Page 32 of Shattered Stars
“It isn’t cursed, is it?” Winnie asks, eyeing the parcel with suspicion. “Someone did check?”
“‘Course they did,” the groundsman grumbles, dropping his load and swiftly marching away.
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t something sinister inside,” Winnie says as I close the door. “Remember that ham?”
“I’d rather not,” I say, trying not to vomit.
We both edge towards the parcel and peer down at it. Then Winnie squeals, her hands flying to her mouth.
“What?” I say.
“It’s fromColette’s.”
I place my hand on my hip and give my friend a hard stare. She knows that means nothing to me.
“It’s this super glamorous department store that all the rich magicals shop at. Practically everything Summer, Aysha and the others wear is from there – right down to their panties.”
“I told him no designer,” I say.
“Who? The man in black?”
I nod.
“Nonsense, it’s about time he bought you something. He’s a Kennedy–”
“–an estranged Kennedy.”
“I bet he still has more money than the two of us put together.”
“That isn’t hard.”
“Just open it.”
I sink to my knees. I may be putting on an indifferent show for Winnie, but inside I’m super excited. We never had much money for presents at home. Birthday gifts consisted of whatever my aunt had managed to trade, scavenge or craft. I don’t think I’ve ever had new shop-bought in my entire life.
I tear open the brown paper, revealing a lavish-looking velvet bag below with an embroideredColettelogo.
“God, even their packaging is beautiful,” Winnie swoons.
Carefully, I drag open the golden zipper, finding layers of tissue paper beneath. I peel these back too, and what emerges from the soft dusty pink sheets of paper are dark-jewel colors of silk.
“Oooo,” Winnie says, dropping to her knees and watching as I lift several pairs of panties from the parcel – each one beautifully crafted with lacy thrills or pretty ribbons. “Those look like they belong in an art gallery.”
“Exactly, I won’t ever be able to wear them. They’re too beautiful.”
“Oh, you are wearing them, Rhianna Blackwaters, and binning every other pair of grotty panties you own.”
“My panties are not grotty,” I say, offended.
“Are they this beautiful, though?” she asks, lifting another three pairs from the package.
“Has he only sent me panties?” I mutter.
“No, look,” she says, “matching bras.”
The bras are somehow even more beautiful than the panties. I take one from Winnie’s hand and stroke my fingers over the soft silky material.
I’m almost mesmerized by the design of it, but then Winnie laughs and I drag my gaze away.
