“Grand! Who is it from?” A broad smile spread across Laurel’s face as she launched herself onto the bed to better see the letter for herself.
The mattress shifted upon her landing, waking Stormy in the process. The little cat pushed up on his front paws, clearly offended to have been woken so unceremoniously, and yawned.
“Yes, yes,” Poppy said and scratched the top of Stormy’s head. “The poor baby. You won’t get any sleep up here. Off you go.”
As the cat sauntered toward the edge of the bed, Laurel’s patience with Poppy evaporated. “Well, open it already! The curiosity is killing me.”
It was nearly killing Poppy as well. So, without pausing even a second longer, she broke the wax seal, revealing a formal invitation like nothing she’d ever received before…
AWitches’ Ball? The words seemed to leap off the invitation and seared themselves into Poppy’s mind. That couldn’t possibly be real, could it? An actual ball for witches? Were there enough of them in England to fill an entire ballroom? Her head began to spin at the possibility.
Laurel gently touched the words with her fingers and then a piece of folded up foolscap which must have been tucked inside the letter fluttered to her lap. She quickly unfolded the paper to find another less formal note.
Dear Poppy & Laurel,
I know it would be your Aunt Alora’s wish for you visit Nightshade Manor as my guests for all the events preceding my ball. I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Affectionately,
I.W.
Goodness! Poppy exchanged a surprised look with her sister. “A witches’ ball?” she muttered under her breath, still unsure her eyes had actually seen those very words.
What would such an event entail? Magical chandeliers? Musical instruments that played themselves? Spells flying this way and that, replenishing refreshment tables all while keeping packs of hell hounds at bay?
And who would be there? Other Seers? More Prometheans? And what about Sea Witches or even Green Witches? Poppy had noticed mention of them in the grimoire that afternoon. How many other kinds of witches were there? And would some of each be in attendance? Or—
“That’s just a month away.” Laurel clutched Poppy’s hand, her light brown eyes alit with excitement. “Do you suppose the other witches will have modistes create their gowns? Or do they craft their own gowns using magic spells?Orare there magical modistes for such events?” Her sister seemed to be under the illusion that their participation in Lady Wharton’s ball was a possibility. “Goodness! Is there enough time for us to have something special made? Or should we—”
“We can’t go,” Poppy said more reasonably than she felt as the reality of the situation washed over her. “You must realize that attending is completely out of the question.”
Laurel looked at her as though she’d just been slapped across the face. “Well, wehaveto go. We’ve been invited.”
Poppy glanced at the formal invitation with longing. “You haven’t even had your debut season in London. Besides, Papa willneverlet us go.” She brushed her fingers across the lettering on the vellum. “Hehidthis from us, Laurel,” she reminded her sister.
Laurel collapsed against Poppy’s pillows, staring up at the ceiling above them. “That’s hardly fair.”
There were so few things in life that were fair, especially for women. But wishing it was otherwise, wouldn’t make it so. Poppy laid down beside her sister and heaved a sigh. “It would be exciting to go though, wouldn’t it? Something fun to daydream about?”
“More fun to be there than dream about it.” Laurel’s lips twisted into a petulant pout. “You know, I bet they have more than two waltzes at a witches’ ball. Why be bound by normal social strictures?”
“Is there someone you want to waltz with?” Poppy asked.
“I’m sure I could find someone.”
A laugh escaped Poppy. She remembered, not that long ago, when her hopes for a successful first season had occupied her every thought. “You’ll have your chance in the spring.”
“With somenon-magical fellow?” Laurel shook her head. “How is one supposed to find other witches or warlocks during a London season, anyway?”
Poppy had no answer for that question. In fact, nothing about her first season had been magical in the least. No one made her heart leap during any of theal frescosor musicales that Caroline had insisted they attend, no one had even mildly captured her interest during their many fashionable-hour walks along Rotten Row or any of the Marriage Mart balls she’d suffered through. Then again, no one had ever captured her interest the way Alec Galbraith had. There was something about him. “We’ll ask the captain in the morning. I’m sure he’ll know.”
He had, after all, known the answers to all of their other magical questions. His handsome face with that distinctive scar lingered in Poppy’s mind, but she managed not to sigh. No, no, Laurel would notice the sigh, and Poppy didn’t want to address the subject with her younger sister again.
“Do you supposehe’llattend?” her sister asked, her eyes assessing Poppy more keenly than she’d like.
Until that moment at the crossroads, Poppy hadn’t laid eyes on Alec Galbraith. He hadn’t attended any of the functions she had during the Season. She would have noticed him if he’d been there, recognized him from her dreams. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Laurel laughed at her response. “Well, maybe the answer will come to you in a dream. That’s where he usually shows up, isn’t it?”
