Right, thought Elyra, staring at the shoes at her feet, that makes perfect sense. Not.
She bent down and picked the shoes up by the laces. They were tap shoes, the kind worn in West End shows and such. Both were patent black leather with expensive-looking stitching around the toes. As expected, a pair of metal plates were attached at the toe and heel of each shoe. The two sets were almost identical, save for the fact that one was narrower and slightly smaller than the other. Curious, Elyra took off her battered old trainers and tried to slip the smaller pair onto her foot. It was too small, and she couldn't get her toes in any further than about halfway without crushing her foot to oblivion.
"Not exactly delicately built am I?" Elyra muttered darkly, picking up the larger pair and pulling them on. They fit almost perfectly - a little too much room at the toes perhaps and they dug in a little at the heels - but they were practically her ideal size.
Brilliant, thought Elyra, pulling the shoes off again and dropping them back in the parcel. First she was supposed to be dead, now someone was sending her tap shoes that fit perfectly, despite her never having danced in her life. This was just getting weirder by the moment.
What next, Elyra thought conspiratorially, ghosts in my bedroom, prophetic dreams, a unicorn perhaps?
What was wrong with normality?