Page 3 of Night of Death and Flowers

I sigh, and I climb my eyes to meet hers. “Coward.”

Eren’s thin lips curve as she leans back, shaking her head when we both let out a clipped laugh. “Your father will have my head.”

I roll my eyes, then tug Arabella closer. “Hear that, Ari?”

I direct my words to my sister, whose eyes brim with anxiety as the night darkens and the blanket of stars glitters.

“He would never,” she snaps, then pulls her hand from mine, crossing her arms. “Excuse us, Eren. You have a uh… lovely display of… medicines?”

“Poisons,” Eren corrects, then smirks at me. “Suppose I should be grateful your father won’t allow his daughter to become a potioneer.” She points a long finger at me as my sister ushers us along. “Might put me out of business. Ya got talent, child.”

“See, Ari?” I tease. “Someone thinks it is a talent.”

“Goodnight, Eren,” my sister says, then pushes me toward the Weaver’s tents erected outside of the Grumpy Gurger Tavern. Once we’re out of earshot, her scent of vanilla and jasmine wafts towards me as she leans in and whispers, “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

I shrug. “Eren’s harmless. I wasn’t actually going to buy any.”

“No,” Ari says, her full lips slanted. “But you would buy ingredients for your own collection.”

I swing the coin purse, then tuck it away inside the bosom of my dress, guildre and libren coins jingling inside. “It isn’t against our laws,” I point out.

“It isn’t,” she concedes, huddling closer, and pulling the hood of her dusky-purple cloak over her head, her golden curls tumbling down either side of her heart-shaped face. “However, it is frowned upon. Let us hurry, please. I want to see everything before Mother discovers we have snuck out.”

“She won’t check on me,” I say, casting a glance at Ari and gauging her reaction. She rolls her eyes. It is uncanny how she shares the strongest resemblance to our mother, with her golden hair and violet eyes, yet is nothing like her.

However, I look most like our father, with blue eyes and chestnut-brown hair, and according to Ari, I’m just as stubborn as he is. Our two youngest sisters are somewhere in the middle. Cecilia, the youngest, took on mother’s violet eyes, but father’s dark hair and sharp features while Emilia inherited Mother’s blonde waves, paired with her soft, dainty features.

I wiggle my fingers as the deadly magic threatens to surface again, and I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts of our mother, itching at the crevices of my mind.

“Look,” Ari squeaks from beside me, and I trail my gaze to the opening of the main area of the market, with erected wood pillars reaching twenty feet in the air, tapestried with a canopy of silver and blue, woven from the fabrics of those skilled in embroidery and animation magic. The dream magic pulsing through every thread dances in purples and blues.

My breath catches in my throat as we enter. I may hate everything about The Harvest, but the elders truly have put on quite a show.

“Father didn’t tell us it would be this spectacular,” Ari announces as we walk past hordes of witches, all coming from different covens, wearing the colors and sigils of their gods with pride.

“No,” I state, drawing Ari close. “He’s good at keeping secrets.”

I scan the witches, noting the colorful fashions. We are not required to dress in the colors of our coven, just as Ari and I are not wearing the colors of Essentria, the Goddess of Creation. But tonight, it seems everyone is dressed in the colors of their covens—various shades of green shimmer over the fabrics and skin paint of those in Cyna’s coven, their discerning eyes evaluating the stalls lining the sides of the cobblestone street, transformed by this large tent. Members of our coven are distinguished by their gold adornments, a stark contrast to the black and silver worn by those in Azkiel’s coven, the God of Death.

The dream witches, practicing Astraea’s magic, the Goddess of Dreams, are beautiful in various shades of blue. Concurrently, those in Volan’s coven, the God of Will, are bold and frightening in deep shades of red and orange, their warrior glares softened by the gentle glow of flickering lanterns.

Nyxara’s coven stands out above the rest. The witches walk, adorned with the color attributed to destiny—purple. Their orb-like eyes wander, as if they’re lost in thoughts and futures we cannot see.

A symphony of laughter and melodies erupts into the night from strong musicians accompanying us as we hurry through the labyrinth of teeming crowds. I inhale sharply, slowing my pace as we pass a crowded booth, peering over the shoulders of a group of witches. Cauldrons simmer with potions, bubbling in a kaleidoscope of colors, creating a mesmerizing dance of smoky swirls that interweave with the enchanting aroma of herbs and incense.

“So beautiful,” Ari states as we stop by a stall filled with enchanted talismans. The gold chains and glistening gems lay on top of the vibrant tapestry covering the vendor’s table. He waves us over, his weathered hands covered in silver rings, welcoming us with golden eyes, twinkling with a hint of mischief.

“This’ll look pretty around your neck at your witch ball,” he tells Arabella, and I shake my head.

“She’s already had her ball, four years ago,” I state, and before he can shove another amulet under our noses, I swiftly pull my sister to the booth next to his, where the most mouth-watering aromas permeate the air.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Do I really look sixteen?”

“No,” I say with a laugh.

I turn my attention to a young woman handing out pastries to two witches dressed in dark, floor-length robes. They walk away after handing over their coin, leaving the booth empty save for the two women standing behind it. They share the same raven-black hair and blue eyes, so I assume they are mother and daughter. I notice they’re both adorned in the golds of Essentria’s coven.

“Ooo,” Ari coos, leaning over the stall, a mosaic of culinary enchantments.

---