The Isadora Interviews (9 page)

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.

For just a moment, Papa’s beady eyes softened from beneath his heavy brow. He let out a gruff breath and the room shifted into an awkward pause. Papa cast his eyes around and set down his spoon.

“No, Meesh. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ted drained the last dregs from his cup before setting it down. “Papa promised Mama before she died that he’d send you somewhere so that you could make a name for yourself,” he said, meeting Michelle’s inquiring gaze. “She didn’t want you stuck in this house forever, taking care of us.”

Michelle wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. The tears didn’t come. Not since Mama died. Not since she saw the blank, stricken look of fear on Papa’s face when Ted and Rian finished filling Mama’s grave. No, Mama’s death made it impossible to show any weakness. Papa needed their strength.

“You have to interview with Isadora, the Watcher. She’s coming by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Michelle cried, her head snapping up. Papa stood, his chair scraping across the wooden floor.

“Yes, tomorrow,” he said in a firm tone. There would be no more questions, no more discussions. “I’m going to take care of the cows. Mace, Rian, Blain, you come with me. James, see that the goats and chickens are taken care of.”

Michelle didn’t notice her family dispersing, nor the concerned looks Mace sent her way. She stared at the grain of the wood in the table until the lines merged. Only Ted remained behind. Stubble shadowed his face, his strong jaw highlighted by the same thick neck Papa had. Ted had light hair like Mama, with dark wisps of color near the roots. He was the oldest, and the one Michelle trusted most.

“Do you want to go, Meesh?” he asked.

She jumped, yanked from her thoughts by the sound of his voice but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“No,” she whispered. “There would be so many other girls there. I-I . . . They already make fun of me at school as it is!”

The village schoolroom was over an hour’s walk through the thick winter drifts, which meant she only made it once or twice a month. Because of all the time she had during the day, Michelle always kept up with, if not surpassed, the studies of the other students. The cabin grew lonely and close after awhile, but was still preferable to the snickers and laughter of her peers.

“If I go to a Network school, they’ll tease me,” she said. “They’ll call me a poor forester!”

Ted leaned forward, his dark, intense eyes boring into her.

“You can’t be afraid of things you don’t know or understand. Believe it or not, you’re the lucky one, Michelle. The rest of us didn’t get a chance to learn magic the way you can, not after Mama died. It’s too late for us now. We’re strapped to a life of physical labor with some magic in between to help us get by. But you can do something different.”

Was he crazy? She would have to leave home, live in a school surrounded by strangers. There would be tests, classes, and lessons she didn’t understand. Even if she never did magic again, she’d rather stay at home, cooking for her brothers for the rest of her life.

But then,
she realized with a sinking feeling,
that must be the point.
That was why Papa was sending her. Michelle would stay here, taking care of the boys, and never leave. That would be all she’d ever do. A little corner of her heart whispered,
It would be so fun to learn, to see something besides these walls.
She turned the voice away in mute frustration.

Ted waited for her response with a patience that reminded her of Mama. She’d been dead for years, since Mace was born, but so much of her lived here still.

“I don’t want to go,” she said.

“I know. But you’ll learn to love it.”

Ted gave her a small, crooked smile, rose from his chair, pulled on a hat and disappeared into the inky night. Left in the quiet of the house, Michelle started collecting the dishes with a methodical movement and sinking them into the bucket, watching them bubble and submerge in the hot water until she felt as if she’d drown in it herself.

•••

White cotton puffs of fresh snow decorated the trees early the next morning, blown in by the overnight blizzard Michelle had stayed awake listening to. The sun was up, but a vague patch of gray and white covered the sky, sprinkling ice on the world. This morning, Letum Wood held a bitter chill.

Several pieces of wood toppled out of her arms and into the snow when Michelle heard a voice behind her. She lumbered about, nearly tripping over her feet, to see an aged woman standing a few paces away.

“Merry meet,” the stranger called.

The old woman’s breath frosted out in a fog when she spoke. Michelle put a hand to her chest to stop her heart from beating right out of her ribcage.

“Merry meet,” she mumbled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can,” the old woman said. “We can go inside and finish this interview so I can get back home in time for tea. I don’t really like the snow.”

Michelle’s eyes widened.

“The Watcher?” she asked in a breathless gasp.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Isadora turned around and headed for the poor shanty, whose door opened to admit her before she arrived. Michelle stood, rooted to the spot.

I’m not ready for this!

She’d woken up hoping the entire conversation over dinner had been a dream, a vague nightmare. No one had spoken over breakfast, not a word, so Michelle had tucked the fear away. A dream, yes. That was all.

“Are you coming?” Isadora asked, turning to look for her. Michelle scrambled to gather up the sticks, but her nervous, fumbling hands managed to corral only about half of them. She abandoned the rest and joined Isadora.

“Very nice,” Isadora said, looking around the trim house. The shabby, worn shanty smelled sweet, like burning pine. A hand-sewn quilt was draped over a rocking chair near the fire, and cast iron skillets hung from the wall. The table, though wobbly, was large and sturdy, the centerpiece of the home. The bedrooms hid upstairs, with Michelle’s little room separated from the rest. “You take very good care of this house for a girl so young.”

Michelle averted her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, kneeling at the fireplace to stack the logs. A chilly draft blew in, and Michelle realized that she’d left the door open. Flustered under Isadora’s watchful gaze, Michelle headed back towards the door with the logs still in hand, but they tumbled and fell to the ground in the middle of the dirt floor.

“S-s-sorry,” she mumbled, pausing again, unsure as to whether she should shut the door or regather the firewood first. “One moment, please.”

