Chapter Text
Talia climbs up her favorite tree in time for the best part of her day.
The rising sun peeks out over the Demon Skull and envelops the statue of the First Wizard King on top. A few minutes later, the light shines upon his open grimoire. He looks like he’s casting a spell to protect Hage Village.
This is the most powerful mage in the Clover Kingdom. But he’s a statue now, so it’s her turn.
Talia points at the Wizard King and declares, “One day, I’m gonna be the next you! Please watch me!”
Her voice bounces across Hilderic’s tatoe field, soars past Martha and Jane’s cabbage patch, and echoes through Old Man Mason’s barn, where the roosters crow in response.
She’s been declaring her dream louder each day, hoping the whole world will hear her. The First Wizard King saved the kingdom from the demon’s blazing inferno. And she wants to be just as cool. She wants to help everyone. To fix up the old church that she calls home, along with everything else that’s broken. To ask for her dearest Sister Lily’s hand in marriage.
Again.
Sister always says no, but it’ll be different once Talia’s the Wizard King. She’ll wear a long, sparkly cloak that billows in the wind, ride back from the Royal Capital on a white steed, and pull out a velvet box with a diamond ring inside. Sister will definitely fall for her then.
“Nobody cares!” a snide voice calls out from underneath the tree.
Missy, the seamstress’ daughter, is standing down in the clearing, one hand on her hip and the other smoothing out her dress. The dress is purple like her eyes and fits her like a glove, but the corset lace makes it look grown-up, more fit for a fifteen-year-old. Next year, Missy’s mother will wrinkle her nose and pass it off to the church like always. Then Talia will get a chance to look purple and grown-up, too.
“Hey! You’re up early!” Talia waves. It’s hardly the first time Missy’s made fun of her, but Father Orsi says there’s power in staying polite, and Talia needs all the power she can get.
“Well, you can’t even use magic,” Missy argues. “So… so that’s never going to work!”
Never? No. Missy doesn’t know that. Sure, Talia may be the only kid she knows who hasn’t shown a single spark of mana, but she’s got ten years before she’s old enough to get a grimoire. Ten years is a long time, so she’ll be patient.
“My magic will come someday, you’ll see! Then I’ll be like, whoosh, ka-pow!” Talia slashes the air like she’s battling a demon of her own. “Super sword blast!”
She almost falls off her branch when her last move sends her tipping over the side, but she grabs on and steadies herself in time. Oops.
Luckily, Missy hasn’t noticed the flub. She’s too busy frowning at the soles of her new ballet flats, which are now caked in grass and morning dew. “You only say that ‘cause you’re slow,” Missy says.
Slow? Talia’s not slow. She knows she can run much faster than Missy. They had a race once, and everyone saw it. Missy cried when she lost, and Talia felt bad and gave her an apple.
Meow!
Talia’s about to remind Missy about that day when the sound distracts her. There’s a ginger cat across the clearing, followed by someone that Talia is much happier to see. Yuno crouches to stroke the cat on the back and smiles when the cat wraps its tail around his arm.
“Yuno! Up here!” Talia waves from her tree.
The cat startles and leaps into Yuno’s arms.
“Oh, Yuno!” Missy turns around. “Want to come play house with us? We’ve got cornbread.”
Talia’s never had cornbread before, and playing house sounds fun… maybe. The other girls always say she “can’t” play, so it must be a magical game. Is that why Missy’s asking Yuno?
“Thanks, but I can’t,” Yuno says. “Laundry day.”
Oh, right, their chores! Talia should go home before Father starts searching for her.
Talia makes her way down quicker than usual, hanging from the base of the branch as her bare feet scrape against the rough bark on the trunk to find footholds in the dim morning light. The hem of her skirt snags on a branch, and she wiggles it off and jumps down the last meter to stick the landing.
“I’ll race you to the tatoe fields!” Talia calls out.
And she runs off, knowing that Yuno will follow.
♣
“You didn’t wanna play house?” Talia asks when Yuno catches up to her with the cat in tow. Laundry never takes the whole day, not when Yuno’s there to speed things up with his wind magic.
