ELENA
The Moonstone packhouse was a flurry of motion and color. Fabric swatches fluttered like flags in a breeze as pack members carried bolts of cloth up the stairs. Someone was arguing loudly in the hall about whether “frosted lilac” was different from “lavender fog,” and a delivery of beeswax candles had been stacked haphazardly in the foyer, filling the space with the scent of honey and parafin.
It was chaos. Beautiful, joyful chaos.
And I was completely in my element.
“Okay, Erin, tell me again what your gut says.” I sat cross-legged on the floor of the study, surrounded by ribbons, hand-stitched place cards, and an aggressively floral binder titled The Ultimate Luna Wedding Planner.
Erin sat across from me, eyes wide, fingers buried in her hair. “My gut says throw everything in
