Page 11 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

She had originally planned to send a discreet note this morning via messenger pixie and then slip away to meet Petunia at their secret sanctuary—the forgotten greenhouse that stood precisely between their family properties.

But after her mother’s breakfast announcement of their immediate departure for the dressmaker, there had been no opportunity.

Mariselle would have to try visiting their meeting place this afternoon, to explain everything properly.

“Those wretched creatures,” Lady Clemenbell muttered. “Utterly lacking in discretion or decorum. And why must it always be ‘Rowanwood-Brightcrest’? Why should their name invariably precede ours? As though they claim precedence in all things.”

“I do apologize if I’ve overstepped,” Madame Spindriel said, though her eyes glittered with barely disguised curiosity. “Then it is true? There is to be a marriage between the families?”

Lady Clemenbell sighed with the weary resignation of one greatly burdened by fate. “My younger daughter,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward Mariselle without actually looking at her, “has found herself unexpectedly entangled with one of the Rowanwoods. A soulbond , of all things.”

“A soulbond?” Madame Spindriel gasped. “But that’s extraordinarily rare! Which Rowanwood, if I may ask? ”

“The second son,” Lady Clemenbell said, her lips curling in distaste. “Evryn.”

“Oh! The charming one with the handsome—” The dressmaker coughed and broke off at the sight of Lady Clemenbell’s darkening expression. “That is—I simply meant—how … unexpected.”

“Indeed,” Lady Clemenbell agreed coldly. “Madame, might I examine that new shipment of glimmer-lace you mentioned? I wish to see if it’s truly as extraordinary as people claim.”

“Of course,” the dressmaker replied, clearly relieved to escape the sudden tension. “This way, my lady.”

As the two women disappeared into an adjoining room, Ellowa turned to Mariselle, her eyes bright with mischief, the corners crinkling in what might pass for sisterly affection if not for the slight curl of her upper lip that Mariselle had learned from childhood preceded her most cutting remarks.

“Did you hear that? She called him charming .” Ellowa stepped off the fitting platform, the gown projection trailing behind her.

“That’s what everyone says about him, you know.

” She leaned into Mariselle’s personal space and trailed one finger down the exposed skin at her throat.

“What charms of his have captivated you so thoroughly, little sister?”

“Stop it,” Mariselle muttered, swatting Ellowa’s hand away, even as Ellowa laughed. “It only happened last night. There has been little time for me to become acquainted with any of his … charms.”

“But you were missing from Solstice Hall for hours , sister dear. I’m only curious about what transpired between you and Lord Evryn after this soulbond mysteriously appeared.

Or perhaps,”she added with a delicate arch of her eyebrow, “it wasn’t the soulbond that came first. Perhaps the marking formed in response to more … intimate activities?”

“I would never ?—”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” Ellowa’s laugh tinkled.

“I jest, of course. The virtuous, obedient Mariselle would never behave with such impropriety. To engage in such scandalous behavior with anyone would be unthinkable, but with a Rowanwood? Why, the betrayal to our family name would eclipse even the indecency of the act itself.”

Mariselle bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the unexpected twitch of her lips.

If only Ellowa knew what ‘indecent acts’ had truly transpired.

Racing through the night on a pegasus, hurtling wildly through a moonlit forest, kicking Evryn’s shins, tugging her own glove off with her teeth.

She rather doubted Ellowa’s delicate sensibilities could withstand the shock of her younger sister engaging in actual, genuine rebellion.

“Perhaps,” she said with a poise she had spent years perfecting, “you should worry less about my activities and more about securing your own matrimonial?—”

Her retort was interrupted by the shop bell as another customer entered, a young woman with a nervous smile and unfashionably simple attire.

Mariselle recognized her as Miss Nerie Skystone—no, she was Lady Skystone now—daughter of a modestly successful fae merchant whose recent ventures had elevated the family just enough to participate in society events, especially after Nerie manifested magic that was considered significant enough to be presented at Solstice Hall this Season.

Mariselle had watched her magical display the previous night before making her escape from the ballroom.

“Oh, look,” Ellowa whispered, her voice dropping to a register Mariselle had come to dread. “If it isn’t little Miss Climbing-Above-Her-Station.”

