The audience stretches out before us, seated cross-legged on vibrant rugs and patchwork quilts spread across the sand. Through the shifting smoke, they look less like people and more like undulating dunes scattered across a desert of color.
At the very back is the queens’ platform. Dozens of flame-shaped lanterns sway gently around it, while braziers pour out so much resin and dried herb smoke that it looks as if the platform itself has created its own atmosphere.
The queens sit there like two treasures unearthed from the sand. The golden-haired one wears an elaborate mantle of copper chains and hammered coins. Herivory gown is stitched with threads of reddish-orange that wink like glitter the firelight. The dark-haired queen is crowned in a circlet of polished opals and draped in a lavish burnt sienna and carnelian gown, her wrists wrapped in bangles that flash whenever she moves her hands. Their high-backed thrones are decorated with gilded accents and velvet cushions that spill over with honey-colored tassels.
A clear, cool voice slices through the thick haze of incense and the dramatic entrance I’ve managed to stage without even trying.
“A superb start.” The golden-blond queens claps from her velvet-draped dais. “To what promises to be a mosteventfulevening.”
A smattering of applause rises from the audience, building into cheers. Someone in the back even lets out a high-pitchedwoo!
I blink into the torchlight. They’re cheering. Forme.
So this is what it feels like to have more than two people join a livestream.
I smooth my skirt, lift my chin, and raise both hands dramatically in the air like I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times—which, to be fair, I kind of have. Albeit, usually in the shower.
“Yes,” I say, loud and proud. “Thank you. I am the Story Witch, and this is my brooding assistant…Mister, uh, Thorne.”
I gesture to Declan with a little flourish. He bows, and a few of the women in the audience resume their cheers.
“Tonight,” I continue, “we bring you an enchanting story filled with…enchantment and…and…”
My brain blanks.
“Adventure?” Declan offers.
“Thank you, Mr. Thorne. Yes, andadventure,” I repeat, sweeping my arms overhead again like maybe a bigger gesture will summon actual words.
But nothing comes.
A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, humiliating.
My mouth goes dry, tongue stuck to the roof like I’ve just swallowed a fistful of sand. The crowd is silent. Scores of people staring at me from their rugs and pillows, their faces coming in and out of focus behind veils of smoke.
Every eye is on me.
And my mind is a snow globe that’s been shaken too hard—flakes of panic swirling, no single thought landing long enough to hold.
What even is a Story Witch? What the fuck was I going to say? Holy shit. What have I done? I’m going to get us both killed.
My chest tightens, heat crawling up my neck. The silence thickens, heavier with every second, my lips pressing together more firmly, locking around words that don’t exist.
Someone coughs. A baby fusses. The fire from the torches crackles louder than seems possible.
“Once upon a time,” Declan begins, saving me from myself, “there was a girl who moved to a damp and gloomy kingdom where everyone was pale and mysterious.”
The crowd leans forward.
“Yes!” I cry, nodding like this was the plan all along. “And Bella—uh—Beulahwas terribly clumsy, but luck had gifted her with the ability to narrowly escape death’ssharp scythe.”
Declan glances my way, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
“Unfortunately,” I add, “she was also deeply committed to poor decision-making and was in desperate need of help to sort out her life.”
Several people in the audience nod in understanding.
“Then, one day, Beulah met a man who sparkled in direct sunlight.” I lift my arms dramatically. Declan steps forward, tugging open the unlaced collar of his shirt to reveal his glitter-dusted chest.