Yuno shakes his head. “Missy’s not very nice.”
His new friend, the cat in his arms, purrs in agreement.
“And who’s this?” Talia reaches out. “Kitty! Come here!”
The cat hisses and shrinks away from Talia’s hand, and Yuno takes a step back. “Her name’s Tiger.”
Tiger. What a cool name! Now, if only Talia can snuggle with that soft, cozy-looking fur—
She tries to pet Tiger again, and Tiger swipes at her with her claws out. Talia dodges and gets a closer look at the creature, who will be her new friend: ginger with brown stripes down her back and only one blue eye; the other socket is sewn shut.
“What happened to her eye?” Talia asks. “Was she hurt?”
“Don’t know.” Yuno scratches Tiger behind her ears. “Martha found her like this.”
“When’d she find her?”
“A few days ago.”
“So she’s like us! She should live at the church, not at the cabbage patch.”
“She can’t. They need her to catch mice. And Sister says we barely have enough food for us.”
Tiger continues to evade Talia for the rest of their walk home. But she’s perfectly happy to nestle in Yuno’s arms as she bats his pendant back and forth like a toy. Father says the pendant is a lucky stone, a gift from his birth parents. When Yuno is nervous or bored, he fidgets with it like what Tiger’s doing now. Maybe Yuno’s a cat, too. A human-cat.
All the animals in the village love Yuno, and it’s so very unfair. One day, Talia will get Tiger to like her, too. Then she’ll try again with the other animals, who always hide behind Yuno whenever Talia tries to be their friend.
“When I’m the Wizard King, I’ll catch all the mice for you, Tiger!” Talia declares. “And then you can come live with us! What do you say?”
They pass by Martha and Jane’s, and Tiger nudges Yuno’s arms with her paw. Yuno sets her down, and she leaps away, back to Martha and Jane’s, without giving Talia a response.
Talia will take that as a “maybe”.
But she won’t give up.
Rose gasps when she finds her little sister in the bath chamber with blood on her fingers and most of her beautiful hair scattered across the floor.
Mimosa had stolen a pair of scissors from the tailor who had come to adjust their gowns for the banquet this evening. After her fitting was done, before Rose or Mother could notice she’d left the room, she’d already cut her hair and nicked her fingers with the sharp blades. To Rose’s relief, the injuries are only skin deep.
Mother gets to work immediately as Mimosa begins to cry, cleaning and dressing the cuts before bandaging them in healing patches. The healing patches are made to look like honeybees. It’s a shame they’ll have to hide them from the guests; they blend in with Mimosa’s yellow gown.
You could’ve sliced your skin off, Rose wants to say. What were you thinking?
She stays silent on account of Mimosa’s teary eyes. It’s nearly impossible to get angry when the way she cries pulls at Rose’s heartstrings. Mother must be in the same predicament as she’s letting Mimosa cry on and on like a baby.
“Let’s see if I know any recovery magic, dear.” Mother peppers Mimosa’s hands with kisses. “How about now? Better?”
“Maybe,” Mimosa mumbles.
“You’ll have to teach me proper healing someday, then. So I can make that a yes.” Mother taps the tip of Mimosa’s nose. “Were you trying to cut your hair to be like Mama?”
If Mimosa were, then she’d done a poor job. Mother’s hair is a shoulder-length bob, even and immaculate, with the top portion pulled back in a bun this evening. But Mimosa’s hair is as short as a boy’s now, falling above her ears. To be fair, no one can cut the hair behind their head unless they have a useless attribute like scissor magic.
Mimosa nods after a long pause. “Sorry.”
Mother frowns at Mimosa’s hesitation but lets it go for now. “I’m happy that you’re so fond of how I look. But it hurts to see your little hands cut up like this. Next time, let Mama know, and I’ll help you, okay?”
“Okay.”
The guests are already making their way into the banquet hall downstairs. Mother must be sensing them, too—her mana detection is sharp, thanks to her air magic.
Rose taps Mother on the shoulder. “We need to—”
“Give us a moment, please,” Mother cuts her off.
