A Young Witch's Guide to Cats, Curses, and Courtship
Table of Contents:
1. An Introduction to the subject.
2. On the Subject of Familiars
3. On the Subject of Courtship
4. On the Subject of Components
5. On the Subject of Curses
6. On the Subject of Hospitality
7. On the Subject of Flourish
AYWGTCCC comes out on Friday, and will update each Friday thereafter.
Thank you to @yellowbullet100 for all of your hard work beta reading and being patient with some of my more absurd and dramatic changes to the text. Thank you @jademoon2u, who has developed some absolutely lovely artwork for this fic, and thank you @saotomexmary, and ShittyLB (on X), for volunteering to do artwork and just being great soundboards and cheerleaders.
And a lovely thank you to @mlbigbang2024 for hosting this event. the mods have been delights to work with and wonderful support. I am so glad to get a chance to participate in a community so fun and creative.
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Chapter 2 is up! Thank you @yellowbullet100 for all your time and energy in the drafting and editing process. And thank you @mlbigbang2024 for organizing!
This week's chapter is a hefty one - clocking in at over 9K! The story really got away from me. BUT it's got Alya AND Nino!
And next week's chapter will feature some lovely art from @jademoon2u which i cannot WAIT to share with you.
Chapter Two: On the Subject of Familiars
A young witch may not select their own familiar. Rather, the familiar will select the witch. A witch will know if they have been selected by repeated encounters with the creature. These encounters should not be engineered by the witch. A witch who tries to trap her familiar or enchant her familiar is one whose craft will diminish for the effort.
A familiar may present itself in the form of any animal, though it is traditionally domestic or intrinsic to the witchâs specialties. Cats, owls, and other nocturnal fauna are the most common, though this may vary by the regional traditions a witch is trained in. In exceedingly rare cases, a witchâs partner or companion may serve as a familiar, though such a relationship is generally one marked by tragedy and grief.
Marinette did not see the boy again, but she did not stop thinking about him. For the rest of the week, while she finished up repairs to return, potions to peddle, and trinkets to trade in preparation for the weekly Midnight Market, she replayed their delicate dance in the drawing room against his brusque behavior in the bakery.
Though she could think of nothing she had done to warrant such a dramatic change in treatment, she could not stop mulling it over, like perhaps the next time she reconsidered their encounter, it would make sense. Or the next time⌠or the next timeâŚ
âMarinette!â
Marinette jumped, startled out of her reverie. The memory of the young man rushing out of the bakery vanished and Alya appeared in front of her.
âSorry, what?â
Alya snapped her fingers under Marinetteâs nose. âI called your name three times! Did you want me to take a look at that glamor Monsieur Kubdel gave you to fix last week?â
Marinette rubbed her eyes and tried her best to resettle herself in the present. She didnât remember setting up her booth at the Midnight Market, but she must have finished it out of habit. Sheâd laid out red velvet to display some of her original works, like hand-mirrors that helped extend glamors, purses with trick openings, and a few charms for luck. She had a shelf of neatly labeled potions next to a pricing guide for custom brews, and finally, she had put up a sign advertising repairs.
She dug into the box of finished repairs at her feet and pulled out the pocket watch she had repaired. Sheâd finished it to the best of her ability, and Marinette was rather proud of the work she had done on the glamor charm, but she wouldnât complain if Alya improved on it.
Alya whistled to herself as she fussed with the glamor charm. Sheâd been working at the Midnight Market longer than Marinette had been, but she didnât have a stall of her own. Alya made her living entertaining visitors to the Midnight Market with tricks and glamors. But the pay wasnât particularly reliable, which is why by day Alya worked in her motherâs boarding house kitchen, serving hot food to boarders and travelers.
Most of the people who operated stands at the Midnight Market had day jobs, and many dreamed of one day opening permanent shops for their goods, or catching the eye of a wealthy patron, but those stories of success were rare. Marinetteâs grandmother had worked the Midnight Market for her entire life, and only ever made enough to renew her stall each year. Marinette had been lucky enough to inherit her grandmotherâs license, rather than pay for a new one. While she did dream of opening her own shop one day, she knew she would be lucky to have enough within the next ten years, and it was unlikely she would ever be able to afford a proper apprenticeship under a master.
And as for a wealthy patron, well, those people simply did not come to the Midnight Market. Artisanâs Alley was the daytime, more professional sister of the Midnight Market, staffed by properly trained artisans and guild masters, and could service the wealthyâs magical needs. And if a person of such considerable means did indeed require something more discreet, well, they certainly wouldnât visit the Midnight Market themselves.
Alya slid the pocket watch across the table. âYou did a good job. I tweaked it a bit, just to extend the life of the glamor. Now tell me whatâs bothering you. I know you get lost in your own head, but youâre rarely this bad.â
Marinette carefully tucked the pocket watch back into her box of completed repairs. âDonât you have a performance to get to?â
âItâs the mid-evening lull. Not quite enough folks to draw a crowd.â Alya tugged on the fingertips of her black evening gloves and pursed her lips as she surveyed the row of booths.
While most of the tradesmen wore their work clothes, Alya dressed in a fine evening gown. Marinette had embroidered the pink silk with orange foxes and charmed the pockets to allow coins in from the outside, but the coins could only be removed from the inside of the dress. It was a simple protection against pickpocketing, one that let Alya collect as much from her audiences as she liked without worry that someone was slipping a coin away without her notice. As payment in kind, Alya helped Marinette out with the occasional glamor repair.
When Marinette still did not volunteer an explanation for her inattentiveness, Alya asked, âDid you finally meet someone?â
âN-noâwhy would youâof course I wouldnâtâhow would I evenââ
But the sputtered denial was a clear confirmation to Alya. âOh, good. Itâs about time you moved on from Luka. Tell me everything.â
âIâm notâI donât needâThereâs nothing to tell!â Marinette protested. âIâI bumped into him while I was working at a party. And then he came to the bakery, and he was so rude it was ridiculous. Besides, Iâm never going to see him again, so it doesnât matââ
Marinette broke off, stunned into silence by the sight at the end of the street. She had to be hallucinating the boy at the end of the lane. He couldnât be here.
But, as Alya had said, the crowds were small tonight. Marinette had no trouble, even at this distance, catching the bit of golden hair peeking out from his tophat and the black cat perched on his shoulders.
She tore her eyes away and tried to convince herself that it was some other blond young man with a cat, that it would be ridiculous to see him here. That surely he was not the sort of person who did his own shopping, let alone shopping in a place largely run by entertainers and amateurs, so there was no reason for him to be at the Midnight Market. And, at any rate, she did not want to see him. She had had enough of his rude behavior.
âIt doesnât matter,â she finished, hoping Alya had not noticed her slip.
But her friend was far too clever for that. Alya scanned the guests milling about the stalls. âHeâs here, isnât he?â
âNo.â
âItâs not that dandy, is it?â Alya laughed.
âNoâwhat? Heâs notââ
âOh my god, it is! You sure do know how to pick them. Look at that coat. Not sure itâs ever known a winter before.â
It wasnât even the same coat heâd been wearing in the bakery. Where that one had been solid black, this one was pine green. She wondered if it would bring out his green eyes, then berated herself for even thinking about his eyes.
âHeâs rich enough to attend one of Lady Tsurugiâs dinner parties,â Marinette sighed. âAnd besides, heâs terribly rude. He didnât even say thank you when I repaired a stain in his shirt.â
âMaybe heâs come to say thank you now.â
âHeâs notâstop. Donât look so smug.â
âIâm only going to point out that a nice purse can make up for a lack of mannersâand other things, if the size of that hat is any indication that heâs overcompensating for a lack of something else.â
âAlya!â
But Alya did not look the least bit scandalized. âIf youâre not interested, then you wonât mind if I try my charms?â
âArenât you about to get married?â
Alya shrugged. âIâll believe it when I have a ring in hand. And since I have no ring at the momentâŚâ She raised her eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for Marinette to give her permission for this particular hunt.
Marinette threw both her hands in the air in exasperation. It had nothing to do with her if Alya wanted to talk to this stranger, this boy whose name Marinette still did not knowâand did not need to know, because she could have nothing to do with him. She pointedly opened up her ledger to review her projects, determined not to stare.
âOh, he really is coming this way,â Alya squealed, and Marinette was forced to look back up.
There was no denying it. It was the same boy from the drawing room and the bakery. The same boy who had held her hand and told her not to speak ill of herself, and then, hours later, cursed in front of her bread.
The green coat did bring out his eyes.
Alya intercepted him, cutting off his steady progress down the lane. She spread her arms wide as she curtsied.
âWelcome to the Midnight Market, Monsieur!â
Alya whistled softly and snapped her fingers, and a shower of sparks burst from her hand and into the sky.
The boy looked surprised and took a step back. The cat on his shoulders sank low and flattened its ears, but the young man and a few other patrons nearby clapped politely.
âThank you, thank yââ Alya sneezed loudly. âOh, pardon me sirââ She sneezed again. âI must be allergic to your cat. Do you have a handkerchief I might borrow?â
The boy, still startled, readily dug through his pockets. A few of the artisans at their stalls and regular attendees of the night market chuckled softly, familiar with this routine of Alyaâs.
âHere you are, Mademoiselle,â the boy said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocketâbut it didnât come out, at least not all of it. Or, rather, there was more of it than he had accounted for. As he pulled on the handkerchief, several came out of his pocket, one tied to the next. He continued pulling, unable to find the end of it.
âOh dear,â Alya said, and clicked her tongue. The audience laughed.
