The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(10)

For an eternity, Leda searched her friend’s eyes, looking as if she’d waver on her rigid rule. Then she pulled her arm away from Camille’s tight grasp.

“No,” she finally said, looking away, jaw set. Camille slumped back against the swing, tilted her head up and stared into the verdant canopy above. Leda had been more distracted than usual lately, what with the interview on her mind. Camille knew she wasn’t in the mood to talk, but then, Leda never was.

“I’m afraid,” Camille admitted, envisioning a future full of gray walls and Bettina’s rituals. “Even though it’s still a few days away now.”

“I know,” Leda said, swallowing, and Camille wondered if Leda was trying to stop herself from admitting that she was frightened too.

???

The day of Isadora’s interview came all too soon.

One minute Camille was staring at a ceiling lit by early morning light, her stomach churning so much she was going to be sick, and then Mr. Hymas was leading her into his office where Isadora waited, whispering a quick, “Good luck,” as she walked inside.

Camille stood in front of the chair, refusing to sit down. At least, she didn’t want to. But the chair seemed to reach up and grab her, forcing her to sit with a heavy thump while Isadora looked on.

Only answer the questions, Camille coached herself. Don’t prattle on like you normally do. She’ll ask questions, you answer. Just like meals with Bettina and Angie, although Angie never asks you questions. She takes far too much of that medication to ask lucid questions—

“Merry meet, Camille,” Isadora said, interrupting her internal dialogue.

Camille startled, managing a forced smile.

“Merry meet, Miss Isadora.”

Her knees knocked together, causing her white socks to slide down towards her ankles like the wrinkles on a fat worm.

“This is a nice apothecary,” Isadora said, gazing around with her aged eyes. Her skin had more lumps than a raisin, and Camille wondered if that was what she’d look like when she got old. She’d prefer not to. Leda’s mother was lovely despite having had all of her kids.

“Yes,” Camille said for lack of anything else, and gazed around the walls of the back office. An old painting, faded around the edges, filled up one wall. The flowers on it were vibrant and bright despite the wearing effect of time. Vials and jars cluttered the shelves, nearly crowded out by old books tearing at the seams. A stack of parchments climbed the wall.

“Tell me about your aunts,” Isadora said.

“Bettina and Angie?” Camille asked in surprise. What could be interesting about them? They hardly ever left the house. “Well, uh, they took me in when my parents died.”

“The Kimeral plague,” Isadora supplied.

Just hearing the words made Camille visibly shudder.

“Yes,” she said, looking down. “I was just a little girl.”

“How did you survive?”

“I don’t know. One day my parents became sick, and two days later they were gone. Bettina came and brought me back. Hansham is so isolated that it wasn’t hit by the plague, luckily. I could have gotten it, but I didn’t.”

Camille snapped her jaw shut, silently berating herself.

Stop jabbering!

Her eyes fell to the desk, where a small feather raced across an open scroll. A shot of horror made her feel suddenly weak.

She’s taking notes!

“What kind of schooling have you had?” Isadora had to ask the question twice before Camille fumbled through a reply.

“H-homeschooling, mostly,” she managed after a hefty swallow. “There are no schools this far east. We’re too deep in Letum Wood. Mostly my Aunt Bettina taught me. Angie is always too sick, what with her indigestion and all.”

Camille, distracted by the feather that never stopped moving, heard herself rambling again but couldn’t stop it.

“Have you learned anything about herbs?” Isadora asked, peering into Camille’s globe-like hazel eyes.

“Is there a reason you’re taking notes?”

The question burst out of Camille’s mouth before she could stop it. She wrung her hands together in her lap, knuckles white.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

Isadora just smiled.

“Who said those notes are about you?”

Camille just stared at her, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Well, I—I just assumed . . . you asked . . . what was the original question?” she asked in a squeak. She couldn’t even think straight. That blasted feather never stopped.

“Herbs,” Isadora reminded her. “I wondered if you had ever worked with herbs.”

“A little bit. I know some herbs because of Leda and Miss Kathy.”

Isadora looked up from the diary, her thin eyebrows lifting.

“Have you ever thought of being an apothecary? They work with herbs every now and then.”

“Well,” Camille hedged. “I thought about it but I just . . . I just . . . it could be a pretty quiet job, don’t you think?”

“Could be,” Isadora reasoned. “How about a potionmaker, like your friend Fitz?”

“Fitz isn’t my friend,” Camille gently corrected Isadora. “Besides, potionmakers don’t work with people. That’s a job for witches like Leda, who are grumpy around other witches and want to work on their own.”