3
I n 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, madam, but I really must go. I have, er, a rendezvous with someone.”
The woman harrumphed. “Very well, dear,” she said. “At least tell your swain about my shop. Business has been slow lately.”
My skin was still crawling when I entered the post office. Of all the things I expected the strange boutique to be, it was a snail shop!
When I inquired after Helene, Vincent, the mustachioed postman, informed me that I arrived a minute too late. The letters had already dispatched and were unlikely to be called back.
“Then are there any letters from my father?” I asked hopefully.
“Unfortunately not, Miss Amarante,” Vincent said. He looked apologetic. I left before he could express his sympathy.
The trip home was slow and cumbersome. I was in no rush to see my stepmother again, as I expected yet another lecture about my brashness and unladylike behavior. However, no one had the breath to scold me when I arrived.
“Hurry and get dressed, Amarante!” my stepmother said when I entered. She was in a flurry of spirits, running to and fro with curl papers in her hair. “Dinner with the Sternfelds starts in an hour!”
I barely had time to breathe before Theodora ushered me upstairs to lace me into a presentable dress, her apron still dusted with flour from the rolls she had abandoned in the kitchen. Rowena fussed over Genevieve’s shawl. By the time everyone was properly attired, we set out across the street.
THE STERNFELDS’ DINING room was large and cavernous, but sparsely furnished. A short dining table sat underneath a massive, glittering chandelier. There were no servants waiting along the walls. The house seemed to have a sort of stillness to it which the clinking of silverware did little to fill.
I had heard whispers around the neighborhood that Lord Gideon Sternfeld was immensely rich, having acquired his wealth in the bookbinding business. No one said he had a bad case of gout and was perpetually grouchy because of it. I found it immensely hard to enjoy dinner when I knew His Lordship’s gouty foot was underneath the food.
I stole another glance at Lord Gideon at the head of the table, trying to find Mr. Sternfeld’s open friendliness on his face. If anything, Lord Gideon’s face was closed. His many wrinkles seemed to shrivel into a mighty frown, hard and unmoving.
Miss Olivia Sternfeld sat next to her brother across the table. She was a petite girl with large brown eyes and as pretty as Mr. Sternfeld was handsome. There was a timidity to her manner and after our polite introduction, she didn’t peep another word. Neither did I, after realizing that eating was the much better alternative.
“You don’t seem to keep much staff here, Mr. Sternfeld.” Lydia’s voice sounded eerily loud in the large room.
“Please, call me Cedric. And Joe here takes care of most things. He’s been fantastic serving grandfather all these years,” Cedric said, gesturing to the black-haired man standing behind him. He looked about forty, with skin almost as dark as his tightly curled locks. He gave a curt bow and resumed his silent post.
“Will he not join us?” Genevieve asked.
“Absolutely not, miss,” Lord Gideon boomed. “Servants at the dining table? How preposterous.”
Genevieve looked taken aback. My stepmother flushed. I suspected that once we went home, Theodora and Rowena and our other staff would no longer be allowed to dine at our table.
Cedric coughed and stirred his soup. “What my grandfather means is that it’s not customary. ”
He gave his grandfather a look I could only describe as a blend of pity and frustration. His Lordship was chewing on a mussel, seemingly unbothered by the tension.
“So, Cedric, your sister is attending the Season?” Lydia asked. She had learned ten minutes ago that it was futile to speak to Olivia directly. “Will you not attend?”
“Unfortunately, no. I am looking through some encyclopedias I found during my travels,” he said. He chatted animatedly about a book of various herbs and their medicinal properties. I hardly understood half of what he was describing, but I was glad someone was talking at all.
Lord Gideon harrumphed. “You embarrass yourself, boy. You’re supposed to bind books, not read them. Especially not ones about plants. Botany is not a real man’s hobby.”
“Botany is an admirable science,” Genevieve interceded. “I’m quite fond of plants myself.”
“Really?” Cedric said, leaning forward. “Do you have a favorite?”
My stepsister smiled. “Roses.”
“Ah, you did have some lovely ones in your garden.”
A loud rustling sounded as Lord Gideon pulled a newspaper from underneath the table and flicked it open. A corner of it soaked into his gravy boat. Lydia stared.
“Anything interesting in the news, grandfather?” Cedric said after a beat.
He grunted. “Some fellow got arrested for buying from the Witch Market.”
“Horrid place, that is,” Lydia said.
Lord Gideon looked at her with steely eyes. “How would you know? Have you been there?”
“N-no, Your Lordship. I only hear things, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you do.” He disappeared behind his newspaper again .
The clinking of spoons filled the air for a few moments.
“So, the welcome banquet for debutantes is in a week,” Cedric said. I was impressed by how cheery he still sounded.
“It is,” Genevieve said, seemingly eager to converse again. “Olivia could take a carriage with me and Amarante to the palace if she wishes.”
Olivia bent lower over her soup. Cedric smiled at her.
“That’s kind of you to offer, Miss Genevieve, but my sister and I are moving into the palace tomorrow. I thought it’d be a good opportunity to see the royal grounds while I’m in Delibera.”
My stepmother’s eyes widened. The palace offered room and board for debutantes who wished to stay close for events, but the cost of living with royalty was a high one indeed. The fact that both Cedric and Olivia could afford to live there spoke volumes about their wealth.
“Well! That is quite exciting,” Lydia said. “Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of Queen Cordelia, or the princes.”
“Heard that Prince Ash is illegitimate,” Lord Gideon said from behind his newspaper.
“How would you know, Grandfather? Were you present at his birth?” Cedric said with utmost politeness.
His Lordship snorted. “Touché, boy.”
Dinner went on in this way, Lydia asking questions, Cedric answering, and Lord Gideon throwing in rude comments. I was beyond relieved when dessert was cleared from the table.
Cedric escorted us back home and apologized profusely for his grandfather, but Lydia still muttered about Lord Gideon’s ill manners when the doors closed behind us. Genevieve lingered at the threshold, claiming she needed air .
I would’ve teased her, but the earlier talk of the Season unsettled me. In a few days, I would have to attend the dreaded welcome banquet.
The thought of meeting the Season mentors, especially Duchess Wilhelmina, struck a chord of panic in me. Genevieve and I grew up reading about her. Endless magazines and newspaper articles lauded the duchess as a pioneer of both fashion and politics. Julianna had often told stories of Her Grace as if she were a hero of mankind instead of a duchess. How I would act in the scrutiny of such a woman, I did not know.
My invitation came three days later.
“You will cherish this forever, Amarante,” my stepmother said, handing me the crisp white envelope and gold embossed box. Nestled within was a bracelet of silver bells. It chimed when I took it out.
It was an old Olderean custom. Debutantes wore silver bells to mark the beginning of possible courtship. Young men tied gold ribbons around their wrists so the ladies knew they were interested suitors. By the end of the Season, if a couple decided to pair up, the two ornaments would be woven together as a pretty—but useless— symbol of courtship.
As I fastened the bracelet around my wrist, I vowed that a ribbon would not be looped through the chain under any circumstances. I was not attending for courtship, and even if I was, there was little sense in keeping such an ornament.
Lydia had kept hers all these years, locked away in her jewelry box. The ribbon intertwined in her chains, now faded of its luster, was not Papa’s.