Finally, the length of handkerchiefs came to a sudden end, and the boy stared at the comically long rope of silk in his hands. âErâa momentââ He struggled to undo one of the knots, but Alya snatched the entire line from him. The cat on his shoulders swatted at the retreating rope of silk, but his claws failed to make contact with Alyaâs glamor.
She chose one handkerchief and loudly blew her nose, then sneezed into the next one, and blew her nose again into a third. She wiped her face with a fourth, then stared at the chain in a mimicry of concern. The crowd laughed, and a few more onlookers gathered around. The boy, however, merely stared, wide-eyed.
Alya sniffed again and said, âI suppose Iâll have to clean them before I return them.â
âYou donât have toââ
âOr, I have a better idea!â Alya took one end of the handkerchiefs between her fingers and began to loop it around her hand until it was a tight ball. She closed her hands around it, pressed her lips to her thumbs, then threw the handkerchiefs into the air.
Instead of a rope of silk, a pair of doves burst from her hand and fluttered away into the night sky.
This time, the audience clapped in genuine aweâexcept for the young man. He was no longer watching Alya. He had found Marinette, and he was staring at her, as if she were far more interesting than any glamor or illusion.
The moment Marinetteâs eyes met his, she disappeared under her table. She didnât want him to see her, didnât want to put up with his attitude againâthough he had been polite enough to Alya so far. Cautiously, she lifted the hem of the red velvet cloth that she had draped over her table and watched him from below.
As a feather from one of the doveâs wings fluttered down and brushed his nose, he sneezed. His cat, unable to maintain his balance on the young manâs shoulders, leapt to the ground. But he did not bolt like he had in the bakery. Instead, he circled the boyâs ankles, wary eyes trained on the crowd like a protective familiar.
âOh,â Alya grinned as the boy pressed the back of his hand to his nose, âperhaps youâd like to borrow a handkerchief.â She reached into her dress and pulled out a white silk handkerchief. She displayed it for all to see, the silver and lavender butterfly-shaped crest of the Agreste family embroidered into its corner, and the initials âA.A.â beside it.
Marinette frowned. This boy had insistedâquite violentlyâthat he was not Monsieur Agresteâs son. Was he a nephew, perhaps? Or a cousin?
Alya handed the handkerchief to him and while the audience laughed, he merely took his handkerchief back with a distracted, âThank you,â eyes already drifting once more towards Marinetteâs stall.
Sensing she had lost her primary audience, Alya whistled a few notes and waved her hand over her head to release another shower of sparks. âThe main show begins at the third strike of the witching hour!â She snatched one of the large sparks from overhead then brought it down to her chest and blew on it, sending a series of small twinkling stars down the lane to the east. âJust follow the stars to your destiny.â She winked at her crowd, then snatched the hat from the young manâs head. The cat swiped at her ankles as she did, but she danced out of his reach easily and held the hat out to her audience.
The young man, with eyes still trained on Marinetteâs stall, placed two coins into his own hat distractedly then hurried past Alya to his destination. Reluctantly, the cat followed.
As he approached, Marinette attempted to stand quickly, fully intent on simply running away and abandoning her wares until he had gone, but instead she banged her head on her table and fell back to the ground with a yelp.
The young man bent over the table and looked down at her. âAre you all right?â
âFine!â She rubbed the bump on her head, realized he was still staring, and scrambled for an excuse. âJustâdropped somethingâa coinâI think itâsâfound it!â She pretended to tuck something into her pocket and pulled herself up to her feet.
âSo,â she tried to take in a deep but subtle breath to calm her racing heart, âcharm, potion, or repair?â
âA potion to start, I think, if you donât mind.â He smiled pleasantly, and Marinette wondered if the brusque young man from the bakery really had transformed once more into a gentleman, like perhaps the evening made him personable and polite.
His cat leapt up onto Marinetteâs table, which wobbled as if it were uncertain about the added weight. He perused the lucky charms with a catâs uniquely disdainful curiosity. Marinette watched him for a moment to make sure he was not going to bat anything off of the edge, then realized her customer had not elaborated on his request.
âErâDid you have a particular potion in mind, or just an inkling to try something new?â
âNo, Iâwell, itâs a little embarrassing.â His hand went to his head, where his hat ought to have been, and he frowned, as if only just realizing it was gone. He glanced around and saw Alya still collecting coins with it, but he didnât seem bothered. He turned back to Marinette and murmured, âI developed a bit of a dry scalp this week. Itâs never happened before, and Iâm not entirely sure what to do about it.â
âOh.â Marinette did her best not to look panicked. Had he been rude to her the other day because he had realized it was her fault? Was he at her stall instead of someone elseâs because he expected her to fix her mistake? If all of that was the case, then why hadnât he said something to her when he was in the bakery the other day? Was he planning to cause some sort of scene here instead?
She made a show of looking through her box of potions to buy herself some time to calm down. If he really was having a mild reaction to the snowdrop addition to the dessert the other evening, then the issue should clear up in another day or two no matter what she gave him. She just needed to hand him something small, something cheap enough that he wouldnât balk at the price or accuse her of swindling him, and this would all be over.
There was a sudden crash and Marinette looked up to see that his cat had decided to knock over one of her lucky charms. The small glass bauble encasing a dandelion head, preserved just before losing its seeds, shattered on the ground. The seeds dispersed almost instantly, leaving behind only the broken glass and the pink ribbon Marinette had written the charm into.
âWhat is wrong with you?â the young man hissed at his cat. He lifted the creature off of the table, but the cat refused to stay put in his arms. He wriggled out of the young manâs grip and settled back on his shoulders. Marinette could not help but feel like the catâs eyes were glaring at her and that his flat ears were somehow her fault.
âItâs all right,â she said, and fished a broom out of her collection of supplies. Broken glass was a hazard of the trade, particularly given her own clumsiness. âI think black cats are immune to bad luck anyway.â
âIf only that were true,â he laughed.
âIs he your familiar?â she asked.
âOhâno. Iâm not⌠I mean, would I be here if I was magical myself?â
âEveryone has different talents,â she shrugged as she finished sweeping up the catâs mess and reached across the table for her potions box.
âHere,â she pulled out a bottle of red poppy oil. It wasnât especially magical in any way, but it had a subtle earthy, pleasant aroma. It was a useful flourish for any grounding or protection spell and, as an added benefit, red poppies were associated with apologies. It was the closest Marinette could get to asking for forgiveness without admitting to her mistake. And though it wouldnât cure his allergy, certainly, it might alleviate any itching he felt as a side effect of the snowdrop until the allergy wore off on its own. âJust put a bit of this where it annoys you, and it should ease any discomfort and clear the problem up in a few days.â
âExcellent. How much?â
âOhâwellâerâyou donât need toâI meanâfirst oneâs free.â She thrust the bottle at him, unable to name a price at all. His problem was her fault, after all.
The young man frowned at the bottle in her hand, and his cat took advantage of his masterâs distraction to leap down to the table once more and stick his nose into the potions.
âNonsense.â He took the bottle from her and read the neatly handwritten label with the price scrawled on it before Marinette could snatch it away. He reached into his pocket again and dug out a few coins, which he placed on the velvet covering Marinetteâs table.
She stared at the pieces beneath his fingers, still unsure whether it was right for her to accept them, when she noticed something odd about his hand. He was wearing the same ring she had noticed during their dance, that he had fidgeted with while she had repaired the bloodstain in his clothes, but his hand was missing something else.
âI donât understand,â she said with a frown.
He furrowed his brow. âYou run a stand at the Midnight Market and donât understand how goods are exchanged?â
âNoâI just meanâyou said you werenât magical.â
âIâm not?â
âThen how else did you heal that cat scratch so quickly?â
âCat scratch?â
âYour hand.â
He stared down at his hand, bearing the ring of his station, but the back of it was perfectly unmarred. There was not even a pink line in memory of where his cat had scratched him in the bakery just days ago.
Suddenly, he shoved his hand into his pocket. âRight. My cat. The scratch from my cat. Lookâabout what happened in your kitchenââ
âYou can use the poppy oil on your cat,â Marinette blurted out suddenly. âFor hisâyou know, he looked like he was a bit flaky, too.â
The boy gave her a wry smile. âDid he?â
The cat rumbled a low growl in protest. To the catâs credit, his coat certainly looked healthy and sleek tonight.
âIs it erâa glamor?â she asked.
âMy catâs coat?â
âThe scratch.â
âOh.â He glanced around, as if he were worried someone else might be listening in on their conversation. Indecision flickered in his green eyes, but he finally whispered, âItâsâwell, itâs a bit difficult to talk about.â
Marinette frowned. âYou canât talk about your cat?â
The cat, perhaps sensing he was the object of their conversation, batted one of Marinetteâs potions off of its shelf and it, too, broke against her table, spilling its contents all over her red velvet cloth.
âOhââ She scrambled through her crate of supplies for a rag to clean up the mess, but the young man had already pulled out his handkerchief and was doing his best to soak up the potion.
âIâm so sorry,â he apologized. âHeâs not normally this rude.â
âNo, Iâm sorryââ Marinette yanked a rag from her crate and pressed it down on the velvet next to his hands. âI wasnât trying to be rude about your catâs coat.â
âYou werenât.â
Marinette was not sure the cat agreed with the boy, for he swished his tail and eyed her imperiously as she cleaned up the mess that he had made. He cast the same disdainful look on the boy, too, as he pressed his handkerchief into the velvet.
She wondered, briefly, if the boy had ever cleaned up a spill in his life, but told herself she was being ridiculous. Everyone had the occasional spill, regardless of class, and knew enough to put a napkin to a spot.
