by C. J. Canady
“No.” It’s the truth. The officers tried and tried to lift information out of me about my connection to Vahilda. All I told them was that she was an old friend. I tell Vahilda the same, and she lets go of a breath she’s been holding.
“You would have been disqualified from the Flower Trials.” Vahilda beams, an unsettling wispy smile on her lips. That’s all she cares about, isn’t it? Not my safety or the officer who aggressively put their hands on me. But what can I expect from her? We just met days ago, and, honestly, in comparison to my mum, Vahilda has shown me more warmth than my mum ever has.
“I can’t afford—we can’t afford that,” Vahilda says. “Your win is my ticket to becoming an Elite.” Her voice is chipper, maybe even a touch soused from the wine. “Things are going to change in Parnissi when I take my rightful place.”
“About that.” I’d hate to burst her bubble, not when she’s on a high about my hopeful win that will open the door to the Elites. “I’d like to have you by my side when I become an Elite.” The witch’s jaw drops, a muscle twitches under her eye. I then add, as peacefully as I can, “You gave me this wonderful second chance at life, and I thank you for that. But I’ve never been in a position where people paid attention to anything I said. I’d like the honor of being a part of something in which I can be a voice to all witches.”
Vahilda’s face is a stone mask that I can’t read. “The choice is yours, Elyse.”
“I know you wanted this bad, but now I do, too.” The thrill of being more than just the girl ignored excites me. It’s like my self-worth has doubled by the mere thought of becoming the first witch—the first woman—to be part of the Elite. “I was always too ugly. Or too weird. Now, I can be more than what others have limited me to be. And that’s all thanks to you.”
Vahilda fixates her brown eyes on me, and I feel my lungs spasm. This unwarranted stare-off is unnerving. Yet, I understand the hurt behind her eyes. She wanted this even more than what a new witch like me can imagine. When she shared her story with me about the Flower Trials, I could tell it was something she trained her entire life for. She hoped to become an Elite after my father died but was denied solely on the basis that she is a witch.
Vahilda says nothing more as she departs the living room, leaving me alone to study.
MY FINAL DAY OF TRAINING has come and gone just in time for the Fleur Cotillion. Vahilda has coached me on what to say to other nosey witches and wizards if they ask about our relationship. I’m supposed to say, “Vahilda is an old family friend.” Nothing more. Nothing less. If anyone should further interrogate me beyond that statement alone, I must graciously bow and excuse myself. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing that a lot come the Cotillion. Vahilda, a very private witch who, from what I gather, has no friends aside from Percy, chooses to be utterly and completely alone.
I haven’t gathered the courage to ask her why she is the way she is when she is so beautiful. Vahilda would make someone very happy. Aside from her... strictness, which, to me, is her way of showing tough love, I think she’d be a good catch.
The Fleur Cotillion is the pre-party before the Flower Trials early tomorrow morning. All witches and wizards—participants or not—are welcome to join for a celebration before the big day. According to what I’ve read in books, many witches and wizards take this opportunity to find love before the trials start. It’s kind of bittersweet, though. No one knows if the participants will make it out in one piece. And yet, love is what most desire after all.
Could I get so lucky tonight?
Vahilda says a bigger, grander party is thrown for the winner after the Flower Trials are complete. She and I haven’t much discussed the plans for when I win. For one, I have this feeling that the witch is still displeased about the change in plans. I know this was her dream. It had been her dream. And I’ve crushed it. I’ve asked for her forgiveness as I attempted time and time again to explain my reasoning, but the witch doesn’t seem to care. I want to win because I’ll finally be more than just Elyse. I’ll be an Elite. Every witch and wizard across the magical world will know my name.
Vahilda tightens the strings to the bodice, squeezing my ribs together. “Stand still, Elyse.” She ties the strings into a bow shape. The witch assesses me from a few steps away, motions with her finger for me to twirl around.
