Chapter 4 Chelsea
Chelsea
Ican’t shake the feeling of that man’s magic. My hand is still cold where we touched, like his power branded me.
Don’t be ridiculous, Chelsea. That man didn’t brand you.
But it lingers—that deadly cold threading through my veins, like it’s familiar. Even now my magic bubbles, trying to reach back toward it. Which is ridiculous because my magic has never wanted anything.
I rub my arms, trying to ease the prickly sensation that clings to every part of me. Time to focus on the task ahead.
The bakery is out of cinnamon rolls—which is stupid as the place is called The Cinnamon Roll.
How can they be out when I need them so badly?
Deciding I need a real weapon against my aunt Ovie so she’ll have no choice but to cancel the ball—and seeing as how I’m out of said weapons—I head home.
The next day when I arrive at Ovie’s house armed with gingerbread demons—yes, my cookies still came out stupid—the door opens before I have a chance to knock.
A headful of clipped gray hair appears, and my uncle smiles down at me. “Chelsea, what a surprise. You here to see your aunt?”
My uncle Charlie’s eyes glint with curiosity that makes my stomach feel like there’s a bunch of eels swimming around in it.
I take a step back. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m just going out—business across the barrier.”
“Business?”
He clears his throat, looks from side to side. “Trading.”
Right.
“Anyway, your aunt’s in the kitchen.”
He opens the door for me to enter, and my gaze sweeps him from head to foot—shiny new boots, button-down pressed nicely, hair all in place.
There’s nothing in his appearance that should elicit my reaction, but my stomach sinks nonetheless. “Thanks,” I mumble as I step past him.
“Nice sneakers.”
My jaw hardens. “Yep,” I mutter, entering the cozy cottage.
It is the cutest and most welcoming house. Dried herbs hang from the rafters. Pools of sunshine brighten the oak floors. The scent of lemon polish lingers on the furniture.
I pick my way through the house as I head to the kitchen.
“Ovie!”
“Come on in.”
When I enter, she’s sitting at the counter, a stack of envelopes beside her.
Invitations to my ball. My heart drops as I approach. Not just from the invitations, but from her eyes—they’re red, puffy.
She’s been crying, and I’ve got two guesses as to who made her that way.
“I saw Charlie on my way out.”
“Yeah.” She takes a stack of envelopes and taps the ends on the slick counter, straightening them. “He’s going out for a bit.”
And this—this right here—is exactly what love looks like twenty years later.
If love can turn into this, what chance do I have?
“I brought gingerbread cookies.”
My aunt’s eyes go wide. She smiles. Her graying hair is piled up high on her head, and big golden earrings dangle to her shoulders.
“You did? Well how thoughtful of you.” Her eyes narrow and she adds playfully, in her over-the-top Southern way, “You’re either trying to sweeten me up, or you just love your aunt. My bet’s on the sweetening up, and it just might work,” she adds with a laugh.
I open the container, revealing the finest demon cookies this side of the Mississippi.
She oohs and ahhs. “They look so good.”
“Have one.”
“I’ll have two. Do you want coffee?”
She starts to get up, but I wave her off. “No, I’m fine. Ovie”—I replay the words that have circled in my head for days—“look, I know we need this ball. I know I’ve got to marry, but I just can’t do it this way.”
Each of my sisters has to wed. That's the deal. Seven sisters, seven magical bonds to restore what we've lost. But I don’t want to pick my husband from some Victorian-style matchmaking event where I'm on display.
“I can’t be paraded around like a peacock. What do you say? Can we please cancel?”
My aunt looks at the cookies. “Did you mean to make them demons?”
“If I lie, will that help my case?”
“No.” She tuts. “Case in point why you need to marry. Heck, I tried to curl my hair with magic and wound up burning off one of my curls. Don’t even get me started on trying to boil water.”
Guilt twists my stomach. “It’s not that I’m against marriage—”
“It’s just you refuse to save your family’s magic? Is that right?”
My gaze drops to the floor in shame.
Ovie shifts in her chair. Maybe she feels sorry for me. Maybe she’s softening. I hear the crunch as she bites into a cookie.
I look up.
She smiles. “Mmm. You’ve outdone yourself. They may look ugly, but they taste delicious. Why, these are so good it’s like you’ve charmed the batter. You earned your nickname today, girl.”
Yes, I have a horrifying nickname—Charming Chelsea. Let’s not go into it.
“You know what. I think you’re right.”
My heartbeat stutters. “Right? About what?”
I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as she replies, “About the ball.”
The breath freezes in my lungs. Could this be true? Could my aunt have realized it’s an awful idea to pawn me off on a man I meet at a ball?
She takes another bite and squeals with pleasure. “My goodness, but you’ve really outdone yourse—”
“The ball?” I interrupt, my nerve endings firing on all cylinders. “What were you going to say?”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Your mother and I talked, and we decided it’s best for you to do things the old-fashioned way. Meet a guy on your own. If it takes ten years and our family’s magic withers away entirely, who cares?”
I cross my arms. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m not. Really. You’ve got four other sisters younger than you. They might marry first. So we’re calling off the ball.”
I nod to the stack of envelopes. “And what are those?” I ask, ignoring how tightly my chest is squeezing my rib cage.
“These?” She lifts an envelope and hands one to me. “See for yourself.”
Still unsure if she’s telling the truth, I stare at the envelope a moment as if it’s a snake about to strike.
My aunt rolls her eyes. “Go on. Take a peek.”
Faster than a mouse racing past a snake hole, I grab the envelope and pull out the slip of paper tucked inside. “You are cordially uninvited to a ball in honor of Chelsea Thornrose.”
My lungs lock. It’s true. It’s absolutely true. They really are canceling the ball. “Yes!”
I run over to Ovie and pull her into a hug. “I’m allowed to live my life. I don’t have to marry a stranger who’ll use me for money or gambles away everything we…”
I stop, pull away. My aunt’s face has gone as hard as steel. She doesn’t look at me. “Oh, Ovie, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re excused, Chelsea,” she says coldly.
I silently beat myself up for saying something so stupid. “Ovie, I—”
“Bye,” she says sharply, and my stomach drops.
Why did my big dumb mouth have to open and say the wrong thing? I’m tempted to apologize again, try to make her listen, but she’s already flicking her hand.
The pile of envelopes lifts, but the magic is weak, flickering like a candle about to go out. They wobble in the air, struggling to stay aloft.
Ovie snaps her fingers. A window rises—slowly, jerkily, like it's fighting against rusted hinges. The envelopes, pushed by our family's failing magic, hobble more than fly out the window, lurching toward their destinations.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The only response my aunt gives is a slight nod.
Then I slink out of the house and back outside, biting down a squeal. Yes, I hurt Ovie’s feelings, but now I’m off the hook!
The sun shines a little brighter as an invisible weight lifts off my shoulders.
Perfect. Now I don’t have to get married.
So why does it feel like I just kicked over a beehive?