He lifted his now soaked handkerchief and stared at the dark spot on the velvet, no longer spreading but certainly not gone, and said, âLet me pay for the cleaning.â
âOhâyou donât have toââ
âI insist,â he said, and handed her his handkerchief. âGet this cleaned when you do, and return it to me with the bill.â
Marinette swallowed. âI couldnâtââ
âPlease.â
Reluctantly, she folded the damp handkerchief up along with her rag, then used a fresh rag to wrap up the broken glass.
âThank you,â she murmured, âthough I canât say for sure when I will see you again.â
He scratched behind his ear, either to assuage some nerves or because his dry scalp was bothering him. âIââ He started and stopped suddenly, like he was running out of air. He swallowed and tried again. âI did have an idea. Or a thought.â He glanced nervously at his cat, like he worried his cat might not like the idea. The cat merely stared back, face blank.
Marinette waited for him to explain his thought, but no explanation came. âWellâcongratulations, then. Was it a particularly complex thought?â
âNoâitâitâs quite simple, actually. I saw this notice when I walked into the market about a public dance coming up, and I thought it might be a nice way toâto practice.â
She laughed. âYou want to attend a public dance?â
âIs that funny?â
âWellâyouâreâyou know⌠Itâs not the sort of thing you go to.â
âHow do you know what sorts of things I go to?â
âPeople who go to dinner parties with Lady Tsurugiâwhoever their fathers areâdonât go to public dances. I think sheâd officially disinvite you from all future events if she knew.â
âAre they so scandalous?â
âNot to me, but to youââ
âWill you be there?â
âWhat?â
âIf youâre there, then itâs the sort of place I want to be.â
Marinette didnât know what to say to that, nor what to make of the mischief tucked into his smile. Just days ago, heâd been so eager to get out of her sight he hadnât even thanked her for her work. Now he wanted to go to a dance with her?
âI canât go,â she said, her heart skipped a beat as his face fell. âI promised my parents I would help with the delivery order for Lady Tsurugiâs party that night. I think itâs her daughterâs engagement celebration. Were you not invited?â
The disappointment on the boyâs face turned into a grimace. âI was invited. You know she hasnât even been proposed to yet?â As the words left his mouth, he swallowed suddenly, like he might take them back. âSorryâthat was rude. I shouldnât have said anything. Itâs justâitâs a party in expectation of an engagement but I canât imagine anyone wants that rumor spreading.â
âWho does she expect to propose?â
He stared glumly at the cluster of silver coins that still rested between the two of them. âMonsieur Agresteâs son,â he finally said, as if it were a confession.
Marinette didnât understand his tone, but she did understand the conversation she had overheard between Luka and the head of Lady Tsurugiâs staff. âThat explains his insistence on dancing at the dinner party. Probably wanted to create an opportunity for conversation. Shame it didnât work out. Did your father have someone he wanted you to talk with, too?â
This time, he didnât answer at all. He tucked the bottle of poppy oil into his pocket and reached up to tip his hat, only to discover, once again, that it was still in Alyaâs hands. âPerhaps Iâll bump into you again at Lady Tsurugiâs?â There was a strange hope in his voice. Marinette couldnât bear to dash it, but she didnât think it would be any better to lie.
âIf you want your hat back, just ask Alya for it. She likes to borrow her props. She says itâs better for audience engagement.â
âThank you. And thank you for the potion. If it doesnât work, Iâll just have to come back.â
âOhâIâm sure it will work.â
âWell, then, if it does, perhaps Iâll have something else to ask of you.â
Despite her head insisting that he was merely being polite, her heart raced with anticipation. She tried to force it still by reminding herself that she was not going to run into him at Lady Tsurugiâs. It had been an accident that it had happened in the first place, and highly inappropriate. She never would have seen him again at all if his cat hadnât run into the bakery, and he had simply gotten lucky by finding her booth tonight in search of a solution to a problem that he didnât even need her to solve. His allergy would clear in days, and that would be that. She certainly wasnât going out of her way just to return his handkerchief.
Marinette was determined this time, and repeated it to herself like an incantation. She was never going to see him again, because if she saw him again, she might actually have to admit to herself that she was beginning to like him.
âââ
Marinette checked her basket for the fifth time, but it was still there, tucked in between the folds of red velvet. It was not a dream nor some illusion. The handkerchief embroidered with the Agreste family crest and the initials âA. A.â was very real.
She and her mother had worked hard to get the stain out of the velvet and the handkerchief, but potions were stubborn. Her father, though his knowledge of magic was limited, had been trained in the basics by both of his parents, and had a solid grasp of magical components. Heâd insisted they needed pine resin, which was well out of Marinetteâs price range.
While normally, Marinette would not have been able to afford to get it professionally cleaned, even with the promise of a refund from a boy she was determined never to see again, Madame Lahiffe had owed Marinette a favor, ever since Marinette had rescued her youngest son from a magical mishap that had nearly aged him forty years.
âDid my mother not do a good job?â Nino gently elbowed Marinetteâs arm as they walked.
Marinette blinked and turned to look at her companion. âWhat?â
âYou keep fussing with it. Is there something wrong with it?â
Marinette pulled her hand out of her basket. âNo. Nothingâsorryââ Marinette scrambled for a way to change the subject. âTell me again what you want me to check for?â
Nino fussed anxiously with his cap. Heâd dressed in a nice jacket and had carefully cleaned every inch of his coat for today, determined to present his best while they shopped.
When Marinette had bumped into him on her initial visit to see his mother, sheâd mentioned Alyaâs comment about lacking a ring. Nino had blanched and immediately asked Marinette to help him pick one out when she returned to pick up her cleaning. While he trusted his own taste in jewelry, he wanted something a bit more exceptional than just a ring, and he needed Marinetteâs eye for magical quality.
âSheâll pick out any glamors right away,â Nino complained. âIt either canât be glamorous at all, or I need you to make sure itâs a really high quality one, something she couldnât do herself.â
âYouâre better off without glamor. Anything you could afford is something she could manage herself.â
Nino frowned, and Marinette immediately felt badly about the comment. Sheâd meant it to be encouraging, a reminder that whatever he chose for Alya did not need to be magical, but it seemed as if all she had done was remind him how limited his options were.
âWeâre going to find something perfect for her,â Marinette promised, and linked her arm with Ninoâs.
Nino slid his hand into his pocket, fidgeting with his coin purse, just as Marinetteâs hand drifted to the handkerchief hidden in her basket.
âWeâre going to find something perfect for her that is absolutely in your price range,â Marinette amended, but Nino looked practically green at the thought.
âSpeaking of glamors,â he mumbled, and reached into a different pocket of his coat, âAlya asked me to give this to you.â
Nino pressed a small round stone into Marinetteâs hand. It was a deep reddish color with a hollowed out center and smooth on all sides, almost like a rather large ring of its own.
âA seeing stone?â Marinette asked.
âShe said you could borrow it when you go to Lady Tsurugiâs party tomorrow.â
âIâm not going to Lady Tsurugiâs party; I am working at Lady Tsurugiâs party. What does she think I need a seeing stone for?â
âYou thought there might be a glamor on your young manâs hand, right? She suggested you use it to make sure heâs not some hideous monster underneath a bigger glamor.â
Marinette rolled her eyes. âIâm not going to see him again.â At least, she wasnât supposed to. If she did her job correctly, she would be downstairs with the staff for the duration of the evening while he mingled with the guests upstairs. Maybe she would ask one of the household staff to return his handkerchief just before she left, so he wouldnât have a chance to call for her, and heâd have no more excuses to stop by her stall at the Midnight Market.
But she pocketed the stone anyway.
Together, Nino and Marinette made their way through the crowded streets down to Artisanâs Alley, where professional craftsmen plied their trade during traditional business hours, in a range of magical and mundane skills. Marinette visited the alley on occasion, offering a box of charms or trinkets to sellers who might be interested in having her items on display. Some of these artisans had begun their work in the Midnight Market, and were willing to support amateurs like her.
It was in a shop like these ones that Marinette had first met Luka.
When Luka was between performances at dances and dinners, he assisted for a variety of artisans in Artisanâs Alley. He had an eye for detail and a delicate touch, and probably could have had his pick of apprenticeships if he were willing to commit his time to a single craft besides his own music. As Marinette and Nino started their walk down Artisanâs Alley, she glanced in shop windows, ears habitually listening for his steady voice. He was always making conversation with customers.
He claimed to like talking with people, but Marinette knew beyond that, he needed those relationships for his next job, for another favor, for some sort of gift. She didnât think of him as someone who intentionally leveraged his connections for his own gain, for certainly he gave as much as he received, but she knew he was someone who relied on relationships and his own charm to get by. It had enamored her, once. She still envied it, certainly.
They passed a cobbler, and while that itself was not work that Marinette could see herself doing, she did feel a bit of pride as she remembered the boots she had embroidered last week. Her embroidery was better than anything displayed in that window. The shop beside it, though, belonged to a tailor who displayed fabrics and dresses that Marinette only dreamed of creating someday. She wanted to belong here, but she still had so much work to do to achieve this level of skill and quality.
Her best bet would be to take on an apprenticeship, but that would be expensive, unless one of the craftsmen was willing to sponsor her during her training. Her second best bet was to keep saving every coin made at the Midnight Market and the bit of money she made delivering her parentsâ goods. Someday sheâd have enough for her own business; she was sure of it.
Her heart jolted as Lukaâs laugh reached her ears, and she saw him in the tailorâs window, displaying two different fabrics to a customer. She was irritated by the twinge of longing that turned her stomach. She thought it was unfair of her heart to react on selective memories, for while their separation had been mutual and amicable, it had not been without its arguments. Her heart, however, seemed momentarily unconcerned with their arguments when she saw him.
