The Isadora Interviews (7 page)

Pretty is not beautiful,
Mother’s voice whispered through Priscilla’s mind as she did a second check in the mirror. The ringlets still shone, perfectly coiled, resting on her shoulders.
And beautiful is never beautiful enough.

“Abigail, who has come?” she asked to distract herself.

“I don’t know who it was, miss. Just saw them briefly.”

Once Abigail finally got hold of the case, she stumbled backwards, nearly falling over her leg and onto the bed. Priscilla shot her a sharp warning glare. Abigail recovered from the stumble, straightened, and brought the string of pearls in her reddened, chapped hands. Priscilla spun around to face her, red hair spiraling into the air.

“What did they look like?”

Perhaps it was old Mr. Rutherford’s boring son, the one who couldn’t even pick out the right kind of necklace. Boring, but an attractive distraction. Someone that her friend Stephany would enjoy.

“She was an old woman,” Abigail said. “With two different-colored eyes.”

“An old woman? Ugh. Maybe I don’t want to wear pearls then.” Priscilla batted them away. “My parents know far too many people. Forget the jewelry. I’m not out to impress an old biddy. Tidy up in here before you come down, Abigail. The blankets need airing.”

Abigail bobbed an awkward curtsy. Priscilla disappeared into the hallway, her shoes lightly tapping on the hardwood floor as she walked.

Spine as straight as a stick.
Priscilla repeated her etiquette lessons in her head.
Walk carefully. If you’re in the right mindset, you’ll float.

She descended the stairs one at a time to avoid the awkward hassle of not being able to breathe. Perhaps the bold style of this dress would offend whatever old woman had come. Then gossiping tongues would wag throughout Ashleigh and unravel all of Mother’s hard work.

It sounded delightful.

Priscilla Morton wore the most scandalous dress to tea the other day,
one of them would say, talking over their tepid tea and porcelain cups.
I don’t know how I managed to get through the experience.

“Too late to change now,” she muttered to herself, feeling a shot of gratification.

A quiet exchange of voices stopped when Priscilla came into view. The wide staircase opened into the grand entryway, gilded with gold trim along the walls. She stepped off the last stair and onto the black and white tiled floor. Marble statues of previous Ashleigh coven leaders guarded the walls in stony silence, and candles sat unlit in their golden sconces. The austere elegance had a sharp feel to it, robbing the place of any homey warmth. Priscilla glanced to Mother, whose cool expression left no doubt that she found something wanting. The look quickly disappeared, replaced by Mother’s usual beaming smile.

“There you are!” she said in the soft voice of a gentlewitch. “Priscilla, this is . . .” Mother trailed off, perplexed. She circled around to look at the old woman standing behind her. “I must apologize for my lacking manners. What did you say your name was again?”

The old woman smiled and stepped past Mother.

“I didn’t. Merry meet, Priscilla.”

Priscilla reluctantly took the proffered hand. The hag seemed like someone who had been attractive in her youth but had long since eroded into a mass of bone and wrinkle. Mother positioned herself just behind the visitor and gave Priscilla an arch look.

Be good or deal with me,
it said.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Priscilla managed in a warm tone. It met approval, for Mother’s eyebrow lowered. The woman smiled a toothy grin. Her yellow teeth jutted at awkward angles from reddened, swollen gums. Priscilla recoiled but hid it behind a cough.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“I didn’t come for much.” The woman peered around the corner. “Do you have a warm fire? My hands are very cold, even on such a beautiful summer day. It’s terrible getting old, you know. Not that you two would understand. You might as well be sisters!”

“Yes we have a fire,” Mother said, simpering with the flattery. She sent Priscilla a frosty look over the woman’s head.“You’re welcome to sit there as long as you need.”

Surely this woman wandered in off the road with an addled brain,
Priscilla thought but kept her thoughts to herself. She’d rather visit with a total stranger than deal with Mother.

“Please,” Priscilla said with the same sweet concern, extending her arm with a warm smile. “Come into our parlor.”

Why she had to escort such a decrepit stranger to sit on their silky white furniture, Priscilla couldn’t fathom. Mother wouldn’t even let the servants sit on the furniture. Why would she let a smelly hag? The worn cloth of the old crone’s dress would leave an eternal stain behind.

“Thank you,” the visitor said, not relinquishing her grip on Priscilla’s hand.

“Please,” Priscilla said. “Have a seat.”

Priscilla chose the mustard-colored chair, the darkest one in the room, but held little hope that it would remain clean. She brushed her hair over her shoulder with a careless wave. What did it matter? Abigail would clean it, not her.

“This is a lovely parlor,” the old woman said, running her eyes over the large painting of Priscilla’s grandfather positioned over the white mantle of the fireplace. It commanded attention and respect. Like all of her family, he had been a very handsome man, with a roguish smile and sparkling eyes. Priscilla imagined she would have liked him, had he lived long enough for her to remember. Flowers the color of sunshine decorated the mantle in white vases. In the middle was a quaint chandelier, which sparkled in the afternoon light.

“We like sitting in here,” Priscilla said, catching a glimpse of her Mother watching from the hall. She turned away so the woman couldn’t see her, and lowered herself into a seat near the stranger. “We sit here often with company. It’s full of light, which makes for the best reading.”

Keep up lively conversation,
the internal voice of her Mother demanded.
One never knows when one is being assessed.

“That’s a lovely painting,” the visitor said.

Priscilla’s eyes flickered to the painting on the far wall. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Mother stared back at her, age fifteen. Her dark red hair, so deep it was more auburn than red, sat on her neck in an elegant coif, with tendrils fanning out around her. Her eyes seemed to laugh, and her lithe frame looked willowy and graceful.

