendistress, she realized he’d not extended his arm. Nor had he even positioned his palm properly; their handshake was a strange side-to-side thing.
Because he’d not wanted her hand at all, but the letter.
Her already flushed skin heated further. But when she made to draw away in embarrassment, the guard held fast. “Miss Pennigrim, yes. You’re expected.”
“I am,” she agreed, her palm entrapped. “Eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Merridon.”
The guard dropped her hand as if coming to his senses. “Right.Right.I’ll allow you in straightaway. Only—” His lips pursed as if the thought itself had soured.
Alora blinked up at him, and although she’d not brought along a handkerchief in her satchel, pulled one from it anyway. She held it out as he considered what he wished to say, and he took it without question, dabbing at the trickling paint.
He arched forward, his voice quieting in confidence. “Only mind your step. And your eyes. Mind everything, for that matter. And knock three times. He likes that.”
