“I do and I’m going to talk to Ovie.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I snap, then quickly apologize. “Sorry. It’s just been a stressful day.”
“Tell me about it,” Dad says, looking upstairs, seeming to refer to having a house overflowing with women getting ready for a ball. I’m sure it’s a headache for any man.
Mama nods. “Try upstairs.”
“She better be there,” I reply, exasperated.
No, I’m not exasperated by the fact that I’ve just seen Devlin. He doesn’t get the privilege of doing that to me.
Ever.
A growl rips from my throat as I storm up the rickety steps that line the wall, being sure not to smash my shoulder against the collection of family photos that are hung there for all the world to see.
You know how most families showcase the nice school photos of their kids? Not mine. They like to frame the rowdy pictures, the ones where we put rabbit ears behind each other’s heads. Or worse, the ones where we pretend to pick our noses.
Oh, my family’s got some kind of sense of humor all right.
And the funniest part is that Ovie is MIA. “How can she be missing when she invited Storm Grayson and didn’t tell anybody?” I grumble.
Not true. Somehow Chatty Cathy found out. That horrible woman knew about it before I did and it’smyball.
Needless to say, Ovie is in big trouble.
“Ovie,” I call.
The second floor’s a mess of dresses. Beautiful frilly gowns are either lying on the floor or are suspended from hangers hooked onto the tops of doors, as my younger sisters fight over who’s wearing what.
“You said that I could wear the pink gown,” Finn argues.
Dallas twirls a piece of her short brown hair around her finger. “And you said that you’d loan me your silver shoes.”
“Have y’all seen Ovie?” I ask, stepping between them.
Finn’s eyeing Dallas, but she’s talking to me. “I think she’s downstairs, getting the ballroom ready.”
Fine. So on we go.
“Where’re you heading?” Dallas asks. “You’re supposed to be getting ready. It’s only an hour till showtime.”
I drop my chin onto my chest. “Fine. I’ll get ready. What am I wearing? Some hideous purple explosion of flowers?”
Normally I like flowers, but ever since we started doing these balls, whoever is in the spotlight always wears some sort of traditional gown, and when witches talk about tradition, they mean big ugly dresses with tentacles coming off them that look like spider legs.
No, I’m not joking.
So it’s hard for me to get excited about a witch ball gown.
Dallas shoots me a wide grin. “Your dress was dropped off earlier. Come and see.”
They guide me to my room. Spread across my bed is a strapless silver dress made of velvet with a white fur bolero over it. Probably not real fur. No one here wants to kill animals. But the fur is soft, very soft, and nice. I push it aside to get a betterview of the dress. It has a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt that’s covered in tiny pearls.
I release a low whistle. “Holy cow.”
“Holy cow is right,” Finn says, seeming to have forgotten her argument with Dallas. “Get into it. We’ve been waiting all day for you to put it on.”
