Marmalade's Love Potion

With the gowns ready and cosmetics all laid out in preparation for the next day, Penelope spent the rest of the day sleeping in stops and starts.

Barely able to keep her eyes open through breakfast, Penelope crept upstairs to collapse on her bed. Unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time with nerves jangling in her stomach, Penelope found herself dozing and waking at strange hours. The afternoon passed in a haze, drifting from dream to nightmare to frenzied thoughts of the following day.

Rousing herself for evening tea, Penelope listened as Sister Rosin outlined her itinerary.

“We want to arrive no later than sunset, yet not so early that we’ll have to wait at the gates, so we’ll want to be in our gowns and on our way in the carriage by early afternoon, so we’ll need to start readying ourselves no later than mid-morning, so we can sleep until—”

Penelope nodded, lifting a spoon of stew to her mouth with a sleepy sigh and tuned the Sisters out as they began to squabble over the minutiae of scheduling. Penelope knew she would be up at dawn regardless and forced herself to eat enough to keep her anxiety settled.

Penelope followed the Sisters upstairs as they turned in for the night. On the small table beside her bed was the phial of sleep potion Marmalade had gifted her.

Crawling into bed, she swallowed it down in one gulp. Sleep claimed her quickly and deeply. She dreamed of humming flowers and woke feeling properly rested for the first time in weeks. Relishing the feeling, she stretched with a wide yawn, curling her toes into the linen of her sheets. Clarity returned by increments, and with it, her fraught anticipation for the Dark Moon Ball.

She sat up when a loud rap sounded on her bedroom door. With a start, she realised the light outside was clear and bright. She had slept far later than expected.

“It’s the Dark Moon!” sang Sister Rosin, who was determined to make the best of the event, despite their collective apprehension. “Time to rise and sparkle!”

Penelope smiled despite the twisting knots in her stomach and trudged downstairs to join the flurry of preparations.

She wove in and out of the Sisters as they all took turns to bathe, traipsing about the house in dressing robes as they combed their freshly washed hair and fussed over their gowns.

After greeting the flowers on her dress a good morning, Penelope set out her gloves, a pair of silver shoes she had found at the market years prior and were only a little bit worn, a small purse embroidered with silver stars, and a sturdy winter cloak of midnight blue for the journey.

Penelope presented the gloves she had made for the Sisters in small boxes tied with ribbon.

“Oooooh, we match, Heels!” Sister Rosin exclaimed as she pulled on one glove, holding it to the light to watch it sparkle.

“Thank you, darling,” Sister Heely murmured as she folded Penelope into a hug. Penelope squeezed back with a contented hum.

Penelope spent the rest of the morning seated at the small vanity in her bedroom. Peering into the mirror she had perched on a stack of old etiquette books, she was pleased to see that the shadows beneath her eyes had disappeared after a night of restful sleep. Her hazel eyes shone bright and her skin gleamed rich and warm, even in the cool winter’s light.

Encouraged, Penelope began braiding the curls framing her face into a crown over her head, pinning them with sparkling silver studs and small star-shaped flowers. Most of her hair she left free in a corona of soft curls nourished by a serum Sister Heely had made just for her.

She applied the cosmetics she had found in Grimwood Village carefully, enjoying the shine of glitter around her eyes and the golden peach blush across her freckled cheeks.

To a few select ringlets she applied small amounts of a creamy hair butter that sparkled like the night sky.

Her lashes were thick and dark, and her lips soft with the faintest sheen of pink that tasted of elderberry.

With relish, Penelope applied her perfume to her wrist and the pulse of her neck, inhaling the scents and magic of the Faewood before snapping the case shut and slipping it into her purse. Already ensconced inside, wrapped in a strip of velvet, was the smooth obsidian circle bearing her invitation to the ball. Setting the purse aside, Penelope returned to the mirror.

She felt soft and elegant, her appearance star-kissed and delicate. Beneath her skin—entangled with her apprehension and growing excitement—the wild power of the forest lay humming, ready to grant her a creature’s maw should she so desire.

Yet the forest’s heartbeat no longer threatened to overwhelm her. The violence of it was tempered by memories of spring flowers and unfurling seeds, of egg shells breaking to release winged life, of leaves falling to nourish fallow earth.

This balance of new life and sharpened teeth, of fragility and hardened decay, she would carry with her as she walked the path that had been laid down, obscured, at her feet.

For this day held an undeniable sense of destiny that swelled like a drum’s rhythm, urging her through each step of her preparations until, at last, she was stepping into her gown.

The flowers opened to full bloom as, with Sister Heely’s aid, Penelope was laced into her dress. The women kept up a steady stream of chatter to mask their nerves and soothe their excitement as the hour drew nearer to their departure.

Sister Rosin had already hitched Cynthia to the carriage. Penelope watched the apricot mare munch through a bag of oats with a sick feeling of dread.

Penelope breathed through it as she stepped into her shoes, forcing away thoughts of sneering faces and public humiliation. She would hold her head high as she stepped from a carriage crafted by proud and loving hands. She would stride forward, sure and steady, grinding all disdain beneath her heel.

Sister Rosin was was helping to fix the buckles about her ankles when the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats sounded in the distance.

The three women paused, listening to the distant rumble grow louder until the syncopated clip of individual horses was discernible. As was the crunch of wheels over crystal.

The Sisters, dressed in their own gowns, followed Penelope as she dashed out the door. Together they crowded on the front porch, staring open-mouthed at the procession emerging from the woods.

Leading the entourage were two guards in shining breastplates of bronze and ribbed armour of bleached bone riding astride enormous horses with glossy black coats. They each bore a large banner bearing the crossed-club crest of the Royal House of Grimwood. Their helmets shone in contrast to the four guards following behind them, who wore masks of bone carved in the likeness of various animals, no two alike.

Behind the front guards, rolling towards them like a liquid shadow across the white crystal path, was a carriage of shining black wood drawn by four horses, wicking their heads and snorting mist in the chill forest air.

Though Penelope could see little more than the occasional equine limb, she realised there were more guards bringing up the rear.

Heart pounding in her throat with sudden terror, awe, and something that felt suspiciously like hope, Penelope gave a soft squeeze to the Sister’s hands before striding forward to meet them.