I give Vahilda a show. Pirouetting in my white heels, I twirl in my sheer, white, organdy hoop skirt. The layers of gauze-like fabric catch the breeze, fluttering like leaves caught in autumnal winds. I’ve never felt so... beautiful. It’s a bizarre feeling, to be honest. I’m all done up like a princess, ready for a ball. My lips and cheeks are colored ruby-red like the roses in Vahilda’s garden. My hair, which has taken its sweet time to grow, is like a close shave most men like to sport.
My witchy caretaker was kind enough to show me how to properly care for my hair. Unlike my mum, who never dared to touch my mass of tight coils and instead left me to figure out how to style my hair, Vahilda took the time to teach me a lot. Interestingly enough, Vahilda says using magic on hair is not a good idea. She swears by natural products that she can concoct at home. Even the creams and lotions she uses for her skin are all made by her flawless hands.
“You’ll be the talk of the Cotillion, Elyse,” Vahilda observes every inch of me, her face glowing happily.
“T-Thank you.” I still haven’t gotten used to her compliments, her meaningful words that come from a place of honesty. The witch may have her mean streak, especially when the training sessions grew hellish, but Vahilda possesses a kindness about her that is truly genuine. I may still have my issues with trusting her completely, but I think that’s due in part to my upbringing.
I couldn’t trust my mum, the one person I should’ve been able to put my blind faith in. Mum has failed me on numerous occasions, and I believe her failures have forced me to build a wall of protection. I appreciate all the witch has done for me, but until I grow closer to Vahilda, I’d like to keep her at arms-length.
Picking up my scarf from the table, I stretch the fabric and press it to my forehead to conceal my short hair. Vahilda gently places her hand on mine, shakes her head, and removes the scarf from my hand.
“This clashes with your attire,” Vahilda says as she folds the scarf and lays it back on the table. “Let your natural beauty shine.”
“I’ll try.” I shrug and stare down at my dress. I’m not sure what she means by “natural beauty,” and I don’t think I’ve mastered anything in the beauty department.
“I could have easily purchased a wig for you.” Vahilda offers me the crook of her arm. Looping my arm with hers, she continues, “You would’ve looked like all the girls there if I had. If you want to be noticed, you’ve got to work with what you have. You’ll be much more memorable if you do.”
Vahilda escorts me from her home, out into the magenta-hued world of Parnissi. The sun sluggishly says its farewells for the day, casting rays of marigold and copper along the front lawn. A carriage awaits us at the end of the walkway, and a dapper male driver in a blue suit, bowing at the hips, assists us inside.
The driver whips the reigns. His Percheron horse whinnies obediently. The carriage jerks forward, then abruptly stops shortly after.
“Wait!” The carriage door slides open to reveal Percy, as handsome as ever.
I haven’t seen a hint of him since the brawl downtown, and I must admit that I missed him. Every day while I trained, his wellbeing was on my mind. I worried about his safety and if he was ever apprehended by the police for assaulting an officer. His sudden reappearance lifts my lips into a smile and flares my cheeks in warmth. He’s no longer wearing his old, tattered suit. Instead, the blonde-haired man is stylishly clothed in a sparkling black suit, which makes his blue eyes pop.
“P-Percy,” I stutter, alarmed by his presence.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Vahilda scoots forward in her chair, grips the handle on the carriage door, ready and willing to slam it shut. “
I told you to stay away from my home. That includes staying away from Elyse, too.”
“I’m sorry for holding you up.” Percy wipes his forehead slick with sweat. He inhales a deep breath and asks, “may I have this dance with you?” His eyes are wide, pleading like a pup.
My head snaps from him to Vahilda, a question forming on my lips as the witch slams the carriage door. Vahilda knocks on the partition glass to request the driver to move it, and quickly.
“Stop.” I pull the door open, fingers wrapped around the handle for dear life. Poking my head out as the carriage trundles onward, I am met by Percy, who runs alongside the cart.
“Elyse,” Percy says my name between long-legged strides.
“Elyse!” Vahilda’s tone ice cold. The witch snatches my hand away from the door. “Why are you so smitten by that boy?”
