A few unladylike curses echoed through the garden—and two of them yelped.
“Fern, you idiot!”
“I didn’t touch the gate!” she squeaked.
“Ladies, ladies. As you can see, the latch hasn’t fallen back down; the gate isn’t locked. It was likely just the wind.” But even Wylma’s voice wavered with uncertainty.
A smile curved against Carissa’s mouth. Though she felt terrible for thinking so, she knew the next few minutes would prove quite amusing.
“Oooooh!”
Wylma sighed. “Dara, keep your voice down.”
“But I just stepped in a—oh.”
“A what?”
“A puddle.”
“That’s nothing to yell about.”
“But it’s… sticky.”
“What do you mean ‘sticky?’ Sybil, bring the candle over here—and stop shaking like that, you ninny. Like Dara said, the murderer isn’t here anymore. Probably.”
The candlelight shifted, and the women abruptly fell silent. Carissa dared to peep over the top of the bush.
The women all had their attention on the spill of fairywing melon pudding, their lips parted, their faces pale.
The candle dropped from Sybil’s hand, and the garden was bathed in darkness.
Someone squeaked. “The murderer—he’s still here. He’s going to kill us.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Wylma said, though her voice grew softer by the second. “Sybil, relit the candle please.”
Sybil sucked in a breath and shook her head. “I’m leaving. This garden is cursed.” She spun on her heel. A moment later, the gate clanged shut behind her as she marched back to the palace.
Carissa slumped against a tree. One down—four to go.