Nino followed Marinetteâs gaze into the tailorâs shop and squeezed her arm. âCome on,â he said. âWeâre looking for jewelry, right?â
But as they approached the first jewelry shop on the lane, it was Ninoâs turn to balk with anxiety.
Marinette gave his wrist a comforting squeeze, just as he had done for her. âYou know itâs all right if you donât find something, right?â
âI canât keep making Alya wait just because I want a bit more money before I propose.â
âThen just find something sheâll like. Iâm not sure itâs the ring she needs as much as it is the person presenting it to her.â
He did not look quite so sure of that as they pushed open the door to the jewelerâs shop. The shop bell jingled and a short, elderly old man limped from the back of the shop. The counter, which itself was more of a stand encased in glass, was nearly as tall as he was. Tufts of gray hair peeked out behind each ear, and he wore a clean white suit and waistcoat, decorated with brilliant jade buttons. Marinette was not sure she had ever seen something so fine, and she was reminded once more how much harder she was going to have to work if she wanted to achieve this level of success someday.
âHow may I help you today?â the gentleman asked and picked up a cane to lean on while he assisted his two young customers.
Marinette eyed the shelves around them, also all encased in glass, and the posted notice that listed prices for appraisals, repairs, and resizing. She wondered if anything in this shop would be affordable for Nino. The last thing she wanted was for him to be discouraged before they had hardly begun.
âE-engagement ring.â Nino stammered. âIâm looking for an engagement ring.â
âExcellent,â the jeweler smiled. âMay I see your young ladyâs hand?â
Marinette and Nino alike laughed, voices high and nervous.
âNo,â she protested.
âWeâre notââ he tried to explain, but neither could quite find the words.
âMy mistake.â Though they had not managed to explain themselves, the jeweler smiled kindly at them. âDo you know your partnerâs size?â
Ninoâs face dropped. âErâmaybe?â
âWhile surprising a partner is nice, it might be wise to fit the ring immediately, particularly if you are interested in a custom design.â
âOh, I donât thinkâŚâ Nino swallowed, and Marinette could practically see the numbers over his head as he imagined the cost of a custom designed ring. âI justâI can have it resized or-orââ
The shop bell behind them rang as the door opened again for another patron. A woman let out a soft, âOh,â that seemed equal parts surprised and disdainful. In a high, honeyed voice, she said, âPardon me, but I believe we have an appointment.â
Even as indignation flared in Marinetteâs chest, certain that this woman was challenging hers and Ninoâs right to be in this shop, Nino pulled Marinette to the side without even turning around. They could feel wronged all that they liked, but it only took one glance at the womanâs floral silk gown and her heavy, fur-lined winter coat to know that she and Nino truly had no room to argue here. The womanâs upright posture and tightly coiffed blonde hair all suggested a life of wealth and leisure. Even the small smile in the corner of her mouth seemed to condescend to everyone around her.
Behind the woman stood a tall, slender gentleman dressed in a coat as fine as the womanâs with a red silk scarf around his neck. A pair of thin glasses framed a pair of eyes as gray as his closely cropped hair. He removed his hat and coat and helped the woman out of hers. As he draped the coats over his arm, Marinette wondered if he might be a valet, but the cream-colored jacket embroidered with pale white lilies suggested he and this woman were of equal station, even if he deferred to her.
Then Marinetteâs heart came to a full stop as a third person stepped out from behind the taller gentleman. Her familiar young man appeared, wearing the same black coat he had been wearing the day he had come rushing into her bakery and the same sullen, wary expression. But she saw no cat circling his ankles nor clinging to his shoulders. She wondered if she would find a visible scratch on the back of his hand, but it was hard to tell from this distance.
Her hand found Alyaâs seeing stone in her pocket, but she was not sure how she could use it in such a small, private space without being noticed.
The jeweler inclined his head to the patrons in a small bow. âA pleasure, as always, Monsieur et Madame Agreste. I have everything ready for you.â
Nino and Marinette continued their retreat as the Agrestes approached the jewelerâs display counter. Marinette waited for the young man to smile at her or at least to acknowledge that he recognized her, but there was only the barest flick of his eyes in her direction as he passed her.
She had half a mind to tap him on the shoulder and throw his freshly cleaned handkerchief back in his face, but Marinette didnât want to cause a scene before Nino had a chance to find a ring that he liked. Instead, she twisted the seeing stone anxiously between her fingers.
The jeweler reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small wooden box. He opened it and revealed a single ring inside, with four diamonds arranged in a shape like an X or perhaps a butterflyâs spread wings, but when he pulled the ring out of the box, he separated it into two pieces, with the diamonds on each ring arranged into a V-shape.
âIt will need to be resized before the wedding, naturally,â the jeweler said, âbut please make sure it fits now.â He handed one of the bands to the young man, who accepted it like the jeweler was dumping a hot coal into his palm.
âAnd this one,â the jeweler held up the second ring, identical to the one in the young manâs hand, âis sized to match the sample ring from the girlâs mother. Are we still insistent on it being a surprise?â
âWell,â the woman smiled as she looked down at the young man beside her, âthe proposal itself will not be much of a surprise, but isnât it more romantic if the ring is, at least? Arenât you going to try the ring on, Adrien?â
Marinetteâs heart leapt into her throat, despite her best efforts to keep it down. She finally had a name for her fickle young man and the initials on the handkerchiefâAdrien Agreste.
Adrien grimaced, but did as he was told. He slid the band onto his finger, where it met the plain silver band he already wore.
The woman took his hand and examined the fit, as if she were perhaps more concerned with how it looked to others than how it felt to him. Marinette caught a glimpse of a pink scratch along the back of the young manâs hand, and wondered why the scratch should be as fickle as the young manâs attitude.
Madame Agreste pursed her lips as she twisted the plain silver band around the young manâs finger, like she might somehow change how it contrasted with the new gold band.
âIt canât be helped, I suppose. And itâs only until the wedding.â
âNot as if Iâll be the one wearing it,â he muttered and pulled the ring from his hand.
Monsieur Agreste raised his eyebrows and slid a hand over Adrienâs shoulder. âWhat was that?â
Marinette could not explain the way the young man changed beneath that hand, not entirely. He straightened up and his jaw tightened, but she did not know how to describe what happened to his eyes. They turned straight ahead, past the jeweler, reminding her of the way he had stared out the window of the bakeryâs kitchen.
âI just meant,â he said in a flat voice, but far clearer, like it was meant less for the people standing beside him and more for the jeweler or anyone else who might be listening in, âthat Mademoiselle Tsurugi will be the one wearing it after the wedding.â
Marinetteâs hand tightened around the seeing stone as every muscle in her body seized up. Had he not told her that he was definitely not Monsieur Agresteâs son? Then the other night, in the market, he had said that it was Monsieur Agresteâs son who was supposed to propose to Miss Tsurugi. Here he was, fitting an engagement ring for the very woman he claimed that he was not proposing to. Why had he lied?
While shock and anger waged a war inside Marinetteâs chest, Madame Agreste smiled at Adrien and wrapped her hand around his. Marinette might have believed that the gesture was affectionate if Adrien had not winced.
As the jeweler took the two bands back and fitted them once again into one, Marinette realized that her brief encounter with this boy was nearing its end. She hated the way disappointment crawled its way into her chest. He certainly hadnât expressed any excitement or even interest in seeing her here, not the way he had at the night market. And he was the one who had turned down his offer of attending a public dance, so why was she suddenly hurt by this revelation of an engagement?
âAnd did you finish repairs on the brooch?â Madame Agreste asked.
The jeweler frowned. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a tall oak cabinet as large as a wardrobe. Inside, a series of shelves housed a multitude of velvet and wooden jewelry boxes, but the jeweler ignored all of these and pulled open a drawer near the bottom of the large cabinet. From the drawer, he removed an ornate jewelry box, carved with dragons along its base and an ornate spiral along its lid. The jeweler opened the top lid and removed a stunning sapphire and emerald brooch. The green gems had been fitted together into an arc resembling the fan tail of a peacock, with sapphires set at the tip to imitate the eye of each feather. It was a dramatic and, if Marinette were any judge, expensive accessory.
âI donât know how you managed to damage it so badly,â the jeweler said, with a touch of admonishment in his tone, âbut I have not been able to make the repairs that you requested. The fracture is quite complete.â
âBut we need it repaired before the wedding,â Monsieur Agreste insisted.
âThen perhaps you should not have broken it,â the jeweler replied evenly, unmoved by his clientâs temper. âI have never seen damage to this degree before, and it is even harder to repair without knowing what exactly incurred the fracture.â
To Marinetteâs eye, the brooch looked lovely and perfect. She could see no crack in the stones, nor in the gold setting. Though it was rude enough that she was eavesdropping and only pretending to listen to Nino as he pointed out a few rings to her, curiosity got the better of her. She pulled Alyaâs seeing stone from her pocket and, when she was certain that everyone elseâs eyes were on the brooch as the jeweler turned it over in his hand, she looked through the center of the stone.
She only dared hold the stone to her eye for a mere glance, but even that brief look was enough to make the damage plain. A jagged crack ran across the length of the brooch, invisible to the naked eye, but brought into sharp relief by Alyaâs seeing stone. The deep, black chasm marred the beautiful gems and, even from this distance and with only a cursory examination, Marinette knew with certainty that the damage was magical in nature.
She was not arrogant enough to believe she could repair damage that this professional jeweler struggled with, but she had worked with enough magical charms and even a handful of cursed objects to know what a magical fracture looked like. This charm had been used for magic stronger than it was intended for, and it had rebelled.
