Marmalade's Love Potion

The days after passed quickly. There was so much to prepare for the upcoming ball that, during the daylight hours, Penelope found little time to dwell on misery or mortification.

She lost herself in the tactility of dressmaking for long hours each day. Early mornings found her pinning patterns by the wan blue light streaming through the windows of her workspace. Afternoons found her threading sleeves to carefully crafted bodices, or trimming yards of silk for flowing skirts. Familiar calluses formed on her fingers as she spent evenings embroidering cuffs with shining lines of thread.

Sister Heely’s gown came together quickly in crisp, elegant lines of cream and blushing dusk, with golden accents that brought to mind an autumn dawn.

She twirled about the lounge as Penelope scrutinised the fit, skirts and long sleeves billowing outwards in airy folds.

“You should see me, Rosin!” Sister Heely called down the hall.

“You said no looking until the day, love!” Sister Rosin protested from the kitchen.

“No, you can’t look, of course! But you should see me!” Sister Heely teased with another elaborate twirl that sent Penelope into giggles as Sister Rosin pretended to grump.

Sister Rosin’s gown of flaming reds and burnished thread was designed to wrap gracefully across the shorter woman’s torso, with short fluttering sleeves to accentuate the strength of her arms. Tiered skirts fanned outwards from the curve of her waist, trailing behind her like liquid sunset.

Sister Rosin fanned about the lounge with a wide grin. Raising her voice in a mocking lilt, she called, “Ooooooh, you should see me, Heels, you should—Oi! No peeping!”

Muffled giggles echoed up the corridor as Sister Heely’s steps clipped away.

Penelope worked on her own gown long into the late night hours. Following the design she had sketched for herself, she crafted a dress with a long voluminous skirt and cinched bodice using the indigo silk she had chosen at Sooth & Crane.

Oh so carefully, Penelope layered veil upon glittering veil of starweave silk over the skirt, stitching them in place with opalescent thread. Thousands of tiny diamonds sparkled against the darker silk with each ripple of the fabric, shining like constellations swimming through ink.

After attaching sheer, billowing sleeves of starweave silk cuffed in silver lace, there was just enough of the precious fabric left for three pairs of gloves. These she stitched in secret, one pair for herself and the others as a surprise gift for the Sisters.

With the forms of the dresses completed, Penelope moved on to the finer embellishments. She embroidered fine leafy stems and added subtle flowers of folded fabric to the Sisters’ gowns and gloves, using pieces of cloth from the others’ dress so their designs would complement.

Immensely satisfied with the Sister’s finished gowns, Penelope considered the designs she wanted for her own embroidery. In her design, she had sketched flowers across the bodice and yet, when it came time to thread them, something stayed her hand. Somehow the designs didn’t feel quite right.

She fretted for several days, sketching and re-sketching different types of flowers, then patterns of constellations, crescent moons, crystalline trees, birds, butterflies, and even beetles.

Yet nothing quite captured the essence of the forest. The presence of life and raw magic that lurked in every shadow and nourished every fern.

As the ball approached, Penelope’s nights became restless and her dreams fretful. Her gown remained unfinished as the days passed, and she became increasingly anxious with fewer hours of sleep each night.

She struggled to fall asleep, unable to stem the tides of dread as the evening of the dark moon encroached. When at last she succumbed to slumber, she dreamed of Grimwood Rangers in leering masks and royals laughing at her unfinished dress, fraying at the edges and gathering moss thick enough to choke.

She would wake with a start and spend the remaining hours of night staring at the stars beyond her window, anxious about seeing her parents again, and at last meeting her younger sister. What would she say to them? What would they say to her? Would they speak to her? Would they acknowledge her at all? Surely they would, for they had all but demanded her presence...

When she could no longer stand thinking about her family, she would anguish over meeting Steph again. In one imagined scene, she stormed past him into the ballroom without acknowledgement, her perfectly finished gown sweeping behind her, catching the eye and envy of all in attendance. In another, she confronted him, demanding answers and grovelling apologies. In another, she allowed her hurt and humiliation to bubble forth, simply asking why?

When she could no longer think on Steph, she agonised over meeting his brothers... Would she have to dance with the eldest Prince? Could she mind her etiquette knowing the cruelties he and his Rangers had inflicted upon the forest and its creatures? Should she? Would confrontation lead to conflict with Starwood and a final rejection from her parents?

