Marmalade's Love Potion

The next hour was a flurry of chaotic motion as Penelope and the Sisters darted about the house, fluttering around each other and the Grimwood entourage, making final preparations.

Penelope found her giggles renewing whenever she passed by Callum, who had a new story for her each time. “Did you know, Steph saved my life when we were kids? I fell into the deep end of a pond—”

“It was a shallow pond—” Marni cut in.

“I nearly drowned—”

“You did not—”

“Anyway, another time Steph covered for me when I came in late from navigation training. It took me a whole extra day to find my way back, but Steph told them I got in earlier than everyone else and had simply gone home to rest—”

“I remember that! I was so mad you beat me to the Citadel, you were late?”

“Erm…”

By the time they were ready to leave, Penelope found herself, unexpectedly, in rather high spirits. These Rangers were different than what Penelope had anticipated when they had arrived as one intimidating force. They were friendly and funny, and Penelope didn’t know quite what to think as Callum playfully addressed the flowers of her dress, or told stories of boyhood mischief in a way that made Steph seem both unbelievably heroic and desperately foolish. It was painfully charming, and Penelope felt unbalanced by it all.

One thing was clear. These people adored Steph. Even as the other Rangers chimed in with their own stories, told with dramatic exasperation, it was clear they admired him as much as they mocked him.

Though taciturn and gruff, even Sister Rosin couldn’t help join in the banter, trading jibes that were almost friendly as they swept out the door and stepped into the carriage.

The black wood gleamed like oil, and the carriage seats were cushioned in green brocade silk. The handles and window fixtures were a shining brass that were warm to the touch, despite the icy winter wind stirring through the trees. A sweet, rich scent permeated the small space, like oranges and chocolate, that Penelope found comforting.

Sitting on one cushioned seat was a golden bell-shaped flower. A honeybelle. Smiling to herself, Penelope picked it up as she claimed her seat and the Sisters followed her inside.

“All settled? Good!” With a soft snick, the carriage door was closed and Penelope watched through the small window panes as the entourage reformed.

“What’ve you got there, spriteling?” Sister Rosin asked.

Penelope held out the flower. Sister Heely leaned forward to inhale its scent. “Mmm, smells like toffee.”

Recognising the flower, Sister Rosin raised her eyebrows with a smirk. Penelope gave a small smile in return and held the flower close, unsure of how to feel.

On the one hand, it was clear that Steph had put in considerable effort to arrange this carriage and a whole entourage to accompany her to the ball. On the other, his dishonesty had still left her feeling humiliated, and had put her, the Sisters, and potentially her whole Royal House, in a precarious political position.

Penelope twirled the flower’s stem between her fingers, heart skipping in her chest as she considered the situation. Strictly speaking, sending a full, banner-bearing entourage to collect her like this was as good as a declaration of intent for her hand in marriage. Although, given Steph’s apparent penchant for defying social conventions, perhaps it was merely a gesture of good will. A peace offering.

Her chest filled with warmth as she realised he must have picked this flower himself; the feathery tendrils of its roots were still attached. Penelope’s smile widened.

With a sigh, she rested the flower in the cradle of her lap and decided she ought to speak with Steph before assuming his intentions.

She grinned as she noticed the flowers of her dress twisting towards the honeybelle in curiosity.

Penelope clasped Sister Rosin’s fingers as the carriage began to move in a slow circle about the clearing before setting off at a trot down the southward path.

The ride through the forest was tense, each woman lost to her own thoughts as they watched the mauve and gold underbrush pass by.

Penelope found herself fighting tears as they drew nearer to the Faewood Ring Road and its purple crystals, which would race them towards Grimwood Fort and all that the night ahead would bring.

Would she see the Faewood again? Their cottage in the forest with its sweet little garden? Penelope’s breath caught in her lungs when she realised she hadn’t even said goodbye to Cynthia. In the rush to get ready and her shock at the arrival of the Grimwood company, she hadn’t thought to consider that she may never see any of it again, if her parents reclaimed her and brought her straight back to Starwood Palace.

She wasn’t ready. This was all happening too quickly, she wanted to go back, to go home—

“Deep breaths, luv, it’s alright,” Sister Rosin murmured, tightening her grip. “It’ll be alright.”

Though Sister Rosin looked unconvinced by her own words, Penelope took a slow, shuddering breath and nodded.

A shout sounded ahead and the carriage slowed to a halt. Before she knew it, the entourage had turned onto the purple road encircling the Faewood’s border, and then they were all but flying across the pebbled crystals.

This time, the rush of speed as the magic of the road swept them up felt less exhilarating and more like the rapids of a river leading straight towards a cliff’s edge.

Penelope turned to look out the small square window behind her. Great ribbons of purple light streamed behind them, curling about the lathered black coats of the horses following the carriage. Their hooves kicked up bright sparks of light, like hammer blows to heated steel. The sight was as beautiful as it was fearsome.

