Chapter Three: The Invitation
The wind had shifted. Celia knew it before she opened the shutters, before the air
even touched her skin. There was something in it—a tension like thread pulled too
tight.
Outside, the gray mist curled over the hills, swallowing rooftops and treetops
alike. Morning in Briar Hollow was always quiet, but today, even the birds seemed
to hold their breath.
She padded downstairs, the wooden floor cool beneath her feet. Aunt Marlowe’s
kitchen smelled of rosemary and ink—two things that rarely belonged together unless
she’d been up late scribbling recipes or hexes again.
“Letter came for you,” Marlowe said without looking up from her tea. “Special
delivery.”
Celia blinked. “No one sends me letters.”
“I said the same thing before I opened it.” Marlowe held out a thick envelope.
Creamy vellum. Sealed with black wax and the impression of a raven in flight.
The mark sent a chill down Celia’s spine.
She broke the seal carefully. The handwriting inside was precise, old-fashioned,
and unsigned.
Miss Celia Wren,
You are formally invited to the Midwinter Ball at Windermere Court, to be held
under the full moon this coming Saturday. Attendance is expected.
Midnight. Wear blue.
There was no emblem, no return address. Just a faint scent of lavender and smoke.
“It’s a trap,” Celia said, but her voice came out quieter than she’d meant it to.
“Of course it is,” said Marlowe. “All proper invitations are. But some traps are
worth springing—if you’re careful.”
“You knew this would happen.”
Marlowe shrugged, her sharp gray eyes betraying nothing. “You’ve been cloaked here
for two years. Sooner or later, someone was going to come looking.”
Celia gripped the edge of the counter. “What if they know who I am?”
“They know what you are. That’s enough to make you useful—or dangerous.” She tapped
the invitation. “Blue dress. That’s a test.”
“A test of what?”
“Loyalty. Obedience. Or maybe just whether you’re still listening.”
Celia sat down slowly, staring at the single sentence that mattered most.
Attendance is expected.
Windermere Court was two valleys east—a stone fortress wrapped in legend and
guarded by blood oaths older than the kingdom itself. Her mother had spoken of it
only once, in a whisper.
You do not go to Windermere unless summoned, she’d said. And if summoned—go armed,
even if only with a secret.
Celia looked up. “I don’t have anything blue.”
Marlowe sipped her tea and nodded. “Then we’ll make one.”
Later That Night
By candlelight, the dress came to life.
It wasn’t grand by noble standards, but it moved like water and shimmered like ink
under moonlight. Marlowe had stitched in old thread, charms knotted along the seams
—protection, memory, silence. At the collar, a small clasp made of silver shaped
like a feather. Celia touched it, and it thrummed faintly beneath her fingers.
“Don’t speak your true name,” Marlowe said as she tied the last ribbon. “Don’t
accept food or drink unless sealed. And for stars’ sake, don’t dance with anyone
who doesn’t cast a shadow.”
Celia nodded.
And yet, despite the warnings, despite the pressure of fate curling around her like
a second skin, she could feel it: the quickening. A story had begun to turn its
gears, and she was no longer outside of it.
The ball was waiting.
