Chapter 1: The Letter

On the Continent, where humans and magical beings live side by side, I wear a human disguise and try to get by. My father, Harold, refuses to tell me anything about where my birth mother is. My stepmother, Margaret, and my half-sister, Emily, call me a bastard nobody wants. They say my birth mother ran away with some other guy.

I don't buy it.

I like to imagine that my mother has magical blood in her veins, and that someday she'll show up on a beautiful broomstick to take me away. But I've been clinging to this daydream for twenty-two years now, and I'm still just a nobody living off the Johnsons' charity.

This morning, the sky is gray and gloomy. Father, Margaret, and Emily are heading to afternoon tea at Holles Estate. Good things like that never come my way.

Margaret snaps at me: "Mop the floors and clean the windows before we get back, or you're not eating dinner."

She's keeping my passport locked up. I can't go anywhere. Every weekend, she makes me come home. And this so-called homecoming is really just me being their maid.

I've been working as a hand model for a fashion company lately, so I've got some extra money coming in and I'm not exactly broke. I've already figured out how to take care of my hands.

I look down at the worn-out, pilled sweater I'm wearing and answer quietly.

Right then, my half-sister Emily, dressed in a fancy gown and carrying a bag of gloves, walks out of the storage room where I sleep and crushes the last bit of hope I had left.

She looks smug. "Mom, Thelma, this unwanted bastard, stole my allowance to buy these things. She's trying to get out of work!"

My face goes stiff, and anger wells up inside me. Emily is a year younger than me.

She has a closet full of beautiful clothes, while I have to wear her hand-me-downs. The new clothes Aunt Helen bought me were all cut to shreds by Margaret. I'm not allowed to wear them.

I have to do housework. She doesn't.

The weather's getting colder. Wearing gloves keeps my hands from cracking and protects them. I don't want to be made fun of by my classmates for having maid's hands like in past years. I want to earn my own money and make my life a little less miserable. Is even that too much to ask?

Margaret's face immediately scrunches up. She reaches out and grabs my ear, screaming: "I've raised you for twenty-two years, and you're lazy and a thief. I should have my brother throw you in jail!"

I flinch from the pain. I finally pull free from her grip and defend myself without thinking: "I bought these with money I saved from part-time jobs at school. I didn't steal Emily's money."

Father's big frame appears from the other room. He grabs my hair out of nowhere and snorts: "We're raising you and paying for your school. You should be grateful. When you're wrong, you apologize."

I never expect Father to take my side. But after all these years, why can't he believe me just once?

I've lived by their rules, kept my head down and my mouth shut, but I still can't get a scrap of sympathy from these so-called family members.

Maybe I've been holding it in for too long. Today, I really don't feel like taking it anymore.

Something breaks inside me. I sneer: "Father judges me without even knowing what happened. Is that fair? Just because you fed me once and starved me three times, is that why you hate me?"

The big living room goes quiet.

Father looks stunned. Surprise and anger flash across his face. The Thelma who never dared talk back to him is actually challenging him.

Margaret reads the room and stirs things up from the sidelines: "You've got a temper problem. Your parents make you do chores to build character. How can you talk back to your father like this? We've been too soft on you. Why can't you be sweet and gentle like Emily?"

Father's face gets darker and darker. The anger building up in him gets thicker. Suddenly, he raises his huge hand and swings it at me.

I react fast and dodge to the side.

I raise my voice: "If Father weren't running for councilman, you probably wouldn't have let me go to school in the first place, right? All these years, hasn't Aunt Helen been the one paying my tuition? And lately, Father's running for deputy mayor, isn't he? If his opponent found out he beats his daughter, wouldn't that hurt his poll numbers?"

Sure enough, that last line hits him where it hurts. He's a politician. He's scared of getting caught by his opponents. Especially since I have a "track record."

Five years ago, at a cocktail party, I "accidentally" showed the scars on my hands in front of everyone. For a while, the scandal about him abusing me at home was everywhere. Later, I "voluntarily" put something in the newspaper saying I fell and hurt myself, which barely put out the fire.

Since then, their beatings turned into making me do housework instead.

Now, Father pulls his hand back. His thin lips press into a tight line, like he's holding back rage.

Margaret looks unbothered on the surface, still acting superior: "Don't think we can't touch you! If you dare talk trash and wreck your father's career, my brother has plenty of ways to deal with you."

She's not wrong.

When I was fifteen, I tried to escape this prison. I was caught by Margaret's brother in less than a day. He works at the police department. Tracking me down is nothing for him.

Seeing that time is tight, they don't push it further.

Margaret orders: "We're letting you off today, but you still have to do the housework. If you don't listen, I'll do what Mrs. James next door did to her foster daughter and have you locked up in a mental hospital."

I shudder. She's deliberately trashed my reputation before, and with her brother's connections at the police department, she's totally capable of doing it if she wants.

I don't want to end up like the girl next door, locked away in that dark little room for no reason.

The house finally gets quiet again, but my heart can't settle down for a long time.

I look at the girl in the mirror.

I'm clearly tall and slim. Even tied up, my natural light golden curls can't hide how nice they are. My ice-blue eyes are bright as sapphires. But when I open my hands, they're covered in calluses, rough and lined. Every callus mark looks like a scar life has carved into me.

Margaret won't let me into the family prayer room. She's probably afraid I'll complain to the gods and expose how she treats me.

But aren't the gods supposed to be all-powerful? We're both Father's daughters. Why was I born to suffer, while my sister gets spoiled by everyone?

Right then, a doorbell breaks the silence in the house.

My heart jumps. Who could that be? I grab the broom and walk over.

I open the door. Cold wind slips into my collar and sleeves. I shiver, a bone-deep cold running through me. But there's no one outside.

Another prank by some kid! I mutter under my breath.

Just as I'm about to close the door, a sharp, strange voice speaks up.

"Hello."

My skin breaks out in goosebumps. I follow the sound and look down. It's a reddish-brown fox.

I instinctively raise the broom to shoo it away, but then I see it hold out its two little paws and respectfully hand over a gold-edged envelope. On it, elegant handwriting clearly reads: "Wharton Academy of Magic Acceptance Letter."