The journey to the gates of Grimwood Village was much quicker than before. As they crossed over the wide river, they joined a long procession of other richly crafted carriages waiting to enter the town.

Penelope gazed up at Grimwood Fort and its watchtower buttressed against the distant mountainside rising into the eastern sky, hundreds of lights aglow in the windows set into its stone walls.

Were her parents and younger sister already there and waiting? Was Steph watching the line of carriages stream through the gates from one of those windows?

Penelope was distracted from these thoughts as they approached the gate guards. Soon enough they were allowed through the gate and across the short bridge leading into the sprawling Lower Town. Slowly, they rolled over the black cobbled roads, wending their way up, up the hill, passing by tall, narrow buildings that obscured the Fort from view.

They levelled out into a wide square signposted as the Midtown Concourse, which housed a collection of vibrant market stalls. The scent of roasting nuts and the sound of flutes filtered into the carriage. Penelope craned her neck for a better view.

The traffic moved slowly, allowing Penelope time to take in the spectacle of the crowded market as they passed: stalls draped in bright, spangled cloth, no two the same colour; performers walking on stilts dressed in fantastical glittering costumes and plumed masks; dancers twirling staves of green, bronze, and silver fire; candle-lit lanterns drifting through the air, anchored by strings tied about children’s wrists as they ran through the square, jousting at each other with crackling sparklers while their parents admonished them.

The scene was lit by the cool and gentle light of early dusk as late day mist curled through the streets, shrouding the market in an ethereal atmosphere, like the fae festivals of Penelope’s bedtime stories.

She and the Sisters grinned at each other as they rolled through the concourse, eventually leaving the market behind.

The roads became straighter and the buildings larger as they rode further up and passed beyond the Upper Village Concourse. Penelope gave a wistful huff as they passed by the concourse garden. The Sisters followed her gaze, faces pinching into matching grimaces as they recalled her ill-fated disappearance. Though only a few weeks had since passed, it felt like half a lifetime.

Penelope’s stomach fluttered as the road crested a final hill and the wrought gates of Grimwood Fort came into view. Above the gate was a crenellated arch of black stone and bone marble. Penelope shuddered at the line of grinning skulls embedded within the wall, distorted with time and the slow, liquid growth of living stone.

This morbid sight was only somewhat offset by the merry glitter of faceted crystal lanterns, which were strung between bronze banners bearing the Grimwood crest.

“That’s... rather frightening,” Penelope remarked of the bones. Sister Rosin nodded in agreement.

“The fortress and this gatehouse were built after much of the original palace was destroyed in the Battle at Great Fall,” Sister Heely explained in hushed tones as they rolled through the gate to the drive beyond. “Those skulls belonged to the previous king and his sons who died defending the Village. They were placed there so they could forever watch over the township.”

Penelope blew out a breath, feeling sombre.

As they inched up the drive towards the Fort’s entrance, all macabre thoughts were chased away by the sheer splendour of the front courtyard.

The drive was long and gravelled with black quartz. Either side were sculpted gardens filled with trees and shrubs bursting with flowers, illuminated by large jewel-toned moths and iridescent moonflies.

Though each section of the garden was meticulously tidy, and the narrow paths between them maintained in perfect lines, there was something untamed about the plants themselves. As though they itched to creep beyond the bounds of their allotted square of earth.

In the centre of the courtyard stood a fountain spraying luminous silver water over flared layers of clear ice. The water dripped like mercury into a shallow pool filled with small, languid fish. Mist curled up in the dancing shape of birds, sweeping over the pool’s surface with wings like smoke.

Returning carriages curved around the other side of the fountain, blurred by the mist into faint shadows as they made their way to exit the gates.

Reaching the end of the drive at last, Penelope felt her jaw drop as they circled towards the entrance steps.

Grimwood Fort loomed in tiers above her, the surfaces of its towers, balconies, bridges, and battlements alternating between the smooth polish of bone marble and the raw crags of the mountainside.

The setting sun bathed the face of the Fort in pinks and golds as the sky itself faded to the ink of dusk.

Light spilled down the front steps from a pair of ornately carved double doors, which were flung wide to receive Grimwood’s guests.

Guards in bronze helmets and ribbed armour manned the doors. They spoke briefly with the previous carriage’s occupants, who were dressed in feathery gowns of trailing silk, before sweeping aside to allow them entry.

A carriage attendant appeared by the window Penelope was peering through, causing her to startle as the door was opened.

Heart hammering in her chest, Penelope clutched her purse and held the honeybelle to her nose. Breathing in its warm, sugary scent, she eased herself from the soft cushioned seat and took the attendant’s proffered hand. With a breath that felt too large for her lungs, Penelope stepped from the carriage.