Seeds of Doubt
Daisy awoke on Tuesday with a dull throb in her mouth, easily ignored beneath the weight of her responsibilities. But by Thursday, that dull ache sharpened into a persistent gnawing that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She went to sleep with a headache and woke up on Friday with a migraine that made it impossible to think of anything beyond the consistent pounding of everything above her shoulders.
She’d chewed on the left side for three days, avoiding anything too hot, too cold, too sweet, too hard. Which left approximately nothing on the menu except lukewarm tea and the soft centers of day-old bread.
Two weeks had passed since she’d visited the library. Fourteen days of checking her phone for emails before truly giving up hope. Stupidity crept in with each unanswered refresh. Believing, even for a moment, that she might be spontaneously rescued from her circumstances was a level of foolishness she couldn’t afford.
This was reality. Not some fanciful romance book that promised a happy ending.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the front stairs to her flat.
The stench of mildew and someone’s burnt dinner greeted her in the foyer as she stepped out of the cutting wind. A fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. The mailboxes, as always, were overflowing with takeaway menus and bills, but a flash of emerald made her pause.
Her heart stuttered. There, polished and glinting against the grey, perched atop the pile of rubbish, sat a deep emerald envelope with gold filigree calligraphy.
“Oh, my God.” She rushed to the mailboxes and lifted it with shaky hands.
* * *
Daisy Burdan
* * *
They knew her name now. The game was changing.
Her hand trembled as she reached forward, half-expecting it to dissolve like a ghost, but the paper was solid beneath her fingers. Heavy. Real. Thick as a promise and stiff enough to break.
She stared down at the emerald linen envelope as if it held more than paper inside, and her fluctuating doubts renewed to hope. Somehow, the wait had made its appearance that much more meaningful.
No address. No return. Just her name embossed in gold. On the back, a hand-pressed wax seal in gold with stalk twisted upward around the letters JT.
Her head snapped up when a door on the second floor opened and slammed. Footsteps moved quickly overhead. She stuffed the envelope inside her jacket and rushed upstairs.
The lock to her flat stuck, as it always did. “Come on, you bugger.”
Jiggling the key, she shouldered her way inside, and slammed the door behind her.
She rushed to her bed and sat on the edge, withdrawing the formal envelope from her jacket. She stared in awe at the pristine, filigree calligraphy and rich paper in her work-roughened hands.
They knew it was her. Wrote it in gold ink. Her thumb glided over each letter. Never before had she thought of her name as pretty until seeing it scrolled in metallic gold with letters that slanted and twirled like living vines on a page.
Her thumb slid beneath the wax seal, releasing a satisfying crack. A faint scent she couldn’t name tickled her nose. Something rich and smoky, like expensive things she’d never owned.
Inside, she found a single card.
* * *
You have been selected.
Your presence is requested at The Feast of the Fallen.
To confirm your attendance and receive further instructions, visit:
www.FeastoftheFallen.com
Enter your one-time access password within twenty-four hours:
TheHarvesting
