Enchanted by Alethea Kontis Page A

sleep.
    Poke. “All the eligible ladies in the land are invited. If you are very good and do all your chores, I will let you go.”
    Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than attend some boring political event. She’d rather spend her time visiting Grumble at the well. “Have fun without me.”
    She felt the pages of her book slip from beneath her cheek. Sunday reached out to grab it, but Mama was too quick.
    “You will go to market today and sell that golden bauble,” Mama ordered. Sundays eyes never left the book her mother held hostage. “Take Trix with you; he needs to make his amends as well. In addition to what we already require, purchase whatever Friday needs to fashion dresses for you girls. She’s in the kitchen right now, making a list. Thank the gods for Thursday’s foresight.”
    Or thank Fairy Godmother Joy for Thursday’s magic spyglass. Or thank Grumble, whose golden bauble had saved them all. Or thank Sunday, who had made such a worthwhile and generous friend—but she was too distracted to argue.
    “When you return, you will do your chores and Friday’s for the next three days. At the end of those three days, you will attend the balls.”
    “All three?” Sunday whined.
    “All three.”
    “What does Papa say?” With the horrid royal family involved, Sunday couldn’t imagine her father letting the issue go without a fight.
    “Your father has no say in this. Every girl in the country has been asked to attend; every eligible man of means will find an invitation. I don’t care if it is that awful prince’s doing. This may be my girls’ only chance to snare a decent husband, and I will see at least one of you happily engaged before the week is out. Do I make myself clear?”
    Sunday couldn’t imagine anything “happy” coming out of this, but she nodded as Mama slipped the book into her pocket.
    “Sunday.” Mama’s voice had changed. Startled, Sunday’s eyes left the pocket that held her book prisoner. “You don’t want to live here all your life, do you?” Mama’s words had a singsong lilt to them.
    “No.”
    “Please. Just do what I ask, and I will let you have your diary back before you go to bed every night. But I will take it away again every morning. Understand?”
    “Yes, Mama.” Sunday felt her mother’s weight leave the bed. She could still smell the flour on her apron, or she might not have believed Mama had been there at all. For the first time in almost sixteen years, her mother had actually spoken
to
her, and not just
at
her.
    Sunday dressed in a daze and picked up the golden ball from the table. She held the cold metal to her breast and thought fondly of her friend. Then she slipped the ball into her pocket and went down to collect her brother and sister.
    The storm had not spared the Wood. Huge lengths of path were covered with branches, leaves, and mulchy detritus. Papa said that thunderstorms were caused by fairies upsetting the balance. Balance was imperative in magic; an imbalance could tear the very fabric of the world apart. So fairies never took a child without leaving a changeling in its place. They would reward one person and then punish someone else. When only one powerful fairy spell was cast or broken, it upset the balance. The storms were a way to get the gods’ attention.
    Wednesday had commented at dinner that it hadn’t stormed this badly since Monday went away. Of course she used more flowery words than that; she didn’t say it so much as imply it, and it
rhymed
...but Mama understood her perfectly. She had told Wednesday to leave the table and go up to her room, in exactly those words. Mama was not flowery.
    Sunday followed Trix over a large boulder to avoid a splintered tree. She was too young to remember Monday’s storm, but she would remember this one. Godseen or not, it had certainly caused a ruckus.
    Friday twittered all the way to market, as if Sunday and Trix cared anything about threads or buttons or ribbons. Trix