Marinette had experienced a similar issue on occasion, particularly from customers who bought a lucky charm from her stall then tried to use the charm to cause something more powerful, like a love charm or a windfall spell. They brought back the charm and complained about its uselessness or fragility, and Marinette had to patiently explain to them that lucky charms were merely for small bits of good fortune, like having a gentle breeze on a hot day or finding that missing coin in your pocket. They werenât meant to make someone fall in love with you nor could they manifest profit from a fortunate investment.
A charm made of the sort of gems that brooch was made of, however, had to be capable of powerful magic on its own, far more than a little bit of a dandelion seed preserved in glass was capable of. How much more dangerous, then, was the spell that it had been used for?
While Monsieur and Madame Agreste argued with the jeweler about timely repairs, Marinette risked one more use of the seeing stone, though she wasnât sure what she thought she could glean about the brooch that the jeweler had not been able to discern herself, especially without getting any closer.
The crack itself gave no more insight, but as she shifted the seeing stone, she caught sight of something else. The young manâs hand, still resting on the counter with its fading scratch and heavy ring, made her heart stop, but it wasnât the scratch that sent a chill down her spine.
There was no glamor on him like Alya had suggested, no magic hiding some hideous appearance underneath the handsome young man. He was as he appearedâexcept for a single black thread tied neatly to the ring on his finger, then stretched taught to his neck, where it wrapped around once before continuing on its journey, ending in a rather messy knot on Madame Agresteâs ring. A second knot, as hastily tied as the first, indicated a second thread, but before Marinette could attempt to follow that thread, Madame Agresteâs shoulders stiffened.
Marinette shoved the seeing stone back into her pocket just as Madame Agreste turned around. Marinette pretended to be exceptionally interested in a nearby bracelet and pointed it out to Nino, but her mind was spinning as she tried to make sense of what she had seen. It was no spell she knew of, but she could guess that it was not a particularly kind spell.
Marinette did not dare pull the seeing stone from her pocket again, especially not as Madame Agreste kept glancing back at the two of them suspiciously, but she knew she wanted a better look at either Madame Agresteâs or Adrienâs ring. It was not just curiosity that spurred her now, but a new fear that lodged itself deep in her stomach. This boy, his wary glances, the tight hands around his fingers and shoulder, and the thread around his throat seemed to bleed together, and she did not care for the picture it made.
There was a sudden crack as Madame Agreste slammed the jewelry box closed. Marinette jumped at the sound, and Nino looked up, but no one at the counter seemed surprised by her tantrum.
âWeâll be back next week,â she said stiffly. âIt had better be ready.â
Her husband picked up the jewelry box containing the engagement rings and tucked it into his coat pocket. He set a small coin purse down on the counter in exchange, and said, âWe wonât be paying anything more if that brooch is not fixed.â
âI would not charge for a service I could not provide,â the jeweler replied, voice still as even as it had been. âI will continue to do what I can.â
There was no gratitude nor well-wishing exchanged as the Agrestes turned and left the shop. Once the shop bell rang and the door clicked shut to announce their final departure, the jeweler turned back to Nino and Marinette with a kind but worn smile.
âI apologize for the interruption. You were looking for an engagement ring, correct?â
Marinetteâs mind, though, was still with her young man. Even if she did see him tomorrow night, at such a grand party she might not have a chance to examine his ring.
It was an impulsive plan, but she didnât have time to stop and think of a better one.
She pulled the handkerchief from her basket and ran after the Agrestes.
âMonsieur!â she called after them. âExcuse me, Monsieur! I think you dropped this!â
Adrien did not turn around until she was close enough to brush her hand against his elbow. He stared at her, startled, and Monsieur and Madame Agreste paused.
âWhat do you think youâreââ
But before Monsieur Agreste could reprimand Marinette for stopping them, she shoved the handkerchief at Adrien.
âThis is yours, I think,â she said, half out of breath. âYou dropped it.â
Adrien eyed it with that wary, disdainful expression that reminded her so much of his cat. âI didnât,â he said.
âYou did,â she insisted, and pressed the handkerchief into his hand. Her hands brushed the ring on his finger and he flinched.
He grabbed her hand as she pinched the ring. âDonâtââ He bit back whatever else he was going to say and his eyes drifted to Monsieur and Madame Agreste, to their fixed gazes on this exchange, before settling back on her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another handkerchief. âThat canât be my handkerchief, because this is my handkerchief.â
And with a mundane sleight of hand that would have impressed even Alya, he took the handkerchief she had handed to him back, leaving her with the one from his pocket.
Marinette didnât understand, and she was left standing alone in the street, staring dumbly after him and Monsieur and Madame Agresteâs backs as they retreated to their carriage. The way Monsieur Agresteâs hand made its way back to the young manâs shoulder unsettled her stomach. Even if anyone else could see the way the boy was propelled into the carriage rather than helped, what was there to do? Marinette stayed standing there, as if witnessing him might make a difference, while they climbed in and their driver tugged the horsesâ reins.
She had too many questions and no answers, and any chance of answers was rapidly disappearing as the carriage trundled down the road. Reluctantly, she trudged back into the jewelerâs shop, feeling like she had lost somehow. Helplessness and doubt were not things she was used to, and they muddied and slowed her usually frenetic thoughts. She hardly heard the bell above the threshold as she pushed the door open.
âEverything all right, Marinette?â Nino asked.
Unsure how to explain it all, she nodded. âYes, I meanâof courseâIââ she tightened her grip on the handkerchief in her hand and tried to smile. âI thought I could catch him, but I just missed him. Iâll have to try again tomorrow night.â She cleared her throat and blinked away the sting in her eyes. âHave you found something you like for Alya?â
As Nino pointed to a set of rings the jeweler had laid out for them, Marinette pretended to listen. She nodded when she ought to and hummed with interest when it was called for, but her mind was still on Adrien Agreste.
Only, as Nino deliberated between two rings he liked, she took the opportunity to look down at the handkerchief in her hands and knew at once that it was not Adrien Agresteâs handkerchief.
She didnât recognize the crestâa cross and a pair of gray songbirds resting on either side of the crossbarâand on this handkerchief, the initials read âF. F.â
If it hadnât been for the different crest, she might have convinced herself someone had simply forgotten to finish the lettering. But this handkerchief certainly did not match the one she had used to clean up a spilled potion at the Midnight Market. This handkerchief did not belong to the same person, nor even someone from the same family.
He had made sure to give her this handkerchief, made sure to impress upon her that he was not the same young man from the Midnight Market. He had, in the best fashion that he could, told her that he was not Adrien Agreste.
But Monsieur and Madame Agreste had called him Adrien. Was it possible they didnât know who he really was? And, whether they knew or not, who exactly was he?
Marinette tucked the handkerchief into her basket and made a decision. She was going to return this handkerchief to him at Lady Tsurugiâs party, and she was going to find out who he really was, even if she had to corner him to get her answers. Andâif there was even the slightest opportunity to do soâshe was going to help him out of whatever mess the Agrestes had him tied up in. She would see him again. She would make sure of it.
Absolutely thrilled to share my very first big bang fic! I've been writing fan fiction for 20 years and it never occurred to me to join an event like this. They always felt so intimidating, but it was honestly so much fun! Thank you @yellowbullet100 for beta-reading and putting up with all my finicky artist's needs. Thank you @jademoon2u for the lovely art for chapter 3! I'm over the moon about it and can't wait for everyone to see it. Thank you @saotomexmary and ShittyLB for volunteering for art and being incredible sound-boards as I worked through this fic. Thank you to @mlbigbang2024 for organizing such a lovely event. I made amazing friends and have had a blast collaborating with others. It's been such a lovely time.
Without further ado, A Young Witch's Guide to Cats, Curses, and Courtship! (read on ao3 or below) And I'll see you next week for "On the Subject of Familiars"!
Chapter One: An Introduction to the Subject
On the subject of a young witchâs comportment, there are a variety rules that must govern his or her behavior. Witches of experience are well-familiar with the exchanges required when another witch enters the home, the three rules that govern all craft, and many more rules that guide their work and relationships.
A young witch, then, may find themselves overwhelmed by the requirements and regulations put upon their learning and their craft. This guide shall serve as a reference and tool as appropriate, and also as a guide to remind witches of all ages of the key principals of witchcraft. Most chiefly, a young witch should concern themselves with the rules of familiars, spellwork, and hospitality.
Marinette Dupain-Cheng, despite being a young witch, was not currently concerned with any of those things. She was far more concerned with the rather mundaneâand yet miraculous for how frequently she encountered itâtask of avoiding utter disaster.
Lady Tsurugi had ordered three cases of the Dupain-Chengâs renowned winter citrus tarts for her dinner party, and Marinetteâs job was firstly to deliver the tarts and secondly to make sure they were each appropriately topped with a spiral of golden sugar. While the spirals themselves were mundane rather than genuinely magical, they added a certain mystical whimsy that had become a popular trend for local soirĂŠes, balls, and debuts. The trouble was that the sugar spirals did not transport easily, and Marinette had to make them on-site.
Marinette had every intention of staying downstairs in the kitchen where she belongedâif only to avoid running into a certain young musician who was playing this eveningâbut that was before sheâd begun to return her supplies to her crate and discovered that instead of adding orange zest to the syrup like she was supposed to, sheâd dumped in a bottle of fire droplets by mistake.
Her mother had warned her, time and again, about mixing her potions supplies and baking supplies, and Marinette did try to listen. Sheâd only brought the fire droplets to keep her hands warm on the walk home. Was it really her fault that it was the same size and shape as the bottle of orange zest her father had given her?
Maybe not, but it was her fault for not double-checking her labels before she had topped every single pastry with a glistening spiral of fire-enhanced sugar.