Penelope would then rise with the dawn light, thoughts spiralling with a dozen anticipated dooms, and tread down the stairs to brood over her dress.

The Sisters cast worried glances between them as Penelope paced her workspace, fussing with the patterns in her sketchbook, or else staring out the window lost in thought.

Over evening tea, Sister Rosin tried to rouse her into better humour with little hints about her oh so secret project that you’ll simply love, just you wait! Penelope couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s enthusiasm.

True to word, three days before the ball, Sister Rosin coaxed Penelope and Sister Heely out into the front yard where a large box-shaped something sat beneath a large cream-coloured drape.

“Is that... the spare curtain set for the lounge windows?” Sister Heely muttered, squinting at the floral pattern embroidered on the thick fabric.

“Unimportant,” Sister Rosin dismissed, bouncing on the balls of her small feet.

Penelope grinned, though her eyelids drooped with fatigue.

“Anyway,” Sister Rosin continued with a huff, “it’s time for the big reveal!” With a flourish, the stout woman tugged hard on the edge of the curtain. Sister Heely winced as they heard the fabric tear before the cloth pooled on the snowy earth.

“Ta da!” Sister Rosin grinned, wide and expectant as Sister Heely and Penelope simply stared.

“It’s...” Sister Heely began, clearly lost for words.

“You’re speechless, I knew it!” Sister Rosin grinned with triumph as she bounced over to stand between them.

Penelope could only gape as she took in the large form of what looked to be a make-shift carriage built atop the squat form of their market wagon. A small door and little rough-hewn windows had been installed. The roof had been built to a slanting peak, the easier to clear snow from the roof, see? Sister Rosin explained as she talked through all the features. Four little lanterns hung from the corners, illuminating the polish of the navy blue wood.

The most glaring feature of all, however, were the hundreds of stars painted onto the midnight finish, all flashing between pastel pink, purple, and yellow.

“Is... is that..?” Penelope started, voice rough with horror.

“The same paint you used once upon a time to decorate your headboard? Yes, it is! I kept it, see? Knew there’d be some special project it could be used for, and well, here it is!” Sister Rosin shuffled from foot to foot, clearly anxious despite her broad grin. “Do you... like it?

Lost for words, and utterly unwilling to hurt Sister Rosin’s feelings, Penelope flung her arms around the shorter woman in a tight hug.

“You’ve worked so, so hard, Sister Rosin. I...” Penelope trailed off as her voice failed. She caught Sister Heely’s horrified gaze over Sister Rosin’s shoulder.

“Yes, you’ve... I’ve never seen anything quite... It’s very creative, dear,” Sister Heely floundered.

“Oh, I just knew you’d love it,” Sister Rosin sniffed, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I can’t wait to see everyone’s reactions when we ride up to the gates, that’s for sure! We’ll be a show stopper!” With a last grin and a clap on each of their shoulders, Sister Rosin bustled away to wheel the wagon-turned-carriage back into the shed, leaving Sister Heely and Penelope to their quiet panic.

“We can’t...” Penelope whispered, utterly aghast.

“We can’t not...” Sister Heely hissed back, sounding equally alarmed.

“But...”

“It’ll be... fine...”

“I... you... she... we...”

“Let’s... go have some biscuits.”

Defeated, Penelope trudged after the taller woman whose shoulders were rigid with the air of someone willing to sacrifice anything for the woman she loved, even her dignity as they arrived at a royal ball in a star-spangled, pointy-topped, colour-changing monstrosity of a carriage.

That evening, Penelope tossed and turned in her sleep. She dreamed of a procession of gleaming, royal carriages encrusted with precious metals and gems. Behind them all, Penelope and the Sisters followed in a cart fit for the circus theatre. Cynthia trotted forward on dainty hooves, though she resembled a donkey with too-large teeth and an oversized head.

The women tumbled from the cart with a series of squeaks and toots, their faces painted in flashing pastels and wearing gowns of patched scraps.

Collected on the front steps of the palace were all the royals of Edenwood Valley, pointing down at them and laughing in voices that chimed like silver bells. Penelope’s family stood amongst them, shaking their heads in grim disappointment as they turned their backs and vanished into the crowd.

Penelope tried to protest, desperate to justify themselves, yet all that came out was a series of goose honks.

Steph stood, cruel and exquisite, at the very top of the stairs. Dressed in the polished finery of a prince he sneered down at them, laughing with all the rest.

Penelope woke with a harsh gasp and cried into her pillow.