Secret Royalty by Suzanne Jenkins
Prologue
With the shower still running, a persistent hammering got her attention, and she knew it was the postman. Their cat stared from the pillow where she was trying to sleep, and gave her the look.
“I’m sorry, Fiona! I wish you could answer the door.”
After pulling dirty sweatpants back on to cover her body, Eden Aubrielle ran to the front door of the apartment she shared with friend Joan Moultrie.
“What is it, Jimmy?” she cried through the wooden door, a sick feeling in her stomach.
“Certified letter,” his familiar voice said on the other side.
“But what is it?” she repeated. “Who would send me a certified letter?”
She knew though, and chills passed through her body like ice. The timing was right, and she’d sort of expected something soon. But it would still be a shock.
“Looks like something from a law office,” he said through a crack in the door. “It’s all fancy, and the postmark is from England.”
“England! Can you slip it under the door?”
In seconds, the letter appeared at her feet. While Fiona stepped on it, weaving around Eden’s legs, she stared at the envelope. Waves of something like heat seemed to be emanating from it. Hesitating, there was a distinct possibility that if Eden touched it, she’d know for sure.
“Just sign that green card attached to the letter, and send it back under.”
She reached for a pen on the hallway table, bent over and signed the card and, after carefully tearing it off without touching the envelope by stepping on it with her foot, slipped it back to Jimmy.
“Thanks,” she called out.
The return address was definitely from England. Mr. Benjamin Carole, Esq., 80 Eastern Road, Peterboro, Weyden, England BN5 6NW. She ran back to the bathroom to turn the shower off, leaving the letter on the hallway floor. Her day was packed already; adding intrigue to it would not improve her mood.
Back in the hallway, she stared down at the letter, afraid that it might confirm something she already suspected. In the kitchen drawer were pairs of rubber gloves. She’d pull a pair on in hopes that it would prevent her from learning what was in the envelope before it was open; experience had taught her that information was often transferred erroneously by touch and could be misinterpreted.
Bending down with Fiona under her arm, she studied the envelope again. Like heat waves off the pavement or a bad smell, she could still see something emanating from it. Slowly, slowly, she reached for it, like it was a live thing. The rubber gloves hampered the transfer of information and also made it difficult to get the envelope open without tearing the paper, and due to her OCD she didn’t want to do that. Back in the kitchen, she got a knife to use as a letter opener.
She put Fiona on the counter. With shaking hands, she stuck the point of the knife in a tiny opening at the corner and started to open the envelope, but chickened out, recognizing that the news within would be life changing without a doubt.
Her roommate, Joan, was still home; she’d heard her having a one-sided conversation in her bedroom earlier.
“Knock, knock. Are you still on the phone?”
“No. Come in,” she said, standing in front of her mirror with a hairbrush. “I’m forcing myself to go to the library this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t get the door. Who was that knocking?”
“Jimmy, with a certified letter for me. Now I’m afraid to open it. It’s from England.”
“England! Who do you know from England?” She finished with her hair and looked at the envelope Eden held, pointing to the address. “And why the rubber gloves? Is it that scary?”
“Yes, petrifying. It’s from my birth family, I think. Can you believe it? The Raleighs always said I was English. That my people were from England.”
Joan examined her critically. Eden was definitely not English.
“I think you’re French. You look French.”
“Joan, how the heck does someone look French?”
“Well, your name is French,” she replied, holding out her hand. “Let me see that thing.”
“Be careful with the envelope!”
“I’ll be careful.” Joan deftly opened the envelope with the knife and removed the letter. “Look at this paper. I didn’t think they used onion skin anymore!”
Skimming the letter, her eyes moved down its length as her lips silently moved.
“Read it out loud,” Eden begged. “Hurry up. You’re making me nuts.”
“Patience. You are going to freak out when you hear this.”
“Read it!”
“‘Dear Miss Aubrielle, I’m writing on behalf of my client, a gentleman who believes you may be his daughter. He wishes to stay anonymous at this time.’”
“My father!”
“Let me finish. ‘We are requesting that you complete two actions. First, please have DNA testing done at my client’s expense.’ He’s listed a choice of internet places you can use. ‘Secondly, after you have this form filled out and signed by a qualified person, return it in the enclosed envelope as soon as possible.’ It’s some kind of magic skills assessment.”
“Where the heck would I find a qualified person? The New Orleans Department of Magic?”
“How about the State Commission of Wizardom?”
Joan handed the second sheet of paper to Eden, who hesitated taking it from her, even with her hands covered. They looked at each other and then the sheet.
“This is weird.”
“Magical Gifts Assessment Tool,” Eden read out loud, frowning. “Is this for real? ‘Please check off all abilities that apply.’” She read down the list, and the only thing that popped out was ESP. “I only see one thing. Telepathy.”
“Give that to me,” Joan said, snatching it out of her hand. She read the list. “You have more than one. I see telekinesis…”
“That’s the only two, then.”
“No! You have empathy with animals. That annoying owl outside your bedroom window, for instance.”
“Okay, three.”
“I’m sure you have more. You’re clairvoyant, for sure. But I wonder why it’s important?”
“My birth parents must have magical powers, so I’d have to have them, as well.”
“You know this already, don’t you?” Joan asked. “You know they’re witches.”
“Yes, even through the rubber gloves, something tells me one of my parents is a witch, and I don’t think it’s my father, this dude from England.”
“But you might be on the way to meeting your father. Are you excited?”
“No! Where was this guy eighteen years ago?”
“Are you getting any vibes?”
“Get real. Vibes, through rubber gloves?”
“Take them off and hold the paper and see if you get any vibrations from it. Just do it for me.”
Eden took the paper back from Joan and placed it between her palms with her eyes closed. In two seconds, she fluffed it away from her, jumping a step back.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to do this,” she said.
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” Joan said. “Get ready!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve done okay without them, haven’t I? It feels like it might be too late. What if my dad is a homeless guy in London?”
“What? With a fancy lawyer? Get real, Eden. You’re just scared.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t do anything right now, okay? You’re in the minute-by-minute mode. As a matter of fact, you don’t ever have to do anything if you don’t want to. Just wait and see.”
“What a relief. That’s what I’ll do. I’m not going to do anything.”
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