Isadora moved towards the fire, her curved back looking like the S-shape of a snake as she shuffled forward.

“No rush. The fire is nice.”

Michelle finally got the door closed, cleaned up the wood, and took her time carefully stacking the logs by the fire. Isadora hummed quietly while she waited. Hands shaking, Michelle wiped her palms off on her apron.

“You can have a seat,” she mumbled.

“I’m sorry dear, what did you say?”

Michelle motioned towards the table with her large paw-like hand.

“You can have a seat.”

They sat across from each other. The hefty chair, carved by Papa’s own talented hands, dwarfed Isadora. Her feet dangled an inch or two above the floor. Michelle stared fixedly at the groove lines in the table, making a mental note to scrub it down with the bristle-brush later. When she did sneak a glance up, her eyes met the hazy gaze of the old woman, and she looked right back down.

“What do you do to keep yourself busy during the day?” Isadora asked.

“School work,” Michelle said. “And clean the house. I teach Mace. Or cook.”

Another long silence.

“Do you ever wish you had a grandmother figure in your life?”

Michelle looked up at the strange question, but Isadora didn’t seem to notice.

“A grandmother?”

“Yes.”

Michelle shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You prefer baking over cooking, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you sew your own clothes.”

“Yes. I sew my brothers’ clothes too.”

Isadora’s forehead narrowed. “Hmm. They seem to rely on you for a lot of things.”

“They do!” Michelle said eagerly, grateful that Isadora saw it her way. “I shouldn’t leave them.”

Isadora’s eyes narrowed.

“Have you ever thought of making more friends?”

Michelle hesitated, knowing she couldn’t lie and say “no.” Sometimes, when the house got really quiet, or her thick fingers hurt from sewing, or she had no one to talk to, Michelle longed for a friend. Living in their little shanty often grew isolating, especially with Mama gone.

“Maybe.” Michelle looked away again. “The girls in the village are . . . they don’t like—they’re busy.”

Isadora made a humming noise in her throat.

“Well, despite that, you seem very happy here,” Isadora said.

“I am,” Michelle said too quickly, looking up through her bangs. Isadora lifted an eyebrow in interest.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Why I’m happy?”

Isadora nodded.

Michelle took a minute to ponder that, which soon stretched into an awkward silence. She stammered through her reply.

“M-m-my brothers.”

“Is that the only reason?” Isadora asked with a meaningful gaze.

“No,” Michelle whispered, looking back to the table. The fire crackled in the silence, waiting for her to speak. Her throat tightened up. She didn’t want to say it.

“I know that Miss Mabel’s is not your first choice for your future,” Isadora said gently, when Michelle remained quiet. “I’d like you to tell me why.”

Michelle hesitated, feeling exposed and vulnerable, like Mama had died all over again. She wanted to bluster her way through it, avoid the question, but one look at Isadora told her that the old woman wouldn’t let that happen.

“It’s safe here,” Michelle finally admitted.

“Is it?”

“We’re far from the village, from the people who live there.” Michelle’s thoughts flickered to the cutting remarks of the girls at school.
What are you? A giant? Look at Michelle, she’s got hands the size of platters!
“And the strangers that walk through,” she added on, as if that added to the danger of the sleepy village. “We’re safe out here.”

“Or you think you are.”

Michelle’s eyes snapped up to her again. Her thick forehead ruffled.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother died in a sudden, tragic accident with a runaway horse and carriage just after your youngest brother was born. Now you’re afraid that something you can’t anticipate will happen to you, or your family.”

There was no question in Isadora’s statement, so Michelle couldn’t duck away from it. Is this what Isadora did to every student? It felt like sticking her hand into a cauldron of lye, or putting out a fire by walking on it barefoot. Panic, hot and restless, shot through Michelle. She jumped to her feet. Her awkward frame bumped the table and sent her chair flying back, toppling over. She stumbled, feeling frazzled and trapped.

“I’m not afraid!” she cried, even though she knew it was a lie.

“We all are,” Isadora said in an easy tone. “Even your strong father and brothers. It’s a part of life, a part of being a witch. Fear isn’t the problem. Not acting because of fear is.”

“I don’t want to go to Miss Mabel’s!” Michelle cried, her hands clenching into fists. “I want to stay here!”

Isadora stared at her for a long time. She didn’t stand up, didn’t move. Then she quietly said, “I have a good feeling about you, Michelle. What if I can guarantee that nothing will happen to you while I’m there?”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes I can. I’m the Watcher.”

Isadora’s calm, even tones settled the uneasy burn in Michelle’s chest, scaling it back to a just-bearable amount. Michelle studied her, bold for the first time.

“What about my family?” she demanded. “You can’t keep them safe.”

“No. I can only guarantee your safety.”

Michelle thought back to the firm resolve in Papa’s eyes over dinner. The sadness, the regret. He felt as if he’d failed her, raising her in a house of men, part boy herself. She thought of making friends, of learning more about cooking than what she could here. Her cakes always fell. Her bread burned on the outside and went uncooked on the inside.

If she went, it would be for Papa. To keep him from feeling guilty. Then, once she’d learned more magic, she could come back and help them, teach them, like Ted said. They had taught her a few magical spells, mostly things they did to play pranks on each other, like deception spells. She knew they’d want to learn more.

“Can I come home during the summer?” she asked. Isadora smiled.

“Yes, you can.”

Michelle swallowed the terrified ball in her throat. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to start over at a new school, to meet girls that would surely make fun of her. But she’d do it for Papa, for her family.