Rose sighs and walks off to her room while Mother continues to coddle Mimosa. There’s no use rushing Mother when she gets like this, but Rose has given up complaining. Mother will just say, “you were like this when you were little, too, my dear”, or tell her to be patient. And no one is more patient than Mother—certainly not the guests who must wait on and on for all the Vermillions to arrive.
Mimosa calms down by the time Rose returns with some loose evening gloves and an illusion brooch that hides small imperfections. As endearing as the bee patches are, people will talk if they see Mimosa in such a state. Mother pins the brooch on Mimosa’s evening gown and helps her slip on the gloves. The illusion magic on the brooch hides the puffy red eyes, and the tear streaks down her face. It also smoothes out the uneven ends of Mimosa’s short hair, though it’s too weak to make it appear long and beautiful again.
“There.” Mother turns Mimosa around to show her reflection in the mirror. “All better. See?”
It’s really not. Mimosa may no longer look a mess, but her short hair feels out of place above her delicate dress.
“Thanks,” Mimosa says. “Sorry I made us late.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Sunflower. Now, I best be on my way.” Mother gives her hair and makeup a once-over in the mirror before she walks out. “You two alright on your own?”
“Of course, Mother,” Rose says. “We won’t be long.”
Rose will help Mimosa pick out the best shoes, then get on with the evening. The brooch can only do so much, but if Mimosa wears anything more drastic, the guests will sense the illusion magic and spread rumors about both sisters. The last thing Rose wants is for someone to denounce her beauty as the work of a charm, too.
♣
Only twelve houses are invited to this evening’s banquet, so all eyes turn to Rose and Mimosa when they enter the hall. Rose holds her head high and guides Mimosa through the whispering crowd, and dazzles the guests with her well-practiced smile as the rhinestones on her dress catch the light of the sunset through the windows. Leonard, their grandfather, glowers at them before he goes back to boring his guests with his spiel on what makes a proper captain and why he’s the greatest example of such in this room. The adults follow his cue and leave Rose and her sister alone.
“Good morning, Lady Tracy. Lady Nebra,” Rose says as they approach the girls’ table.
Mimosa parrots her greeting, and their guests respond in kind.
It feels strange for Rose to refer to her cousin Nebra as “Lady”, but in the presence of their Heads of House, she maintains the proper decorum. Nebra also holds her tongue as she raises an eyebrow at Rose’s gown. The color of Rose’s gown walks a fine line—it’s coral, both orange and pink, but pink is a Silva color. Still, Nebra can never pull off coral the way Rose can, so Rose may as well wear it for both of them.
Rose settles herself into the head seat before the back wall, facing into the room with a clear view of all the guests. She draws her two guests into a conversation about Lady Giselle Dimont’s wedding to House Reinhardt in two weeks while Mimosa squirms in her chair at Rose’s right-hand side. Weddings are one of Rose’s favorite occasions. If the hosts have good taste, they will humbly request for Lady Rose Vermillion to sing, as the Reinhardts did. And more importantly, Rose will get another chance to be extravagant, so long as she doesn’t wear white.
“Say, Lady Tracy,” Nebra addresses the other girl at their table when the topic of dances and their preferred partners for said dances come to a lull. “Any plans for your own big day?”
“Oh, yes!” Tracy brightens. Well, brightens is a generous term. Her dress is a stormy gray that blends into her mousy brown hair and washes out her complexion, but she does perk up a little. “I’ll be visiting the grimoire tower on my birthday in September.”
Nebra simpers. “I meant your wedding with Lord Markus.”
“Oh.” Tracy’s shoulders sink. “October Thirty-First.”
A wedding on Samhain? Tracy may as well offer her soul to the giant demon!
It can’t bode well to have the ghosts of everyone’s loved ones watch over the start of a marriage. Only a few lowly witches can tamper with ghosts, so to the Noble Realm, they’re nothing but bad omens. Markus’ side must have chosen this date. House Nemes has never been one to care about superstitions. But Tracy apparently does, as she busies herself with rearranging her forks instead of elaborating on her wedding plans. Mimosa stops fidgeting to stare at Lady Tracy with a frown.
