“That was your application for the Season,” Lydia called out. “You’ll receive your invitation soon.”
I froze. “What?”
“Just think. You’ll attend the welcome banquet with Genevieve in a week.” Lydia said. “The sooner you surround yourself with proper society the better.”
“But Papa hasn’t approved yet!”
“Oh, pooh. Julien will approve. You know, he has been saying he wants you to—”
The rest of my stepmother’s words cut off as I flew down the steps.
I had to get that letter back.
3
In a flash, I was outthe door. There was no trace of Helene’s stout figure in the shaded streets of our neighborhood. She must’ve taken a horse chaise to the city post office, a place I was luckily very familiar with.
I hiked up my skirts as much as propriety allowed and ran, arms full of fabric and heart full of trepidation. Years of fleeing from Lydia’s etiquette lessons should have prepared me for the half-mile sprint, but I was still wheezing for air when the outskirts of town came into view. The wooden sign of the post poked out from the tiled rooftops, a welcome sight as I trotted my usual route past several small shops.
I only had one thing in mind as I burst through the door.
“Those letters can’t go!”
The dim room with poufs dotting the floor was most definitely not the post office. I blinked, realizing where I was—the boutique called Miriam’s Terrariums.
It had been next to the post office for as long as I remembered, though I never knew why such a run-down shop was next to the city post. My stepmother had warned me about such places, where the decaying signs creaked with neglect and rounded architecture recalled times long passed.
“Letters?” A woman with a wrinkled brown face sat behind a low table, wrapped in chiffon shawls that drowned her hunched figure. She gave me a watery smile.
“I-I’m sorry,” I said. The scent of ripe fruit and incense overwhelmed my nostrils. “I thought this was the post office.”
“That’s next door, dearie,” she said with a cackle. “My little companions would make terrible postboys.”
It was then I realized the shop was full of snails—large, slimy snails with colorful shells too bright to be natural. They lined the shelves in glass terrariums and crowded the corners behind gauzy draperies. There was even a handful of them roaming freely on the woman’s table.
I shuddered, recalling my old governess’s history lesson of the witches that once roamed the streets of Olderea. Our previous king, King Humphrey, had banned magic and witches from the kingdom two generations ago. But there were whispered rumors of a Witch Market where one could buy cursed items and gruesome poisons. Could this be it?