If Marinette did not get upstairs to fix those pastries before they made it to Lady Tsurugi and the guests, her family would never serve baked goods at so much as an afternoon picnic again.
Marinetteâs first plan was to steal all the tarts back and redo each and every sugar spiral, but she wasnât sure she had the time. Though she had studied potions, charms, and glamors under her grandmotherâs tutelage, chronomancy was a field far too advanced for her.
Her second plan was to âaccidentallyâ knock every pastry to the floor and âaccidentallyâ trample them into dust. Unfortunately, she did not think that would spare her parents the damage to their reputation and business alike, and she imagined she would be the one paying for all those pastries and whatever additional expenses Lady Tsurugi saw fit to charge her with.
That left her with only one option: neutralize the potency of the fire droplets as quickly as she could. Luckily, she had a freshly made bottle of essence of snowdrops. She had crafted it with intentions to fill an enchanted snow globe, but this need was far more urgent.
If any of the ballâs guests suffered from the snowdropâs potential side effect of sudden chills, hopefully they would attribute it to the winter weather. And if any of the guests were allergic to snowdrop and developed an itchy, dry scalp, well⌠She doubted they would point fingers at her pastries when looking for an explanation. Besides, the allergy symptoms usually resolved within a week.
Marinette crept down the hallway as quietly as she could, hoping the guestsâ chatter and laughter would muffle her footsteps. As she arrived at the staging room where one of the household staff in his pristine wine red suit and perfectly white gloves was just picking up a tray of pastries, Marinette grabbed his arm. It was all the young man could do to keep from losing his balance and sending the entire silver tray of porcelain plates and tainted pastries crashing to the floor, just barely preventing Marinette from reverting to her second plan of total pastry destruction.
âWhat are you doing up here?â he hissed.
âI just need to add a finishing touch!â she whispered back. âItâll only take a second!â
âIt better,â he snapped, as Marinette pulled a small bottle from her pocket that looked to anyone else like a perfume atomizer. It would smell just as floral, and it might affect the flavor of the tart, but at least none of the guests would leave with burned tongues or spend the next three days laid up with burning stomach pain.
Marinette wasted no time and spritzed each of the tarts before the young man irritably whisked the tray away from her and into the dining hall.
Crisis averted.
Marinette tucked her bottle back into her apron pocket and enjoyed a brief moment of relief. She leaned against the small worktop in what was little more than a cubby where household staff could polish silverware and plates and make sure all food was ready to be served. There were a number of mahogany drawers, and each drawer handle had a solid iron pull, all individually marked with the glaring red symbol of the Tsurugi family.
Marinette shivered at the oppressive lines and colors then turned to go back to the kitchens where she belonged. She certainly wasnât cut out for such grandeur.
But when she reached the landing on the stairs, a voice from the bottom of the stairwell floated up to her, and every ounce of blood in Marinetteâs body chilled instantly, as if she had injected essence of snowdrop directly into her own veins.
âI know you said Lady Tsurugi wasnât fond of dancing, but one of the guests wrote to me directly and suggested it might improve the general mood.â
The head of the Tsurugiâs household staff replied, âIf Monsieur Agreste expects dancing, he can speak to Lady Tsurugi about it directly.â
As the two pairs of footsteps grew closer, Marinette hurried into the nearest corridor and pushed her way through the first door she could find. She pressed herself against it and squeezed her eyes closed, willing them to pass byâor if they did try to come in, perhaps her weight against the door might convince them it was stuck and buy her a little more time to flee.
With a racing heart, she listened to Lukaâs light and familiar footsteps reach the door. They hesitated, briefly, as the head of staff and Luka debated setting up in the parlor or the ballroom, uncertain if Lady Tsurugiâs desire for a quiet evening or Monsieur Agresteâs more lively agenda might win out. In the end, they did not open the door, and the footsteps began to fade.
Marinette let out a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes to get her bearings and found herself in a drawing room. The fire had been lit, but the lamps had not. The flickering shadows around the room illuminated a cherry-wood bookshelf, a few velvet chairs embroidered with twisting dragons, and an easel with a canvas that depicted a half-finished still life of a vase of irises, resting on a table draped in heath, the purple and pink bell-shaped flowers only just dashed with initial color.
And to her horror, Marinette discovered that she was not alone.
A young man with golden hair and emerald eyes stood near the fire, a booklet in hand, but halfway into his jacket, like he was in the middle of hiding it. Despite his fine dinner jacket and waistcoat, he looked just as panicked to see her as Marinette felt to be seen.
âIâm sorryââ she spluttered. âI was justâIâll goââ
But as his eyes took in her apron and smock, his shoulders relaxed. There was a small smile on his thin lips suddenly, rather than the scolding Marinette expected.
âItâs all right,â he said. âI was afraid you were one of my fatherâs servants sent to find me. It seems we both chose the same hiding place.â
Marinette warily returned his smile. âYouâre hiding?â
âSort of.â His smile turned sheepish as he set the pamphlet in hand down on a nearby table. Even across the dim room, Marinette could read the title âModern Dance Stepsâ and was able to make out an illustration of a young man and a young woman mid-motion. She had one just like it at home, and her bookletâs edges were equally worn from hours studying and practicing. But no amount of reading and practice had ever been able to make up for her natural clumsiness, despite Alya and Lukaâs best efforts.
âI can tell youâre a dedicated study,â she said.
His cheeks were bright pink now, and Marinette could feel her heart melting as his embarrassment rose.
âIâve never actually had a partner to practice with,â he admitted, âjust the instructions. Thought Iâd try to brush up quickly before my father insisted on a dance after dinner.â
Though it was a rather rude question, Marinette could not hide her shock. âYouâve never danced before?â
âErâthis is, technically, my first party.â
Marinette blinked and tried to reinterpret this boyâs age. Even she, as someone who worked two jobs to make a living, had been attending public dances since she had turned fifteen, and this boy certainly looked about as old as she was. While boys didnât debut the way girls did, they often received their education from attending parties before they were old enough to commit to any real relationships and while they were still young enough to make mistakes without causing scandal. Perhaps his parents had just kept him at home until he was old enough to start courting properly.
She remembered how embarrassed she had been at her first dance, tripping over her own feet and stepping on her partnersâ toes. It was Alya who had been her first practice partner and helped her learn the steps. Then it was Luka who had persisted in her education despite her clumsiness. Heâd even called her lack of grace charming once.
As much as that memory ached, she knew that she ought to pay back the kindness that had been given to her.
âWould you like a practice partner?â she asked.
âI couldnât impose.â
âItâs not an imposition at all. Everyone has to learn from someone else.â
He glanced down at the pamphlet then reluctantly took her hand. She was startled by how soft the pads of his fingers were. She was used to her own rough, calloused hands from years working with a rolling pin and pricking her fingers with needles. Lukaâs hands, too, had been worn by his harp strings and the wood of his violin, and Alyaâs from years of working in her motherâs kitchen. But this boy did not know work the way she and her friends did, and he never would. The heavy silver ring around his finger, probably a signet of some high station, was a clear sign that their paths were never meant to cross, and in all likelihood would never cross again.
She counted a rhythm for them to follow and led him through each stepâapologizing when she stumbled over her own two feet or misstepped herself. He had a catâs grace that she envied. In truth, it was unlikely he needed to practice with her, but as they moved about the room, she saw the tension in his shoulders drop and the tightness in his jaw relax. His soft smile even managed to make another appearance as they repeated the steps a fourth time.
âYouâre a natural,â she announced, before accidentally kicking her own ankle as she tried to step forward.
He laughed and caught her easily. âYouâre an excellent teacher.â
âPlease donât patronize me.â
âI will admit your practice is unpolished, but you know the steps well enough.â
Her count ended, and they came to a stop in the middle of the room. He bowed to her, and she took a step back in surprise.
Red colored his cheeks once more. âThat is how youâre supposed to end a dance, isnât it?â
âOh, of course,â she hastily dipped into her own curtsy. âYou just caught me off guardâI didnâtâI mean, Iâm not exactlyââ Marinette gestured helplessly at her apron.
âYouâre obviously not part of the household staff,â he said confidently. âI donât see the problem.â
âI work in a bakery,â she tapped the apron pocket with the embroidered wreath of golden wheat. âThatâs not really all that different. Itâs your first party and all; you shouldnât embarrass yourself by bowing to people below your station.â
âHow do you know Iâm above you?â
âPeople like me donât get invited to these sorts of parties.â
âWhat if I invited you?â
It was her turn to blush. âDonât be silly. Besides, Iâd only embarrass myself with my terrible dancing.â
âI wouldnât mind.â
âEveryone minds eventually.â Not that it had been her poor dancing that had driven a rift between her and Luka. It had just been one of many things that had soured between them.
âYou shouldnât say things like that,â he said, and reached for her hand. âMy mother says words are the foundation of any spell.â
Marinetteâs grandmother had taught her something similar. Incantation is the beginning of all intention, not the other way around. But she wasnât thinking about her grandmother in this moment. She was thinking about this boy and his soft hands against hers, and how she had not stood this close to a boy since Luka, how she had not been alone with a boy since Lukaâand how if anyone walked in on the two of them right now, her parents would have to leave town to escape the scandal this could ignite.
Hastily, she pulled away and curtsied again. âEnjoy your first party,â she said, âand whoever your dance partner is, I hope theyâre a bit more graceful than I am.â
Though it was rude of her, she didnât wait for him to reply. She hurried back out into the corridor, gathered her things from the kitchen, and left without speaking to anyone.
It turned out that she did not need her fire droplets to stay warm on her walk home through the cold winter night. Her racing heart and burning cheeks did the work for her, keeping her warm all the way back to the bakery and up to her attic bedroom. She completely forgot her plans to pick a fresh bundle of snowdrops from her garden to replenish what she had spent salvaging the tarts.
