Chapter 23 #2
My first instinct was to scoff and deny this, but Edmund’s words resurfaced a memory of Grandma. She had said the same thing, that Witch Village was brimming with generosity and magic and community. That was the most beautiful part about it.
“It is special,” I conceded. I didn’t tell Edmund about the rampant gossip as a result of the tight space, that the witches who didn’t conform were treated like outsiders, that there were a handful of nasty reclusive witches who shut themselves away from the rest, like Maude Greenwood, and at one point, Lana Barclay.
Even though the Barclay’s had been well-respected at one point, Seraphina’s mistake had ruined their reputation.
It was likely the gossip got to Lana—she had to hear about her deceased sister’s mistakes over and over, and at some point, she grew to shut everyone out.
I suspected that was how certain witches grew so reclusive. They were alienated by their own community for daring to do unconventional things. Witch Village was a mix of good and bad, like everything, I supposed. It was home, both welcoming and hostile, freeing and suffocating.
Edmund nudged my elbow with his. The familiar gesture startled me. “Did you have an epiphany earlier? What were you thinking about?”
“Oh, the dress!” I rummaged through my satchel and dug out a pad of paper and a pencil. “I finally came up with a design for Narcissa’s wedding dress.”
Quickly, I sketched out what I had in my head. Though somewhat messy, the drawing solidified the idea onto paper. Edmund leaned forward.
“Crochet?” he asked, raising his brows at the scribbled lace on the bodice.
“Yes! How did you know?”
He pointed to the doily on my lap. “I figured this gave you inspiration,” he said with a wry smile. “This is certainly a fresh concept. It will be the highlight of the first issue of Blanche.”
That’s right. Edmund had offered to feature me in his upcoming fashion magazine. It seemed ages prior, despite being only a few days ago. So much had happened since then. “Does your offer still stand after...all this?” I asked sheepishly.
“Why wouldn’t it? You’re a talented seamstress, Giselle, not to mention young and accomplished and a master of multiple crafts. It will be an honor to feature you in my magazine.”
I blushed all the way to my toes. I’d never been showered with compliments like this.
The only family member who praised me, especially regarding my sewing, was Grandma, and even then she only offered one compliment at a time.
In our household, all sweet things—including candy—were given in moderation.
The paper rustled as Edmund took my sketchpad and pencil from me. I blinked in surprise.
“We should begin the interview while we have time, don’t you think?” he asked with a playful glint in his eyes. He spun the pencil between his fingers. “Who taught you how to sew?”
I darted my gaze away, suddenly afraid that if I continued to look at him, I would begin to cry. So I smiled instead. “My grandmother taught me.”
***
THE HARVEST FESTIVAL was due in three days, and as a result, Ma had been busy in the kitchen, cooking up all sorts of delectable delights from the produce she gathered on the first day of the Harvest. Luckily, that meant she had less time to bother me, and there was no more miscellaneous mending from so-and-so neighbors.
Edmund and Maddox, too, were spared from Ma.
“Hang tight till the Harvest Festival,” I told them both before shutting myself in my room. I reckoned Edmund would appreciate the free time to work on his fashion magazine and Maddox would appreciate sleeping in.
I finally had time to dive head first into re-making Narcissa’s wedding dress, and I wasn’t going to waste a single second. I went to Pamela to personally deliver her repaired doily, then begged a book of crochet lace patterns from her, which she generously gave along with some fine silk yarn.
“It’s an heirloom in my family,” Pamela said proudly. “Passed down from my mother and grandmother, who were both accomplished fiber artists. I never had a knack for it, but I’m happy to share the knowledge with such a promising young talent as you, Giselle!”
I poured over the pages during the mornings and evenings, emerging only for meals, marveling at the intricate designs. Using an old bodice mock-up as a base, I began to crochet the beginnings of the dress.
Christabella and Sonny, unfortunately, had not been spared from Ma’s orders.
They disappeared to work on lighting the village square for the Harvest Festival, which involved arranging witchlights like one would flowers.
Sonny groaned about this, saying that the task was far too girlish, which earned him a smack on the head from Ma.
My wrist began to grow sore on the second day.
As crocheting didn’t involve my thimble, I had to carve a speed charm on the needle-thin crochet hook I was using.
Though it did improve my pace and I had a sizable swatch of lace at the end of each day, my arms were not spared from the strain.
My right hand began to ache, tiring after even the most mundane of tasks—like bringing a spoon to my mouth—so I opted to use my left for non-crochet activities.
On the night before the Harvest Festival after dinner, I was curled up on the couch working on another swatch of lace meant to go on the center back of the bodice.
Whispers and giggles sounded, drawing my attention from my work.
Pa, Ma, Sonny, and Edmund had all gone back to their rooms. Only Christabella and Maddox sat across the parlor, rather close to each other. Their knees were practically touching.
Christabella whispered something into his ear and Maddox laughed, scribbling something down onto a sheet of paper. I frowned.
When had they gotten so close?