Mariselle felt the familiar twist in her stomach, the knowledge that she should defend this innocent girl warring with the certainty that doing so would redirect Ellowa’s cruelty toward herself.

Years of experience had taught her that joining Ellowa was the safer choice, a way to maintain the fragile illusion that she belonged within her own family.

“Her sleeves are at least a season behind,” Mariselle heard herself say, hating the words even as they left her mouth. “And that shade of yellow does nothing for her complexion.”

Ellowa smiled—that rare, approving smile that Mariselle still pathetically craved—and leaned closer. “Did you see the hem of her dress last night? An attempt at animated embroidery. Flowers, I think? But they barely fluttered. Like wilted weeds clinging to the edge of her gown,” she snickered.

Nerie glanced their way, a hesitant smile forming. Ellowa immediately raised her voice. “I simply cannot comprehend how anyone could appear in public with such inferior magical embellishments. It reflects a fundamental lack of understanding about proper society.”

The girl’s smile faltered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she turned away to join her mother beside a display of ribbons. Mariselle’s stomach clenched with shame.

But before she could decide whether it was worth it to challenge her sister’s casual cruelty, Lady Clemenbell returned. “The glimmer-lace will do for the final embellishments,” Lady Clemenbell declared. “Now, Ellowa, back on the platform. Madame Spindriel will return shortly.”

She turned to Mariselle, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “Since we have a moment of relative privacy, regarding those developments I mentioned this morning …”

Mariselle steeled herself, entirely unsure what to expect.

“Your father and I have discussed the situation at length,” Lady Clemenbell continued. “While we cannot and will not ever support a marriage to a Rowanwood, we have recognized certain … strategic advantages to this unexpected connection.”

“Strategic advantages?” Mariselle repeated, hardly daring to hope.

“Indeed.” Her mother’s voice dropped further, barely above a whisper. “Your position offers unprecedented access to the Rowanwood family. You will undoubtedly be invited to their gatherings, perhaps even to The Charmed Leaf itself, a place no Brightcrest has ever been permitted to enter.”

Understanding dawned, and Mariselle had to suppress a wild urge to laugh. “You want me to spy on them.”

“I would never use such a vulgar term,” Lady Clemenbell replied with a haughty look.

“But information is a valuable currency. Lady Rivenna has maintained her social stranglehold for far too long. There must be something—some method, some secret—that explains her dominance of Bloomhaven society. Your father believes you are now uniquely positioned to discover what that might be, whether it is evidence of how they’ve manipulated their standing in society, or insights into their business practices.

Even something as simple as an embarrassing family secret would suffice. ”

Oh, the irony. Mariselle already possessed precisely the sort of embarrassing secret her mother sought—Evryn’s hidden identity as E. S. Twist, author of thinly veiled satires mocking the High Lady herself. Yet she could not reveal it without destroying her own carefully constructed plan.

But relief flooded through her nonetheless. The charade could continue. Dreamland could be restored. And best of all, her parents no longer viewed her with quite the same disgust.

“I see,” she said, keeping her expression neutral. “So … you are not forcing me to end the engagement?” she asked carefully. “You’re not going to attempt to break the soulbond? ”

“Mariselle, dear, I understand that you think you are experiencing certain … feelings for this boy,” her mother said, each word coated with the same saccharine patience one might use when explaining simple arithmetic to a slow child.

“And no doubt you harbor some fantasy that we will eventually embrace this absurdity. But make no mistake—this is merely a temporary arrangement. You will gather what information you can while your father and I locate a means to dissolve this repulsive magical tether. Once free of its influence, you will recognize how thoroughly your emotions have been manipulated, and you will thank us for rescuing you from such an abhorrent fate.”

Mariselle carefully arranged her features into an expression of reluctant acceptance, knowing she must appear appropriately lovestruck yet dutiful, a daughter torn between newfound passion and familial obligation.

Too much enthusiasm for her parents’ plan would seem suspicious when she was supposedly enthralled by her soulbond.

“I … I suppose if that’s what you wish, Mother,” she said, allowing a tremor to enter her voice. “Though it’s difficult to imagine ever feeling differently than I do now. But I trust your judgment in this matter.”