“What about your honeymoon?” Nebra asks, not keen to let Tracy get off so easily. “Wait, let me guess. Cresden Isles? Everyone’s been buzzing about their coconut rum cake.”
“Neb-I mean, Lady Nebra, is Noelle coming?” Mimosa interrupts.
Tracy’s sigh of relief isn’t lost on anyone, and Nebra scowls. But Rose lets it go. It’s not as if she cares to hear about Tracy’s dull honeymoon.
Nebra rolls her eyes at the mention of her sister. “I’m afraid she’s ill.”
Noelle must have flooded Silva Castle again, which is mortifying at nearly five years old. It’s times like this when Rose appreciates her little sister, blunders and all. At least Mimosa’s magic has never brought shame to their house.
“Oh,” Mimosa says, taking Nebra’s word for it. “Tell her I said ‘feel better’.”
“Of course,” Nebra humors her.
As food is served, Rose steers the conversation back to weddings before Mimosa can derail the whole evening. The bread keeps Mimosa from talking for a good while, and Rose draws Nebra into a tiff over floral arrangements as they work through the hors d’oeuvres.
But with the possibility of her favorite cousin’s company out the window, Mimosa only stays quiet until halfway through the main course. “Lady Tracy? What kind of spells are you hoping for?”
Rose nearly groans as Tracy’s eyes sparkle for the first time this evening. Tracy’s been unusually quiet today, but magic—especially her own magic—is a surefire way to break her out of her shell. Tracy molds her clay magic into the shape of a small dog. “I can make figures of things I understand,” she rambles. “This is a beagle I had when I was little, and I can make it move like he did. I can’t guarantee what form my spells will take—the grimoire chooses the mage, you see—but I’m hoping I’ll have something to make my copies realistic, so they won’t be…”
“Brown?” Mimosa suggests with a giggle.
“Exactly.”
Tracy’s dog doesn’t bark, but that’s not much of a consolation, given what happens next. Mimosa inches her seat closer to examine the thing, scraping her chair’s leg against the floor tiles in the process. A few adults close to their table turn to stare, but Leonard is too busy ranting about the fussy accountant at the Magic Knight Headquarters to notice.
Nebra gives Rose a look, a silent plea for her to put an end to this farce.
“That’s enough, you two,” Rose hisses.
“Sorry, sorry.” Tracy sets the little beagle on her lap, out of sight from the prying eyes of the other guests.
It’ll be better if Tracy dispels her magic. But with such a drab air about her, Rose can’t blame Tracy for taking pride in her natural talent, even if her magic may as well be mud magic with a more polite name. Tracy had been chosen to represent House Gareth in the Silver Eagles before the last-minute betrothal ruined her plans. Now, her house is sending her lazy brother Derog in her place.
So, on account of Tracy’s impending marriage, Rose allows this indulgence, just as she allows Mimosa to neglect her meal and keep staring in awe at the muddy little thing on Tracy’s lap because Mimosa finally seems to be cheering up.
“Your control’s really good,” Mimosa says.
“Thank you, Lady Mimosa.”
“I bet your spells will be amazing.”
“That’s quite the compliment. I’m honored.” Tracy catches Rose’s eye and bows her head. “But enough about my magic.”
Rose is relieved when Tracy vanishes her beagle and frees this table from the scourge of her attribute. She is so relieved, in fact, that she doesn’t intervene when Mimosa decides to demonstrate her magic instead of deferring the conversation back to Rose.
Mimosa caresses the leaf of a potted plantain lily that sits in the corner. Through her gloves, her magic flows out like a gentle stream to restore the wrinkled leaves and make them plump and green again. Tracy watches Mimosa work, transfixed. And though Nebra ignores the display in favor of her steak, Rose takes the time to appreciate Mimosa’s plant magic. It’s not as exquisite as Rose’s cherry blossom magic, but Mimosa’s magic leans toward recovery, and there’s beauty in turning ugly plants back to their former state.