“Yes,” Priscilla said, unable to contain the edge that crept into her voice. “That’s Mother when she was my age.”

The expression on her face always made Priscilla shudder, like Mother could come back from the past and assess her still.

Clasped hands. Perfect hair. A smile without the teeth showing. Skin with no freckles.

“Her father had it painted for her birthday,” Priscilla said, reciting the same story she’d heard for years. “She was perfection itself. Papa had a hard time getting her to agree to marry him because there were so many other witches in line to claim her honor.”

“You bear a very strong resemblance.”

The old woman’s voice rolled in a musing way. Priscilla waved her hand and a nearby bell tinkled, requesting the maid to bring a tray of tea.

“Yes,” Priscilla said. “So I’ve heard.”

“It may be the green eyes. Or the flawless skin,” the old lady said. “At any rate, I know many witches would love to have your looks.”

Priscilla wanted to scoff.
They must not know how much work it is every day.
She gave a stiff smile in response, just as Mother had trained her.

“Thank you.”

“Some witches would even use magic to transform their looks,” the old lady said, with the intrigued look of someone pursuing an agenda. Priscilla stiffened. Her eyes flickered up to the old woman’s face.

“I’ve heard rumors of that,” she said carefully, her eyes narrowing.

The old woman chortled.

“Yes, we all have.”

Priscilla didn’t know what this meant, but she didn’t like it. Her knuckles turned white, her hands blanched. An uncomfortable warning sensation crawled across her back.

“Magical transformation is more than a rumor,” the visitor said. “It’s a very real skill. A rare one when done right.”

“Indeed,” Priscilla whispered in a cold voice. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. I came because you have a peculiar talent . . . or so I hear.”

“Did you now?” Priscilla replied with a bit more cheek than necessary. The door into the parlor creaked just a little. Mother would be fuming behind it. Is this what Mother had wanted? Surely not. “And what talent would that be?”

The woman spread her lips into that same dank, toothy grin, unfazed by the snap in Priscilla’s tone.

“Magical transformation, of course. You are a great beauty without the magic, but with it you’re near perfect, aren’t you?”

Near perfect. According to you and Mother, perfection is not absolute.

Priscilla looked away but didn’t contradict her. How could the woman have known? This must be some kind of game Mother wanted to play. She decided to roll with it, to let it come about. The hag was not wrong. Her perfect figure and full, black eyelashes were no accident. Neither were Mother’s full head of hair and stunning profile.

“I was wondering if you would be able to share your gift with me,” the old woman continued. “Perhaps demonstrate your talent on an old hag like me.”

“Absolutely not.” Priscilla stood up, her face flushing a bright red color. “I don’t allow strangers to come in off the street and beg me to make them beautiful.”

Priscilla turned away. The demented woman tipped her head back and laughed.

“Who said anything about being beautiful? All I want is to smooth out a few wrinkles, or at least make this hair a little fuller. Think of it as a present for an old woman.”

Priscilla hesitated and looked to the doorway. Mother mouthed the words
do it
with thin lips and an irate expression. Priscilla’s stomach turned cold.

“Why do you want to be different than you are now?” she asked, looking back to the old woman. “Why aren’t you good enough?”

The old woman stared at her for a long moment, probing, assessing. Priscilla held her breath, wondering why this moment felt so important.

“Personal reasons,” the woman finally said and left it at that. Priscilla lifted her eyes back to the doorway, taking in Mother’s calculating expression.

Nothing is good enough. Never, never enough.

“Are you sure you want this?” Priscilla asked, hesitating. She’d never done it on anyone besides Mother and herself. Perhaps the magic wouldn’t work on someone so old, or when she felt so much pressure, or without any practice. Magic worked best with familiarity, on faces she already knew. Suppose she made the woman look worse? Mother would likely entertain thoughts of kicking her out of the house.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

“Just a touch up,” the woman said. “I don’t entertain any hope of looking like you by the end of it.”

Priscilla drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She imaged the skin on the woman’s face smoother, the bags under her eyes erased, the hair long and full. She closed her eyes and put the magic into motion by whispering the right incantations under her breath.

At first the magic fought. Her aged body, little more than skin and knotted bones, resisted the change. Priscilla struggled to keep focused on the right incantation, keeping them even and consistent, the picture in her mind clear.

The process took several minutes. Slowly, the wrinkled planes of the old woman’s face tightened. Her eyelids lifted so that they didn’t droop quite as far. What few tendrils of hair that peeked out from her hood lengthened, spilling onto the black cape around her neck in coils of silver. Her eyes brightened, shedding their dim light to sparkle and shine.

It’s gratifying to have so much talent and skill,
Priscilla thought, casting a critical eye over her work.
Perhaps I could find a career path in transformation and break away from Mother’s rigid fist.

“And does that meet your satisfaction?” she asked with a haughty lift of her eyebrow.

The old woman beckoned towards a small mirror nearby, conveniently resting on the sideboard. She gazed into the mirror for only a second before standing up.

“Yes, it does.”

A scroll appeared in her hand, replacing the mirror. A premonition crept up Priscilla’s back in a cool chill. This couldn’t be just any old woman. Mother appeared in the doorway.

“Tea is here!” she cried, an exultant, flushed look on her perfect cheeks.

The old woman began to change. All the wrinkles Priscilla had fixed returned. The teeth didn’t yellow again, but they didn’t sparkle anymore. The woman’s hair shortened, forming into a loose bun at the back instead of the nearly-bald tendrils of before.

“What did you do?” Priscilla cried. “You changed my work!”