“Good,” her mother said.

“And I’m pleased to be of service to the family.”

“Excellent.” Lady Clemenbell patted her hand, a rare physical gesture that Mariselle couldn’t help leaning into slightly, despite herself. “We knew you would see reason once you’d had time to reflect. This may well be the most valuable contribution you’ve ever made to the Brightcrest name.”

The backhanded compliment stung, but Mariselle maintained her composed expression. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

“Yes, well, even you should find this task manageable,” her mother said. “Simply observe everything and report back to me faithfully. I shall be the one to determine what information holds genuine value. You needn’t trouble yourself with?—”

A sharp rap on the shop window interrupted her mother’s instructions.

A small figure hovered outside, its wings catching the morning light.

Mariselle blinked in surprise. Unlike the plainly dressed messenger pixies typically employed by Bloomhaven’s elite, this one wore what appeared to be a miniature palace uniform, complete with the High Lady’s insignia prominently embroidered across its chest .

Madame Spindriel hurried to open the door, and the pixie scurried inside, its expression distinctly irritated as it surveyed the room.

Upon spotting the three Brightcrest women, it darted toward them, muttering under its breath about “searching half of Bloomhaven” and how someone was “most insistent upon immediate delivery.” It produced a small envelope from its delivery pouch and called out, “Lady Brightcrest?”

“Yes, that is I,” Mariselle’s mother said, extending her hand.

The pixie, however, swooped straight past her outstretched fingers and hovered between the two sisters, its tiny features pinched with concentration. “Lady Mariselle Brightcrest?”

Mariselle’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise as she nodded, acutely aware of her mother’s stiffening posture and the sudden frost in her expression.

With slightly trembling fingers, Mariselle accepted the envelope, its weight substantial despite its modest size.

The parchment was cream-colored and smooth, clearly of the finest quality and sealed with a wax impression of what was unmistakably the royal insignia.

She stared at it in bewilderment. Her family rarely received correspondence from Solstice Hall.

The Rowanwoods—or Lady Rivenna, at least—seemed to enjoy some level of favor with the High Lady, but the Brightcrests had never been granted similar distinction.

“Well, what is it?” Ellowa demanded, visibly affronted at being excluded from whatever mysterious communication had arrived.

Mariselle broke the seal and unfolded the note.

“‘Lady Mariselle Brightcrest,’” she read aloud, “‘Her Grace, the High Lady of the United Fae Isles, requests your presence for tea at Solstice Hall this afternoon at precisely three o’clock, along with Lord …’” She trailed off and swallowed, suddenly realizing precisely what this summons was about.

“‘… along with Lord Evryn Rowanwood,’” she continued faintly.

“‘A carriage will arrive at Brightcrest Manor at half past two to convey you to the palace.’”

“Oh, stars above!” Lady Clemenbell exclaimed, her previous frostiness instantly melting into a flurry of excitement.

“We must return home at once! What gowns do we have that might be suitable? Oh, this is such short notice! But what an extraordinary honor for us to be summoned personally by the High Lady!”

“Mother,” Mariselle interjected, “the invitation specifies that I am to attend alone. ”

Lady Clemenbell paused and blinked. “What? Nonsense! A young unmarried lady cannot possibly?—”

“It says so explicitly,” Mariselle insisted, turning the note so her mother could see. “Here, at the bottom.”

“But you cannot arrive alone in?—”

“I’m certain all proprieties will be observed, Mother,” Mariselle assured her. “The note mentions a carriage will be sent. The palace will undoubtedly ensure everything is conducted with impeccable decorum.”

“Let me see that.” Lady Clemenbell snatched the invitation, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the elegant script.

As she muttered something about it being ‘highly irregular’ and ‘most improper,’ Mariselle’s mind continued to race.

This was about the soulbond, of course. The fake soulbond that the High Lady herself no doubt wished to examine.

Mariselle clasped her shaking hands together.

What had begun as a desperate scheme to restore Dreamland and prove herself to her family had somehow escalated into a matter of royal interest. And now she was going to have to deliver the performance of her life.