The Destiny Detour

Introductions

Rosaliy

Rosaliy ran her pencil down a list of new names. Those loops, curves, and edges held so much excitement —so full of new stories and unforeseen potential.

"Chasma?"

"That's me," said the bright-eyed girl with the wispy curls.

Pencil checkmark.

"Viola?"

"Right here." Viola's timid response was a shy half whisper.

Check.

"Illona?"

An explosion punctuated by half a dozen shrieks brought attendance screeching to a halt.

Such an incident required immediate investigation, so Rosaliy scooted her handful of confused young girls toward the disturbance. They did not have far to travel to find the source—a huddle of blond heads in the middle of a grisly scene at the entryway to the palace. Sprayed across the front staircase and a different handful of slightly older spluttering children were the remains of a pulpy fruit. If Rosaliy had to guess, she would have guessed something in the squash family.

Introduction Day had suddenly become much more interesting for her new students. Rosaliy's young girls hung back, agape, watching orange pulp slide down a banister and ooze onto the floor.

She wanted to laugh, but instead, she crossed her arms and fixed a serious expression on her face, one befitting the Sorceress in charge of the early magical training of impressionable young girls.

"What happened here?"

A sea of little blond heads parted for her, revealing at its heart two heads of dark hair streaked with orange goop. She should have known. Without a word, the boy pointed a finger at the girl who was in front of a charred smudge—the epicenter of a sticky explosion.

"Tansy," Rosaliy chided with a mix of patience and disapproval that seemed appropriate to the situation. "What did you do?"

The dark-haired girl rushed into an explanation. "I needed to turn a pumpkin into a coach, like the story. I know it would have worked, except all Zetta could find was a butter gourd, so that's probably what the problem was."

The little girl put her hands on her hips and glared disapprovingly at the black smudge on the ground where the naughty gourd had been.

"Oh, this is the gourd's fault, is it?" said Rosaliy, dangerously on the edge of laughter.

"Must be!" she agreed emphatically. "Because by the time it was big enough to turn into a carriage, it just...well...you see. Boom!" Her small orange-streaked hands pantomimed the catastrophe.

Boom was right. A pile of slimy seeds dropped on Rosaliy from the ceiling. As amused as she was by this catastrophe, the timing was awful.

"You'll have to clean up this mess," she told Tansy.

The girl's green eyes lit up, and her hands rose.

"By hand," Rosaliy quickly elaborated. "Not magic. And you'll all need to help if we're to have this cleaned up by the time the emissaries arrive."

Tansy was popular enough to weather the storm of an unjust punishment inflicted on her friends. Perhaps her little co-conspirators would even make an effort at being the voice of reason next time, not that reason would have much effect on Tansy.

Tansy's pale face scrunched up, and she whined, "Can't the servants just—"

"Don't you finish that sentence, or you'll be explaining it to your mother," Rosaliy threatened. "You know how busy they are preparing for all the guests."