I’m at a loss for words. How do I honestly answer her when I don’t know what’s come over me? Any answers I can give Vahilda would make a heck of a lot of sense, but I refuse to share them with her. At the end of each day of training, during dinner, and while in bed, all I thought about was Percy. All I dreamed about was him. Though our first date wasn’t what I hoped it to be, it was still my first. Had I developed feelings for him shortly after? Or had these feelings been planted inside of me when the foolish man protected me from the aggressive patrol wizard?
I shout at the driver to stop once more. When the horse judders to a displeased stop, I leap from the cart like a frog.
“Yes, I’ll dance with you!”
“Really?” Percy looks as if he’s going to burst into a happy bout of tears.
Vahilda hisses through her teeth. “You’ve got five minutes to get on with this. And only five minutes.” The witch slams the carriage door closed so hard the entire thing rattles from its wheels to the windows.
“You’ll be the girl everyone talks about at the Cotillion.” Percy shyly approaches me, hands trembling at his sides. “I wanted to be the first to ask you to dance.”
Cheeks burning, I chuckle, “I don’t think I would’ve danced with anyone. Vahilda says the Cotillion is a place to scope out the competition, not to fool around and make friends.”
He scoffs, “I don’t think Vahilda has ever been asked to dance—”
“Make that two minutes!” The witch growls through the open window, where she watches the two of us so intensely. Her brown eyes extinguish the embers blooming on my cheeks.
Bowing, Percy gracefully and silently asks for my hand. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” I giggle like a girl swept up in a whirlwind of giddy emotions.
Percy’s hand in mine. The gentleman twirls me about once, twice, then pulls me close to his chest. My palm lands right over his rapidly beating heart, a rhythmic yet panicked drumming that runs through my arm and up my spine. I shiver, toes curling as Percy leads me into a formal ballroom dance. He’s light on his feet, a blue-eyed angel who guides me away from Parnissi and into the clouds. Percy pulls me in closer, tighter. The tips of our noses graze, lips but a breath apart.
“Thank you,” Percy says. His ocean blue eyes are hypnotic in the setting sun. “This is exactly what I wanted. But there’s just one thing missing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, licking my lips as I slowly close my eyes and brace for his lips to meet mine.
“This...”
His lips are a sigh away from mine when the witch’s voice knocks the both of us out of the clouds and back to Parnissi. “Time’s up.”
Chapter 11
THE FLEUR COTILLION is not the type of “party” or “celebration” that I, a former employee of Taffy’s Tavern, am accustomed to. Every night at Taffy’s was a party—a drunken fest with booze, sloppily made hamburgers, and my mother cavorting about in a dress that emphasized her bosoms. Here at the Fleur Cotillion, which is being held inside a mausoleum-like structure, is a classy, upscale event. A waitstaff serving flutes of sparkling wine and cucumber tea sandwiches wears pristine black and white outfits that look like they cost a fortune. When I worked at Taffy’s, my work clothes looked as if I rolled around in a pigsty.
Witches, wizards, young and incredibly old, fill the ballroom with dancing and light chitter-chatter. An orchestra, seated atop a stone balcony thirty feet above, plays classical music, a style I am not familiar with. I’m used to the drunks at my old workplace who’d break out in song and dance; they’re never this elegant.
At the far end of the fancy mausoleum where floating candelabra sway in an invisible, magical current, a long table, clothed in deeply red fabric, hosts a septet of wizards. All seven of them are similar in appearance: old, wrinkled faces; long, silver-white beards; stern, weather-worn eyes and thick, caterpillar brows. They each wear comically large wizard hats that snatch a laugh from my chest.
Vahilda glares at me. “Be mindful, Elyse.” She and I are daintily eating the finger food provided, which, well for me, will not leave me anywhere near satisfied. “Those wizards form the coveted Elite.”
Figures those old geezers were the Elite. Why are men always part of the ruling class? Honestly? Throughout history, all I’ve read about are men in complete and total power. It seems like the patriarchy is forever in control, even in the magical world. I hope to change that very, very soon.
