“Parcel and letter for you.”
I’m frozen in place as I stare down at the owl. It isn’t that a talking owl surprises me. Not in the least. All fae—both seelie and unseelie alike—can talk if they choose to, and owls are no strangers to the Lunar Court. However, owls aren’t used for delivering the post in Evanston. It’s a human city with human postal carriers. What’s more surprising than all of this is that I have mail.Me. I don’t think I’ve ever received a letter in three years, much less a parcel.
The owl tilts her head. “Are you going to take it? I’m an ambassador, not a carrier pigeon. I have other places to be, you know. I’d rather not linger on your doorstep on one leg if I can help it.”
“Forgive me,” I say and crouch down to take the envelope from her foot. I’m too puzzled to ask what an ambassador is doing delivering parcels, if that’s really what she is. Ambassadors work for royals, for the kings and queens of Faerwyvae. What reason could a royal ambassador have with someone like me? I’m about to ask if she’s mistaken me for someone else, but as soon as I grasp the envelope, the owl flies off, leaving me with my mysterious gift.
5
EMBER
Balancing the parcel under one arm, I close the door behind me and lean against it. I turn over the envelope to study the elegant script. Sure enough, the letter is addressed to me. As for the sender…
My eyes go wide as I read the name on the return address. It’s from Gemma Bellefleur, mate to the Unseelie King of Winter. It’s been over a year since we’ve spoken. We became warm acquaintances when my stepfamily lived in the Winter Court last year, but things never felt the same after Imogen made such a scene over the king choosing Gemma over her. And even though Gemma asked me to write to her when we moved, I never did. Partially because I was embarrassed about my family’s behavior, but mostly because it’s hard to believe someone as important as she truly cares to hear from me. She was kind to me, but we weren’tactuallyfriends. Were we?
“What is that?” Mrs. Coleman stands before me, eyes wide as she stares down at the parcel. I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed her approach.
“It’s for me—”
“Of course it isn’t,” she says as she snatches the letter from my fingers and wrenches the package from under my arm. Brushing past me, she storms into the front room.
Heat burns my cheeks as I follow hard on her heels. “It’s addressed to my name,” I say, voice quavering with suppressed rage. “It’s from Gemma Bellefleur.”
“Gemma Bellefleur!” Imogen rises to her feet from the couch, an appalled expression contorting her face. “What could that filthy harlot possibly want withyou?”
“It’s of no one’s concern,” Mrs. Coleman says, whisking my package past the couch and toward her bedroom.
Imogen’s mouth hangs on its hinge. “Mother! What is this about?”
I’d like to know the same and am about to say as much when my stepmother halts outside her room with a cry of alarm. Dropping the letter and parcel, she leaps back as if she’s been burned.
I lunge forward at the same time as my stepsisters do, but I reach the fallen objects first and gather them in my arms. The box is cold to the touch, with tiny ice crystals receding from where Mrs. Coleman’s hands had been. Beneath my palms, the ice quickly disappears.
Mrs. Coleman’s lips peel back in a sneer. “What is the meaning of this? I said it wasn’t for you.” She tries to take it from me but snatches her hand away as soon as she touches the box, revealing a fresh patch of ice crystals.
“It seems the parcel claims otherwise,” I say. My stepfamily stands around me in a tight half circle, expressions mutinous.
“Why doessheget a gift?” Clara mutters.
Imogen’s face burns crimson. “How does Miss Bellefleur know where we live?”
“Quiet,” Mrs. Coleman hisses. Then to me, she says, “Open it. You will open it in front of me or not at all.”
Part of me wants to rebel, to say it can go in the fire for all I care. Clearly, she’s hiding something about this, and refusing to allow her to witness the contents of the package would enrage her greatly. But as much as I’d love to thwart whatever scheme my stepmother’s concocted, I’m too curious to leave the gift unopened. Not to mention, my wretched bargain with Mrs. Coleman enforces my obedience.
“Fine.” Tucking the package under my arm, I start with the letter. Sweat prickles behind my neck as I slide my thumb beneath the seal. Inside the envelope, I find four rectangular cards with gilded edges. Before I can read what they say, Mrs. Coleman tears them from my fingers.
I expect her to be burned by ice again, but it seems I have no such luck this time. Clara and Imogen huddle close together as they read, erupting with squeals a second later.
“We’re going to the ball!” Imogen shouts, taking Clara by the shoulders. “Mother, how did you do it?”
It makes little sense why Imogen would credit her mother when the invitations came in a letter from Gemma Bellefleur to me. However…a creeping dread tells me there might be more truth to that sentiment after all.
The girls continue to squeal, bouncing on the balls of their feet, while I slide what remains from the envelope. My first glance reveals a brief letter, addressed to me and signed by Gemma. As I start read silently to myself, the girls go rigid, and I feel Mrs. Coleman’s eyes burning into me.
Dearest Ember,
I admit, I was thrilled to hear from you after so long. I’ve missed your presence dearly since your family moved away, although the same can’t be said for those you reside with. I was equally pleased to hear of your interest in attending the dance at the Lunar palace. I hear it will be a glamoured ball, and quite a lavish night. Although, it surprises me that you’d be so taken with the prospect of attending a ball that you’d write to me asking for invitations. Not only for you but your three undeserving family members as well. How unusual! It’s almost as if…as if you hadn’t been the one to pen the last letter to me at all, but…but perhaps Mrs. Coleman? No, that’s just silly, for only the most desperate and repulsive creature would stoop so low as to impersonate one’s stepdaughter for personal gain. Anyhow, my answer is yes. I am happy to procure you invitations to the ball. I’m so happy, in fact, that I’ve had my dearest Mr. Rochester—the King of Winter, if Mrs. Coleman needs a stern reminder—enchant the invitations. They will remain valid so long as you, Ember Montgomery, attend the ball. In addition, you must wear the dress I’ve provided in the accompanying parcel. If you are left behind or without the gown I’ve gifted you, the tickets will turn to ice and shatter, rendering them useless. So don’t even think about trying anything clever, Mrs. Coleman. Not that you could ever be clever, but I understand one must always try one’s best. Have a wonderful time at the ball, Ember.