As she swapped her bakery apron for her heavier tinkerâs apron, Marinette stared dismally at the half-finished snow globe. At least that project didnât have a deadline. It was only a gift for Ninoâs little brother, who adored the first snowfall so much that sheâd thought an enchanted snow globe would make a lovely Christmas gift.
Marinette stifled a yawn and flipped through her ledger of projects. There was a pocket watch that needed repair, both in keeping time and in restoring the illusory message it was supposed to play each hour. She might need to ask Alya for help. Alya was the expert with illusions; Marinette was better at potions and charms. She did do glamors on occasion, particularly when she was given clothing repairs, but those were always small, and not designed to last for very long.
She fidgeted with the internal mechanisms of the watch for nearly an hour, but made little progress. Her mind kept drifting back to her dance that evening, to his hands against hers, to the gentle smile that tugged up the corners of his mouth, like he wasnât used to smiling and wasnât entirely sure it was allowed.
With a groan, Marinette set the pocket watch aside and tried to work on a pair of boots sheâd been asked to repair, in hopes that a less mentally challenging task would help. But it only made it easier for her mind to wander. As she pressed her needle into the leather, she remembered the young manâs soft hands. As she replaced the worn heel with a fresh one, she thought of his graceful steps. And as she stuck her tongue out and focused on weaving a self-tying charm into the laces, she remembered the way he had relaxed beneath her guidance, and how easy being with him had seemed.
Marinette tossed the shoe aside and threw herself down on her desk in frustration. She didnât even know the boyâs name, and it was probably for the best. He was from a world she did not belong to and never would. She would never see him again, let alone speak to him. That was the way it was supposed to be.
âââ
Marinette fell asleep at her desk, a myriad of projects strewn around her, each one half-finished in its own unique way. She woke to the scent of freshly baked bread.
While it wasnât every morning that she woke at her desk, it wasnât all that rare. With a groan, she sat up and stretched. She had berated herself time and again for falling asleep in her stays, but somehow she kept forgetting to properly put herself to bed at night. It was too easy to get wrapped up in projects and lose herself in her practice.
Falling into her bed was tempting, but a knock on the trapdoor of her attic bedroom reminded her that she had work to do.
âComing, Maman,â she managed through a yawn.
Marinette used the basin on her nightstand to wash her face and pressed a cool towel to the bags under her eyes. She had promised her parents that she would help with the morning crowds and evening deliveries during the holiday season. Winter wasnât their busiest time of yearâspring, with its banquets and debuts was worseâbut as both seasons had their share of parties and grand galas, her parents struggled to both fill large orders and meet the needs of their day-to-day patrons.
The only trouble was that winter was a busy time for Marinetteâs second job, too.
Each Saturday night, from sunset to sunrise, she worked at the Midnight Market, repairing the odd magical object or adding magic into something mundane, and winter nights were the longest nights. She had a steady flow of business, as evidenced by the projects piling up on her desk, but somehow, the work never seemed to be enough. Her small jar of savings, kept in hopes of one day opening her own permanent shop, had stagnated at about a third of the way full, hardly enough, much less evidence of enough consistent business to sustain such a shop.
Marinette rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stifled another yawn, and swapped her heavier leather apron out for her pink baking apron before descending into the bakery below.
She said good morning to each of her parents, assured them that last night had gone well, and began to fill the bread baskets. She did not tell them about the near-disaster with the fire droplets.
They found out anyway.
Shortly after lunch, a letter sealed with the symbol of the Tsurugi family arrived, and within minutes, Sabine was calling, âMarinette!â with a voice that was lilted in a way all too familiar to Marinette. There was both a question in it and a concern, and perhaps a little bit of an accusation.
Marinette looked up at her father for help, but he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the back of the shop. With heavy feet, Marinette trudged through the kitchen and into the back room. It was a mess of papers, order forms, calendars, to-do lists, and accounting ledgers, which had been disorganized long before Marinette had arrived in the world. She had inherited her organizational habits, just like she had inherited both magic and baking.
Marinetteâs mother, a petite woman with short dark hair, looked up from the letter in her hand.
âLady Tsurugi says she was quite pleased with our service.â
âOhâthatâs good news.â
âSheâd like to engage us again for her daughterâs engagement announcement.â
âThatâs⌠great?â Marinette had known her mother for far too long to believe she had been called back here for just a business arrangement.
âAnd she said the crisp floral flavor was unexpected but an excellent contrast to the tart orange.â
âAh.â
âWere you experimenting with recipes again? Marinette, we have discussed using potions on the ordersââ
âIt wasnât a potion! At least, it wasnât supposed to be. I just accidentally used fire droplets instead of orange zestââ
âFire droplets?!â
âBut I fixed it! With snowdrops. Itâs all fine, Maman. I know I messed up, but I took care of it. You donât have to worry.â
Her mother sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. âBe more careful,â but it was a worn out warning, repeated too many times of the years to hold much meaning, âplease.â
âOf course, Maman, I will.â But that promise, too, had been given time and again. Marinette did try her best to be cautious, but her clumsiness had a way of persisting like a bad penny.
âTom!â her mother called, and Marinetteâs burly father poked his head into the back room. âWhat do you think about adding something floral to the orange tarts?â
âI love an experimental recipe,â he replied with a broad smile.
Her parents debated which flowers might pair well with their orange tarts, and if they ought to try something similar with their berry tarts. It was a brief discussion of half-finished sentences and fragmented thoughts. Marinetteâs parents had been together for more than half of their lives, and most thoughts were known before they were voiced.
Her mother added a few types of flowers to their shopping list, snatched it off of the desk along with a small purse, and Marinetteâs parents left her to hold down the shop during the afternoon lull. Mornings, as mothers and housewives got together food for the day, and evenings, as those who worked all day and went home to empty beds and empty cupboards stopped in for something warm to keep them company, were the busiest times of day. Afternoons were for taking inventory, budgeting, and shopping.
And cleaning, which was exactly what Marinette was doing when, as she pushed open the door to sweep out the flour and dirt that had accumulated during the morning rush, a cat scurried inside.
Stray cats usually hung out at the butcherâs shop, and werenât really a problem for the bakery. This cat, however, seemed determined to get inside. He leapt over her broom, took a brief moment to get his bearings, then darted straight into the kitchen.
Marinette dropped the broom and chased after him. âYou canât be in here!â She couldnât imagine what her father would say if he found cat hair in the flour. At least it wasnât hard to follow the footprints through the thin layer of white dust that coated the floor. Though she couldnât actually see the cat, she could tell that he had crawled under one of the work tables.
She flopped down onto the floor and tried to get a better look at him. He was pure black with bright green eyes. There were no other markings that she could see, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a silver collar around his neck, so he must belong to someone.
âAre you lost, kitty?â she asked.
He didnât answerânot that she had expected him to.
She reached her hand back towards him, but he only inched farther away, careful to stay just out of reach.
âOh, come on. Wouldnât you rather have a sausage or some fish? We only have bread here. This isnât where you belong.â
But the cat did not budge. She wondered if the cat had just been looking for somewhere warm. The first snow hadnât come yet, but frost was starting to creep its way into the village. She pursed her lips and crawled backwards until she had the space to stand up. As she dusted off her apron, she ran through a list of ways to lure the cat out. In the end, she settled on the simplest option and reached for a bottle of milk.
As she poured the milk into a small bowl, the bell above the shop door jingled.
âComing!â Marinette called. She set the bowl down by the kitchen door, hoping to lure the cat away from cover so she could grab him quickly, then looked up and froze when she caught sight of the shopâs newest patron.
It was the very same young man she had met last night, standing in the bakery doorway looking as lost as if the wind had blown him in.
He glanced around the shop, eyes wary like the bread itself might leap at him from the baskets. He wasnât wearing the finery he had worn at Lady Tsurugiâs dinner, but she could still tell his clothes were expensive. The heavy fabric of his white waistcoat was perfectly tailored to his shape and decorated with both gold buttons and embroidered gray birds along the lapels. The shot silk scarf around his neck shimmered with blue and silver, and his black coat showed no sign of winter wear, as if it had been made new for this season. He certainly didnât look like the sort of person who hurtled into bakeries.
âWhat are you doingâI meanââ Marinette, fighting both her surprise to see this young man and the butterflies that had erupted in her stomach, struggled to find her words. âWhy are youâI mean, Iâm so sorryâHow can I help you?â
His eyes finally met hers and they did not look impressed with what they saw. She wondered if it was the wrinkled dress sheâd slept in or the perpetual bags under her eyes that suddenly displeased him. Perhaps heâd found her prettier or at least more palatable in the firelit parlor, and now in the light of day, she had turned plain and uninteresting.
âCat,â he said abruptly. âIâm looking for a black cat.â
âOh! Itâs yours then? I wondered with the collarââ
âWhere is he?â
Marinette swallowed, unsettled by his new brusque tone. If anything, sheâd been the rude one last night. Was he simply replying in kind?
âHeâs hiding under one of the tables in the kitchen. I couldnât reach him, but I just put out some milk. Heâll get hungry eventuallyââ
But the boy was already pushing his way past her like he owned the bakery.
âYou canât just barge inââ
âWhere did you say he was?â
Reluctantly, Marinette pointed at the table the cat had run to. She was beginning to think that if she was this boyâs cat, she certainly would prefer hiding in a bakery to going home.
He crouched down, but didnât lie on the floor as Marinette had. He seemed to have a bit more sense about dirtying his clothes than she did.
