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

“I’m surprised you did not remain at the ball to support your family,” Mariselle countered.

“Your sister Rosavyn looked positively bereft without her gallant brother’s support.

Rather inconsiderate of you, considering her precarious situation.

She turned nineteen some months ago, did she not?

And still no signs of manifesting?” Mariselle’s expression shifted to one of exaggerated sympathy. “How mortifying for your family.”

The barb struck home. Evryn had promised Rosavyn he would attend, knowing the pressure she faced to manifest soon.

It was too late for her to be presented this Season, but surely she would manifest before turning twenty—an age where failure would transform concern into scandal. He tamped down a flicker of guilt.

“How touching that you monitor my family’s activities so closely. One might almost suspect envy.”

Mariselle’s laugh grated on his nerves. “Envy? Of your family? My family cultivates dreams, Rowanwood. Yours merely digs in dirt.”

“At least we build something tangible,” Evryn replied, “rather than peddling illusions and addiction disguised as dream magic.”

“That is a lie ,” Mariselle snapped. “A lie spread by Rowanwoods. Dream-Bright Elixir does not cause?—”

“So defensive,” Evryn drawled, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he settled back into his natural rhythm of practiced nonchalance. “I merely referenced what everyone across the United Fae Isles whispers behind closed doors.”

Mariselle inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing, before she spun around and headed toward her pegasus. A surge of satisfaction warmed Evryn’s chest as he watched her retreat, smug in his victory. He’d successfully provoked her into abandoning their verbal sparring match—a rare triumph worth savoring.

But instead of mounting her copper steed, Mariselle reached into the saddlebag and withdrew something with a dramatic flourish.

Her pegasus unfurled its flame-tipped wings and took flight with a powerful downdraft.

Evryn was vaguely aware of Cobalt similarly retreating, but his attention remained fixed on the papers Mariselle now held aloft.

His heart stuttered to a halt as recognition dawned.

The familiar pages with their distinctive penmanship— his penmanship—fluttered slightly in the night breeze.

“I must say,” Mariselle continued, her voice dropping to a silken murmur, “I never expected to discover literary ambitions among your otherwise unremarkable pursuits. How bold of you to publish such scathing satires. That caricature of the High Lady in last week’s Gazette—which perfectly matches the handwritten version in these pages—was particularly audacious. ”

A cold sweat broke out across Evryn’s forehead. “Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?” She ran one gloved finger along the edge of the manuscript. “I’m sure the High Lady will find this particularly damning.” Her eyes lifted to his, glittering with malice. “E. S. Twist.”

The blood drained from Evryn’s face as though someone had pulled a stopper, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow.

His carefully constructed world of deflection and charm seemed to crumble beneath his feet, leaving only the horrifying certainty that his secret—the one thing that was truly his own—now rested in the hands of a Brightcrest.

Rage and panic surged through him in equal measure. Without conscious thought, he lunged forward, reaching for the damning evidence that could destroy not just his reputation but potentially his entire family’s standing.

Mariselle shrieked, spun around, and darted away between the trees.

Mariselle rushed headlong into the forest, clutching the stolen manuscript tightly to her chest with one hand and ducking beneath low-hanging branches dripping with luminous sap.

One caught her shoulder, the magical substance momentarily splattering across her racing jacket with a bright green glow before fading back to dormancy.

“Come back here, Brightcrest!” Evryn shouted behind her.

Mariselle, of course, did not obey.

Her parents would be livid when they discovered her absence from the Opening Ball.

Her mother had spent an entire ten minutes selecting the ‘perfect’ (hideous) gown for her, in a shade of yellow-green that clashed magnificently with her coloring.

Lady Clemenbell had even exerted herself to the apparently exhausting extent of arranging two potential introductions with lords whose conversational skills rivaled those of particularly dull garden statues.

But the look of panic on Evryn Rowanwood’s face was worth whatever punishment awaited Mariselle at Brightcrest Manor. Though perhaps her parents would be pleased when they learned what she had stolen from him.

The thrill of discovery still hummed through her veins.

To think that carefree, irreverent Evryn Rowanwood was secretly publishing scathing social satire as thinly veiled allegorical tales under a pseudonym!

This could be precisely the leverage her family needed to finally humble the insufferable Rowanwoods.

Mariselle wove between the ancient trees, grateful for the racing attire her mother would have deemed scandalously masculine.

The fitted breeches and short-waisted jacket afforded her a freedom of movement that would have been impossible in proper ladies’ attire—one of many reasons she secretly cherished these forbidden nighttime races.

“Return my property!” Evryn called, his voice closer than she’d expected.

“Property?” she tossed over her shoulder without slowing. “Or evidence?”

Her lungs burned pleasantly with exertion, the night air crisp in her chest. Despite his longer stride, he hadn’t caught her yet. The trees were her ally, forcing Evryn to navigate obstacles that she, smaller and lighter, could slip past with ease.

She heard a satisfying thud and muffled curse as Evryn collided with something solid behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the forest floor.

A triumphant smile curved her lips—until her own footing suddenly betrayed her.

She’d been distracted just enough that she missed seeing the exposed root in her path.

It flared with amber light as her boot caught against it, sending her pitching forward with a startled cry.

She threw one arm out instinctively to break her fall, her hand landing on something wickedly sharp that sliced clean through her riding glove.

