“Those aren’t weeds,” Rowena said without looking down.
I had unconsciously ripped out a fistful of grass.
“Sorry.” I patted the uprooted grass back into the dirt. “I’m just nervous.”
“Don’t worry about things out of your control,” Rowena said, rolling up her sleeves. Her brown skin had tanned even more in the past month. “You’ll get a headache.”
As I was about to reply, a smudge of color bloomed at the corner of my vision. It drifted beneath a rose bush several paces away, a deep violet vibrating at the edges. It didn’t look solid, but neither was it transparent.
I straightened. “What’s that?”
Rowena turned, squinting to where I was pointing. “What’s what?”
“You mean you can’t—?”
The smudge vanished, but Rowena approached the spot.
“Crabgrass,” she said when I walked over. A round patch of green was hidden under the foliage. There was a peculiar look on her face as she regarded the weed. “How did you spot this all the way over there?”
“I don’t know. I thought I saw a violet...” I trailed off. The base of my head ached as I shook my head. “Never mind. Maybe I have been worrying too much.”
Rowena shrugged. “What did I tell you? Go rest. I’ll finish up here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll manage. Besides, you have dinner with the Sternfelds tonight.” Rowena gave me a knowing look. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”
I had. With a groan, I trailed back to the house. My stepmother was scribbling a letter in the dining room when I entered.
“Helene, take this to the post,” Lydia said, giving the envelope to the maid. Helene curtsied and swept out the door.
“Who was that for?” I asked.
Lydia looked up. “That was—heavens! What are you wearing?”
I lifted my dirt-streaked skirts. “A dress, stepmother.”
She gave me a look I was all too familiar with—disappointment mixed with disgust. “Honestly, Amarante. Next time, enter through the back door. I do not want the Sternfelds thinking you’re a scullery maid.”
As I climbed the stairs to my room, she spoke again.
“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 out the 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?
“Come sit, my dear. Meet some of my friends,” the woman said, gesturing to a velvet pouf. A leafy branch lay along her table, the brown bark speckled with several snails.
I sat despite how desperately I wanted to leave. If she were indeed a witch, I could not afford to anger her.
“May I interest you in a pet snail?” the woman asked.
“No th—”
“Well then! Perhaps I can change your mind.”
She plucked one off the branch. It was large and shiny with an orange and teal shell. She set it a few inches away from the leaves. The creature wriggled its antennae and crawled away, leaving a trail of mucus in its wake. Seconds dragged on as it inched around.
“See there. Snails are often knocked into unsure paths,” the woman whispered. She had lowered herself so her eyes were level to the table. “Nevertheless, they continue on with patience and composure. Plus, they’re good for gardens. Clean up dead debris and such.”
“Fascinating,” I lied.
“So. Would you like to purchase one?” the woman said, popping up. “Each snail comes with a free terrarium. Buy two and get another one free.”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? I’ll offer a fifty percent discount for a bag of specially curated snail food.”
I shook my head and stood. “Thank you,
