My gaze drops to the floor in shame.
Ovie shifts in her chair. Maybe she feels sorry for me. Maybe she’s softening. I hear the crunch as she bites into a cookie.
I look up.
She smiles. “Mmm. You’ve outdone yourself. They may look ugly, but they taste delicious. Why, these are so good it’s like you’ve charmed the batter. You earned your nickname today, girl.”
Yes, I have a horrifying nickname—Charming Chelsea. Let’s not go into it.
“You know what. I think you’re right.”
My heartbeat stutters. “Right? About what?”
I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as she replies, “About the ball.”
The breath freezes in my lungs. Could this be true? Could my aunt have realized it’s an awful idea to pawn me off on a man I meet at a ball?
She takes another bite and squeals with pleasure. “My goodness, but you’ve really outdone yourse?—”
“The ball?” I interrupt, my nerve endings firing on all cylinders. “What were you going to say?”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Your mother and I talked, and we decided it’s best for you to do things the old-fashioned way. Meeta guy on your own. If it takes ten years and our family’s magic withers away entirely, who cares?”
I cross my arms. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m not. Really. You’ve got four other sisters younger than you. They might marry first. So we’re calling off the ball.”
I nod to the stack of envelopes. “And what are those?” I ask, ignoring how tightly my chest is squeezing my rib cage.
“These?” She lifts an envelope and hands one to me. “See for yourself.”
Still unsure if she’s telling the truth, I stare at the envelope a moment as if it’s a snake about to strike.
My aunt rolls her eyes. “Go on. Take a peek.”
Faster than a mouse racing past a snake hole, I grab the envelope and pull out the slip of paper tucked inside. “You are cordially uninvited to a ball in honor of Chelsea Thornrose.”
My lungs lock. It’s true. It’s absolutely true. They really are canceling the ball. “Yes!”
I run over to Ovie and pull her into a hug. “I’m allowed to live my life. I don’t have to marry a stranger who’ll use me for money or gambles away everything we…”
I stop, pull away. My aunt’s face has gone as hard as steel. She doesn’t look at me. “Oh, Ovie, I didn’t mean?—”
“You’re excused, Chelsea,” she says coldly.
I silently beat myself up for saying something so stupid. “Ovie, I?—”
“Bye,” she says sharply, and my stomach drops.
Why did my big dumb mouth have to open and say the wrong thing? I’m tempted to apologize again, try to make her listen, but she’s already flicking her hand.
The pile of envelopes lifts, but the magic is weak, flickering like a candle about to go out. They wobble in the air, struggling to stay aloft.
Ovie snaps her fingers. A window rises—slowly, jerkily, like it's fighting against rusted hinges. The envelopes, pushed by our family's failing magic, hobble more than fly out the window, lurching toward their destinations.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The only response my aunt gives is a slight nod.