However, the beauty of Mimosa’s magic is short-lived as she notices something at the stem and gasps. She hops out of her seat to grab it and place it over her fingertip. Then she turns to show off her treasure with a triumphant grin and exclaims, “Look, a snail!”
This time, her voice draws the attention of the entire room.
♣
Leonard Vermillion Sr. is not a tall man. Rose’s cousin Fuegoleon has outgrown him by the tender age of thirteen, and as an adult, Fue is now well over a head taller. But Rose and Mimosa are dainty like Mother, so Leonard still towers over them all as he rounds them up into his office after the banquet’s over.
When Leonard’s irritated, the scorching aura of his flame magic flickers on and off like a candlestick, but when he’s furious, his mana fills the entire room and leaves everyone stewing in its heat. Rose braces herself for Leonard’s tirade as sweat beads down her neck. It’s not befitting of a royal to cower, but if Fue is here, Rose will be tempted to throw her dignity to the wind and use her cousin as a shield. Mimosa must be feeling the same as she lingers by Mother’s side, holding her hand.
“Don’t show up late, I said.” Leonard bangs his fist on the desk behind him. “That’s all I asked!”
He points a shaky finger at Mother, who bears his wrath without flinching. It doesn’t matter that he’s angry at the child who’s hiding behind her. Mother is the outsider who has married into House Vermillion. Anything her daughters do wrong is her fault.
“But you did! And it was far from the worst thing you’ve done! Does that make you proud? Are you so happy to humiliate us?”
“I’m sorry, Grandfather.”
Rose is surprised when Mimosa speaks. More so when she lets go of Mother’s hand to stand on her own. And despite the tears brimming in her eyes, Mimosa holds herself with the same poise as Rose and Mother do.
“Grandfather.” Leonard scoffs. “I don’t remember being related to such a disgrace.”
He scowls at Mimosa like he can see her disheveled state right through the illusion. Then he sets his beady eyes on Rose, and Rose waits with bated breath as Leonard appraises her: the elegant curls that cascade down to her waist, the lip gloss and mascara he’s ordered her to wear since her tenth birthday, all the way down to the stiff ballerinas that pinch and blister her feet.
“Look at your sister. That’s what I expect.”
The compliment feels like a slap on Rose’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Mimosa sounds on the verge of tears.
The room continues to swelter from Leonard’s magic. Sorry is never enough.
“You’ve made a mockery of our banquet! Defiled yourself with the likes of vermin!” His voice cracks at the last word as his face flushes as red as his hair.
Mockery? Mockery is a bit much. The commotion at the banquet was a disruption at best. Leonard had stopped little Leo with a glare as he was about to sprint over to check out the snail, and Solid hadn’t cared to leave his seat at all. And the adults and the girls had turned back to their dinners in a matter of seconds. There’s no way the noble circle will buzz for weeks about Mimosa Vermillion’s “bug incident”, especially with Lady Giselle’s wedding in September and Lady Tracy’s to follow.
Leonard bears down on Mimosa. “I can wed you off to Piers Grendel if you insist on besmirching yourself! Is that what you’d like?”
Even Mother can’t help but recoil at that name. The Grendels are notorious for treating their women like peasants, and Piers is already one of the worst offenders at fifteen. And all Grendel wives must surrender their family names, so Mimosa will be as good as disowned. They’re the lowest of the low, barely residing at the edge of the Noble Realm. Leonard will sooner kiss Augustus Kira’s boot than associate with House Grendel. But the empty threat is enough to scare the words out of poor Mimosa.
“No, sir. We’re sorry,” Mother says on Mimosa’s behalf. “It won’t happen again.”
With a weary sigh, like he has finished a great battle instead of scolding a child, Leonard leans back against his desk and dismisses them with a wave. “Get out.”
♣
Mimosa waits until they’re upstairs before she lets her tears fall. Rose gives Mimosa’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as she steers her forward, following Mother’s lead. Father’s door stays closed as they walk past, but the dry telltale of his mana traipses inside his room in a drunken stupor. They pay him no mind as they hurry into Mother’s room next door, and Mother casts an air vacuum over the walls and floor and ceiling in case the walls have ears.
