Which I am. This is good. This is normal.
This is my life.
But the image of those roses keeps flaring in my mind, circling like a buzzard. My magic hasn’t been that powerful in months, but suddenly when it mixed with his, it took off.
Why? How? What does that mean?
Not for me, but for my family.
I run until the first traces of daylight smear across the sky, and it’s only then that I head back to the house.
My family’s cottage greets me by closing and opening the window shutters. “Good morning, House!”
I head into the kitchen, where my mom and dad are. Mama butters a slice of toast while Dad reads the local news.
When I walk in, Mama drops her toast. “Phillip,” she squeaks.
Dad looks up from his paper, sees me, and his jaw drops. “Chelsea.”
What’s going on? I mimic his abrupt tone. “Dad. Mom. Where is everyone?”
Mama yawns. “Asleep. We didn’t get back until late.”
“You mean early,” Dad corrects.
I pour a glass of water, grab a slice of toast and drop into a chair. My parents look at me.
I look at them right back.
My mother nudges him with her elbow. “Oh, right,” Dad says. “Look, Chelsea about this business of you getting engaged?—”
I roll my eyes. “Do we have to talk about this again? Ovie canceled the ball, but I’m not the only daughter who can get married, you know. Dallas and Emory are both old enough.”
My parents exchange a confused look. “But youareengaged,” Dad says.
It’s my turn to drop a slice of toast. “What?” It lands butter side up on the tile floor, and I grab it. When I straighten, I bump my head against the table. “Ow.” I rub the spot. “What are you talking about, I’m engaged?”
Mama sits in a chair across from me. She threads her fingers together and stares down at her hands.
Oh no. That’s not good. Whenever she does that, it means she’s thinking about something weighty.
She clears her throat, an evenworsesign. “Last night, at the ball, the Nightmare King—what’s his name?”
“Eryx,” my dad and I answer.
“Well, he said that he was marrying you.”
The toast slips from my fingers, but this time I don’t care. I stand up, knocking my chair onto the floor, and I yell at the top of my lungs, “What?”
Before either of them can answer, a trill sounds in the kitchen. Mama taps the air, and it crackles like it’s deciding whether or not it wants to open. After a stretch of silence, the air cracks again, and this time Ovie’s head appears, hovering over the table.
Ovie.
Uncle Charlie. Oh no. I haven’t told her about what I saw. And whatdidI see? Charlie flirting? That wouldn’t be a surprise to Ovie.
But him seeing me, seeing him and then him following me means it was more than flirting.
A sour taste settles in my mouth.
