A cheer rose from the younger ones, though Petunia did not deign to look pleased by it. She was far too busy assuming the solemn duty of receiving gifts.
While the servants cleared away plates and salvage what could be salvaged, Petunia climbed onto the settee as if it were a dais and surveyed the pile of parcels at her feet like a queen preparing to receive tribute.
“Right,” she declared. “I am ready.”
Cosmos attempted to intervene at once. “You should open mine first.”
Petunia gave him a withering look. “You are not the birthday girl.”
“No,” Cosmos admitted. “But I am your brother.”
“And therefore, you must wait your turn,” she replied.
I bit back a smile. Steele, standing to one side of the settee, looked faintly amused.
Petunia reached for the nearest parcel—wrapped in neat brown paper and tied with string. Laurel’s handwriting was unmistakable on the tag. She tore the paper free with swift excitement, then slowed when she saw what lay within.
A book. Not a picture book. Not a toy. A proper book, with gilt lettering on the cover.
Petunia’s expression turned wary. Reading was not a favored pastime of hers.
“It is Oscar Wilde,” Laurel said calmly. “The Happy Prince and Other Tales.”
Petunia mouthed the words. “Happy… Prince.” She glanced up, solemn at once. “Thank you, Laurel. I shall treasure it.”
“You’re welcome,” Laurel said, her tone as mild as ever.
Next came Chrissie’s gift—beautiful paper, a ribbon tied as if it belonged in a painting. Petunia admired it properly before pulling off the lid.
When the lemon-yellow gown emerged, she gasped. “It is…glorious.”
“It will make you look like sunshine,” Chrissie said, beaming. “And I chose the sash myself.”
Petunia stroked the green ribbon with deep satisfaction. “I shall wear it tomorrow. To breakfast. Everyone must see it.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Heaven forbid the family miss such an event.”
Petunia lifted her chin as though the matter were settled by royal decree.
Then came Holly and Ivy, each with a parcel of her own—mischief wrapped in paper.
“We chose something useful,” Holly said, solemn as a judge.
“And something pretty,” Ivy added, as though that were the true triumph.
Petunia opened their gifts and let out a cry of delight. A brush. A comb. And ribbons in every imaginable color.
“Ribbons!” she exclaimed, holding them up as if they were treasure pulled from the sea.
The twins exchanged a look of pride. For once, they were not planning mischief.
Cosmos and Fox approached next with their mutual gift. Fox held it with the stiff solemnity of someone unaccustomed to presenting anything at all.
Cosmos lifted the lid from the box. Inside was a flower unlike any I had seen—its petals delicate and pale, its leaves shaped with deliberate care.
Petunia leaned in, awed. “A flower?”
“A hybrid,” Cosmos corrected. “Fox and I created it.”