“I’m s-sorry,” Mimosa says once they’re free from eavesdroppers. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—to—”
She’s crying too hard to finish her sentence.
“Oh my dear.” Mother lowers herself to Mimosa’s height. “Come here.”
Rose sits primly on the bench at the end of the bed and waits while Mimosa buries her face in Mother’s chest and cries. What’s been up with Mimosa lately? She used to be an agreeable child who smiled at everyone, even the servants. And the etiquette lessons she’d started in spring—the same lessons that turned Rose into a proper royal—seem to have made her worse.
“Don’t you worry about Leonard.” Mother runs a soothing hand up and down Mimosa’s back. “There’s no way he’ll wed you off to Grendels. He’ll find something else to blow a fuse over by tomorrow.”
This all could’ve been avoided if Mimosa had kept her mouth shut. It’s one thing for her to ramble on about bugs when the three of them are alone, though Rose will never understand her love for everything related to plants, even the revolting critters that feed on them. But a banquet is neither the time nor the place to be yelling about a snail. Surely Mimosa must know that!
But she’s been punished more than she deserved by Leonard screaming at her, so Rose won’t rub salt on her wound. “For what it’s worth,” Rose says instead, “I don’t think you’re an eyesore. You actually look quite nice.”
At the mention of her atrocious hairstyling attempt, Mimosa finally lifts her face from Mother’s chest. Mother turns and gives Rose a grateful smile, and Rose shrugs. Perhaps it’s how Mimosa carries herself with the literal weight off of her shoulders, but now that Rose is getting used to the short hair, it looks right.
“You’re right, Rosebud.” Mother cradles Mimosa’s cherub cheeks in her hands. “It rather suits her, doesn’t it?”
“Really?” Mimosa asks.
Rose tuts her tongue. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“One time you,” Mimosa sniffles, “you said I was born with silver hair and—and you dyed it with marigolds so Leonard won’t know.”
How did she even remember that? Rose chuckles at the retort and takes in the sight of her mother and sister standing face-to-face. They’re practically identical, save for the different colors of their hair. Mimosa takes more after the Silva side that Mother brought to this family. She has even inherited their late Aunt Acier’s clumsiness, a quirk that Mother seems so fond of despite how inconvenient it must be.
“I’ll tell you what.” Mother pulls her hands back from Mimosa’s cheeks. “Let’s give it a few days. Wait for Leonard to be in a better mood. Then I’ll ask if we can keep your hair shorter. How’s that?”
It’ll be difficult. Leonard has only accepted Mother’s shoulder-length hair because it’s silver, not the distinctive Vermillion Red that Father passed on to Rose and Mimosa. Still, knowing Mother, she’ll find a way.
“Okay,” Mimosa mumbles.
But she’s far from okay. Rose can sense Mimosa’s mana churning in the pit of her stomach in restraint. As Mother takes off the brooch with the illusion, they witness the full extent of her magic, slowly but surely spilling out of her little body. Small, yellow flowers with fuzzy-looking petals—mimosas—are growing all over her hair, twisting and coiling around the now uneven locks.
This isn’t good. Unlike Noelle, Mimosa has never lost control of her magic. And after what happened at the banquet, they can’t afford another incident.
Mother tugs off the gloves over Mimosa’s hands and taps the bee patches around her fingers. “What else is bugging you, Sunflower?”
Mimosa lets out a wet chuckle at the pun, and the mimosa flowers around her hair begin to fade. “They’re insects, not bugs.”
“I see. I’m learning so much,” Mother goes along with her. “Can I learn what’s been upsetting you, too?”
“You won’t like me anymore.”
“We will,” Rose says immediately, surprised at how much she means it. There’s something about seeing Mimosa upset that makes Rose want to forgive everything. “Tell us what it is. We’ll work it out.”
“Your sister’s right,” Mother says. “I’ll never change my mind. My baby girls are my greatest gifts.”
“But I’m not.” Mimosa shakes her head. With a deep breath, she clenches her fists in resolve, and the last mimosas vanish. “I’m not your baby girl, Mama. I’m a boy.”