Vahilda continues. “The wizard in the middle—” she juts her chin at one wizard who has his eyes fixated on the witch and I “—is Zerachael Duth’Kurr. He was the wizard who was supposed to step down all those years ago, but, after Edwin’s death and my plea to take his position, Zerachael decided to extend his earthly stay.” Her tone carries the weight of everything she’s been through. The death of my father. The rejection she’s faced. The hurt.
“He is looking this way.” I lick my teeth clean of cucumber skin. “We should go say hi, right?”
“No.” Vahilda pats my shoulder. “What I need from you is to get to know your competition. You already have a great disadvantage because you are new to Parnissi. You have less than five hours to gather what you can before the trials tomorrow.”
“That should be easy!” My voice, smothered in sarcasm, makes the witch clench her jaw. “What are you going to do while I make friends?”
“I’m leaving.” Vahilda lifts her dress slightly, exposing her ankles. “Everyone is already curious about you. This is your time to shine. I will only pose as a distraction.”
“But you can’t.”
“I can, and I will.” The witch smiles at me and holds her chin high as she saunters out the stone doors.
I gulp, stare about the lively party, and search for someone—anyone—to talk to. Standing around being socially awkward will work against me come tomorrow. But, as I observe all the attendees, I can’t honestly tell who is just here for the party and who is participating in the trials. All my training and research about flowers and their magical abilities should’ve included a list of those contestants’ names and faces. That would’ve been a great help.
Scanning the crowd, I spot the familiar face of Justine and her two boyfriends. The wicked trio is dressed to the nines. Justine wears a skin-tight gown that hugs her voluptuous body just the right way, and the twins wear matching suits with polka dot bowties. I start in their direction as they sip wine and laugh snobbishly, but stop short as Zerachael blocks my path.
Standing six feet tall, the wizard stares down his nose at me like I’m an ant or something insignificant. “What are you to Vahilda Marguerite?” The tone of the wizard’s voice is abrasive, grating against my ears.
“She’s an old family friend,” I say, the words sound scripted, contrived.
“What type of family friend?” Zerachael’s long, starchy, black robe drinks in the orange candlelight like a black hole.
“Um, you know, like, a family friend.” I shrug, not sure what exactly he’s asking me.
“Are you and Ms. Marguerite lovers?”
I wince, shiver in disgust, nearly vomiting my finger food. “Goddess, no!”
&nb
sp; He leans forward, long beard sweeping the marbled floor. “Something about you is familiar.” Eyes drawn to slits, the wizard makes a noise in the back of his throat as if he’s got me figured out. His lips part to speak, but Justine cuts him off.
“She looks familiar because she was arrested.” Justine swirls her wine like an expert and sips the blue concoction. “Her mug was in the papers for a few days before everyone forgot about her. I mean, just look at her; she is not that memorable at all.”
“Ah, Justine Lilly.” Zerachael shifts his focus to the bombshell in black. “It’s a pleasure to see you. How is your family?”
“Still wealthy,” she chuckles.
“I hear that you are participating in the Flower Trials,” the wizard says. “Could you be the witch to claim my seat? You’ll be the first to do so.”
Justine blushes, apples of her cheeks flame tomato-red. “You must have future sight, your Wizardness. Because I will be the first witch to become an Elite—”
“Don’t count on it.” Maybe it’s the wine or the hunger pangs jabbing my stomach, but I didn’t expect my voice to sound so... severe.
“Ignore the drunk,” Justine snarls and taps her foot in annoyance. “That girl has been trained by Vahilda. Isn’t that, I don’t know, an automatic disqualification?”
Zerachael considers Justine’s question, twirls a finger in his beard. “When the first of the Elite came to be, the rule was that any surviving competitor of the Flower Trial could not impart their knowledge of the trials to their family. All members of that bloodline who broke those rules were, and are, banned from participating.”
Luckily for me, Vahilda has shared the secrets of the Flower Trials with me, and no witch or elderly wizard, for that matter, has any idea that I am her niece. And they’ll never know. I have an advantage that no one else has.