âDonât play this stupid game,â he snapped at the cat, and thrust his hand under the table. âYou know which one of us is going to get flayed alive if we donât go home right nââ He yelped suddenly and yanked his hand away. He clutched it against his chest as he straightened and grunted a curse under his breath.
Marinette could not help a startled gasp. âYou canât curse in here! Youâll keep the bread from rising!â
He turned his glare on her and she was surprised to see blood pearling on the back of his hand. His cat had gotten in a good scratch.
âDid your mother teach you that superstition?â
Marinette lifted her chin, annoyed by the sneer in his voice. âMy fatherâand my grandmother. Sheâs a witch, so I expect she knows best.â
The disdain in his eyes finally gave way to a mild curiosity. He tipped his head to one side and looked her up and down, like he was finally seeing her as another human being. But all he said was a rather rude, âHuh,â then looked at the saucer she had left by the door. âYou might as well toss that. He wonât go for it.â
Marinette ignored his advice. âWould he chase a ribbon?â
âIf heâs in the mood. He doesnât seem to be, though.â The boy glanced down at his hand and winced when he saw the blood had gotten onto his shirt. âMy fatherâs going to kill me.â He started to swear again, but at least he had the grace to bite it off before he finished.
Maybe the kind boy from last night was buried in there somewhere.
Marinette pulled a stool up beside the hearth of the fireplace, the warmest part of the kitchen. âSit. Iâll fix your shirt and get your cat.â
âYou canât fix a bloodstain.â
âYou canât, maybe.â
Marinette hurried upstairs and dug through her box of thread for a white spool, grabbed an embroidery needle, and double-checked the labels on her bottles of herbs. She wanted to be sure she grabbed the right one this time.
When she came downstairs, she found that the young man had accepted her offer of a seat. His eyes flicked quickly between her, the window, and the door. It reminded her of how panicked he had looked when she had first found him in the parlor last night.
She thought of the cat, diving for cover under the table, and this boy, checking doors and windows like something was on his heels. There was something to the way that fear lived in them both that unsettled her. Just as she had offered him the kindness of a dance last night, she would offer him all the hospitality she could here in her own familyâs bakery, even if he seemed resistant to accept her help.
âCoat off, please,â Marinette said, and set her things down on the worktable.
He hesitated, alert gaze still following her. But as she pumped water over a towel and grabbed a bowl of salt, he removed his coat.
First, she used her cloth to clean the scratch on his hand, then wrapped a scrap of fabric around it. When she was done caring for his wound, she reached for the buttons of his shirt.
âI promise Iâm not going to undress you,â she murmured.
He blushed bright red, just as he had last night, as she unfastened the golden buttons of his waistcoat then the smaller mother-of-pearl buttons of his shirt so that she could get at both sides of the blood stain. His posture was stiff while she blotted the stain, like he was sitting for an etiquette test, and he kept his eyes trained on the window. She wondered if heâd ever been alone with a girl before, or if there had always been a chaperone to observe him. Perhaps when she had met him last night, that had been his very first private conversation with any woman.
She and Luka had had their fair share of moments without chaperones. He would join her on a delivery or theyâd run into each other at the Midnight Market. Sheâd enjoyed their time alone, at least at first. But the well of personal conversations had eventually run dry.
She was never sure which of them had lost interest first, whether it was his irritation that sheâd had to reschedule one too many times because of work, or her annoyance with him for buying her one too many things she didnât need. He had wanted someone he could dote on, and she had wanted a partner and an equal. Somewhere along the way, the lengthy conversations had become a series of clipped answers, the linked hands while walking had become an obligation, and the goodbye kisses had transformed into a chore.
This boy beside her, however, probably didnât have any experience with that, certainly not if last night was his very first party. She wondered if he was so anxious because this was the very first time he had ever left his parentsâ sight.
Once the stain was good and damp, she rubbed salt into it and muttered a small incantation for luck, the first her grandmother had ever taught her. And while the stain faded, it did not fully disappear.
âI told you,â he muttered as she tossed the towel aside and reached for her spool.
âIâm not finished,â she said, with every shred of patience that she could muster.
She uncorked her jar of milkweed and picked up her spool. She pinched the thread between her fingers and let the rest of the spool roll to the floor until it came to rest next to the catâs hiding place.
When she began to rub milkweed along the length of her thread and did not go to retrieve her spool, he asked in a tight voice, âDid you need me toââ
âJust leave it,â she replied gently and muttered another incantation, this one for glamor.
She threaded her needle without bothering to pick up the spool of thread from the floor and began to carefully stitch around the edge of the blood stain. Each time she tugged a little more thread through the stitches, she glanced at the spool rolling around on the floor. On the third tug, a black paw reached out for the thread.
Marinette bit back a small smile and continued embroidering the white shirt with her white milkweed-dosed thread. While she worked, the boy beneath her hands fidgeted anxiously with the heavy ring around his finger. His eyes shifted between the window and the periodically appearing cat paws, but never once glanced back at her.
When the silence became unbearable, Marinette asked, âDid you enjoy your first party?â
âDid Iâwhat?â The shock and revulsion in his voice was so strong that Marinette very nearly stopped her work.
Instead, she swallowed and adjusted her question. âWellâdid you dance last night?â
He let out something like a laugh, if such a thing could be filled with despair rather than joy. âAbsolutely not.â
âOh.â The brusque nature of his reply left her speechless. She was used to frustrated and rude clients, but this boy was taking it a little far. Maybe this was just what all the gentry were likeâperfectly polite at parties, rude and irreverent the rest of the time.
She finished the outline of the small stain without pressing the conversation and worked her thread down the center of the stain, pleasantly surprised with the shape it had taken on.
When she was finished, she snipped the thread and, with expert timing, reached for the cat just as he reached for the spool. She caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out. He did not yowl at her nor try to scratch her, but he did let out a loud, plaintive meow and twist so that he caught his claws in her apron. She pressed him against her chest and stroked between his ears to calm him down. She was surprised to find, beneath his sleek coat, a dry and flaky skin that left white flecks in his furâor perhaps the cat had merely encountered a patch of flour on the bakery floor.
The boy examined her needlework with a disdainful glare. âIs that a butterfly?â
âItâs nice, isnât it?â she replied, careful to keep her voice light and ignorant of his rude attitude. âThe shape of the stain doesnât always work out to be something so fitting.â
âFitting?â
âI just thoughtâthe dancingâlast nightâyou said your fatherâso I thoughtâarenât you Monsieur Agresteâs son?â
âI am not his son,â he snapped with a vitriol sharp enough to make Marinette step back. The cat in her arms went still, too.
âOhâIâm sorry to have assumed. My mistake.â Marinette swallowed, unsure how else to respond to such unprecedented anger.
He, too, seemed to realize the inappropriateness of his outburst. His cheeks turned a deeper red and he kept his gaze low. âI donât think my fatherâs going to appreciate this any better.â
Marinette considered letting him walk out just like that, half-finished repair on his shirt. He deserved it, after his behavior this afternoon, but not only was a witch required to give all gifts with a kind attitude, leaving a job half-done was no good for her reputation.
âThereâs still one final step.â She pressed her fingers first to her lips then to the embroidery.
The thread of the butterflyâs wings lifted from his shirt, flapping delicately like a butterfly freshly emerged from its chrysalis. As it tested its new wings, the stain lifted a little with each flap. Then, as if carrying the stain off with it, the butterfly flitted away to the window. Marinette pushed open the pane and the pale butterfly disappeared into the city.
The boy ran his fingers over the place the butterfly had been. âI can still feel the stitches.â
âThereâs a glamor to hide them,â she explained. âDirect sunlight will still catch the threads, and glamors are rarely permanent, but it should last as long as the shirt will.â
His eyes drifted to the window again, as if he could still see the butterfly on the horizon. âSo that was what, for show?â
âBlood can be unpredictable. My father insists I avoid it, but sometimes it canât be helped.â
âYou work with bloodstains a lot?â
âAll sorts of stains. I have a stand at the Midnight Market and a lot of the repairs I do are for clothing.â
He hesitated for only a moment longer, eyes still on the window and a question pursed in his lips, but when the clock in the town square began to strike, he hurried into his coat. Marinette did not so much hand him his cat as he snatched his cat from her arms and ran from the bakery, nearly toppling Marinetteâs mother over on his way out.
âUnhappy customer?â her father asked with a concerned frown, catching his wife despite the loaded baskets on his arms.
Marinette stared at the door, as if she didnât quite comprehend that the boy was already gone. âHe just⌠he lost his cat.â
âWere you able to help him?â her mother asked as she took one of the baskets from her husband and set it on one of the shopâs tables.
âI think so.â
Her parents exchanged a concerned glance.
âAre you all right, Marinette?â her father asked.
âHm?â
âYou seem distracted,â her mother said. âWhy donât you head upstairs and get some rest. Your father and I can get this put away and take care of the evening crowd.â
Marinette insisted that she was fine. She helped her parents clean up the kitchen and sort through the shopping, but that was as much as they would let her help. Her father warned her that if she did not put herself to bed, he would carry her upstairs and tuck her in so tight it would take three men to get her out. With a tired laugh and a stifled yawn, Marinette agreed to get some rest.
She didnât so much remember to undo her stays this time as she automatically and distractedly unlaced the undergarment while turning over her strange encounter with the young man. Their first meeting had left her flustered, embarrassed, and a little giddy. This one⌠he had seemed so different, particularly so rude. Was he annoyed with her for abandoning him so suddenly after their dance last night?
She tossed her stays onto her desk and flopped down onto her bed in just her chemise. It didnât matter. She had run into him twice by coincidence. There was no world in which their paths crossed a third time.
One week until A Young Witch's Guide to Cats, Curses, and Courtship goes live!
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