White-hot pain blazed across her palm, drawing a hiss through her clenched teeth as something—Evryn’s hand?

—wrapped around her ankle and tugged. She kicked hard with her free leg, her boot connecting with something solid, and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of Evryn’s pained yelp.

His grip slackened just enough, and she wrenched her ankle free, scrambling back to her feet as pain pulsed across her lacerated palm.

She took off again, blood warming her hand within the confines of her torn glove as she pushed herself harder, unwilling to surrender her advantage. Her legs burned as she dashed between the trees. Branches whipped past her face.

Then she burst from the forest into a familiar moonlit clearing. The ruins of Dreamland spread before her, hauntingly beautiful in the silvery light. She’d visited this place dozens of times during her solitary rides, drawn by the tales of what had once been her family’s crowning achievement.

Well, to be entirely accurate, it had been a joint venture between the Brightcrests and Rowanwoods, before the Rowanwoods had ruined it with their selfishness and greed.

But Mariselle preferred to think of it as a magnificent creation belonging solely to the Brightcrests. It was called Dream land, after all.

The skeletal pavilion frame rose against the night sky like the ribcage of some enormous magical beast, dull lumyrite still embedded in the structure.

Luminous moss covered the crumbling columns, and nightveil orchids unfurled slowly, petals transforming from near-black to intricate silvery patterns wherever the moonlight touched them.

With no clear plan beyond escape, Mariselle sprinted toward Windsong Cottage, the mysteriously preserved building that stood a short distance away from the ruins.

Unlike the rest of Dreamland, the cottage remained pristine behind its shimmering veil of preservation spells, impossible to enter yet perfectly maintained.

If her grandmother’s tales were to be believed, this cottage was where the very first plans for Dreamland had been conceived.

Mariselle had tried countless times to find a way inside, hoping to discover the forgotten secrets of Dreamland that no one from her grandmother’s generation was willing to share.

But it had always remained firmly beyond reach, wrapped in enchantments that refused to yield to even her most determined attempts.

Mariselle planned to dart around the cottage’s eastern side, where the wild briars grew less densely, but skidded to a halt when she spotted the echobark that must have fallen during last week’s spring storm.

The cottage itself remained undamaged, protected by its enchantments, but the massive trunk and tangle of branches completely blocked Mariselle’s escape route.

Panic fluttered in her chest as she glanced frantically for another path, finding none.

With Evryn’s footsteps crashing through the underbrush behind her, she had no choice but to dash straight for the cottage’s front door, though she knew perfectly well that no one had breached those preservation spells in decades.

For the first time that night, genuine fear replaced her triumphant excitement.

The sound of Evryn’s footsteps pounded closer as she reached the cottage door. She spun to face him, tightly clutching the manuscript pages behind her and pressing her back against the weathered wood. Her injured palm throbbed in protest.

“Will you truly take it by force?” she demanded, struggling to catch her breath. “How very gentlemanly of you.”

Evryn came to a halt before her, his chest heaving.

His previously immaculate riding jacket was now smeared with mud along one sleeve and half of his chest, while dirt streaked the left side of his face.

Even in the moonlight, she could see the storm-gray of his eyes had darkened with anger.

“When have Brightcrests ever concerned themselves with respectable behavior?” he said, his own breathing ragged.

“I’ll tear those papers from your hands if necessary. ”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” she taunted, knowing he would advance and planning to duck beneath his arm and race away.

“Consider it done.” He stepped forward, and Mariselle attempted to slip beneath his outstretched arm.

But his reflexes proved quicker than she’d anticipated.

His fingers snatched her wrist, tugging her back and trapping her against the cottage door as she shrieked in outrage.

She kicked at his shin, vaguely aware of how utterly horrified her mother would be at such unladylike behavior.

The manuscript crumpled between them as Evryn crowded her against the door, one hand planted firmly on the weathered wood beside her head while he grabbed for the papers.

“I won’t—let you—have them,” she insisted through gritted teeth, stuffing the crumpled papers behind her back once more. She pressed her injured palm against the door for support as she attempted to sidestep him.

“They are mine ,” he countered, his eyes ablaze with fury and desperation. “You cannot?—”

“I will ensure that all of Bloomhaven knows of E. S. Twist’s true identity before sunrise,” she hissed, meeting his gaze defiantly. “I swear it. You?—”

“And I swear that you shall never?—”

Searing light erupted from the door. Pain lanced through Mariselle’s palm, white-hot and electric, racing up her arm in pulsing waves. She jerked away with a startled cry, echoed by Evryn’s gasp as he likewise recoiled.

The light vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving behind an unsettling tingle that crept beneath Mariselle’s skin.

She hastily shoved the manuscript beneath her left arm, clamping it tightly against her ribs and twisting her body to shield it from Evryn’s reach before yanking off her torn glove with her teeth.

(Her mother would have collapsed into a well-timed swoon at this point.)

She stared at her bloodied palm with its clean slice across the center, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach as she slowly turned her hand.

A silvery pattern had appeared on her skin.

An intricate, swirling design that curled from the edges of her palm, across her hand, and up around her wrist, gleaming faintly.

She looked over her shoulder at Evryn, who was staring at his own hand where an identical mark emblazoned his skin.

And it was at precisely that moment that the front door of Windsong Cottage, which had remained magically sealed for over fifty years, quietly swung open.