The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(13)
Camille leapt to her feet with a happy cry.
“I accept!” she squealed. “Oh, Isadora, thank you. Thank you!”
Camille threw her arms around Isadora, a few more happy tears leaking onto her cheeks. Isadora patted her arm with a low chuckle.
“I’m so happy!” she said, and it flooded through every bone in her body. “So very happy!”
Priscilla
Priscilla studied the string of pearls with unnecessary scrutiny.
Although their luster impressed her, the sheen coating the top layer couldn’t have been natural. Another fraud. Incensed, she tossed them across her dresser with a careless flick of her wrist. The pearls hit with a clacking sound and slid to the end, where they dropped to the floor and rested in a heap.
“Poor excuse of a man,” she muttered. “Even at fifteen I deserve better than fake pearls.”
No, a little voice whispered inside her, sounding an awful lot like her mother. Not unless you’re perfect. If you were perfect, Mr. Rutherford’s son would have bought you real pearls.
Father had bought her real pearls the year he’d forgotten about her birthday, but the beauty of the necklace still hadn’t swallowed the sting of his carelessness. It pinched her heart, even now. She never wanted to see another string of pearls—real or fake—again.
Priscilla’s father, Jaxton, was the Coven leader for the prosperous city of Ashleigh, one of the wealthiest cities in the Central Network. He had worked hard to build and maintain that reputation, and Ashleigh delivered. Unfortunately, his job meant long hours away from home, running a city, and forgetting his family. It had been a week since they’d spoken. Priscilla brushed away the sudden pang in her stomach that meant she missed him. They’d been close, once.
“Doesn’t matter,” Priscilla said, shaking the voice off with a reminder of their wealth. “We can buy real pearls.”
Not that she wanted them.
The smell of lilacs and candied almonds drifted towards her on the breeze. “At least I’m not a poor forester living in Letum Wood,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Things could always be worse.”
Sun streamed onto her face, warming her porcelain skin. For a moment she considered lingering there because it felt so good but instead stepped away from the light.
Tanned skin on a girl? Vulgar, Mother’s voice whispered. Your skin should look as white as snow.
Priscilla folded her arms on the sill, keeping her head a safe distance from the sun, and gazed out at the ornate buildings surrounding their mansion. The elaborate iron fences, gardens fluffy with white, pink, and purple summerflowers, and sturdy oak trees with magnificent arms seemed to stretch out and embrace the city. A few witches walked by below, holding parasols over their heads. Their dresses, Priscilla noted, had fewer ruffles than last year’s fashion. Something Mother had predicted.
“Blasted woman is always right,” she muttered, envying the girls for their freedom. Escaping her bedroom and walking around Ashleigh would be a welcome reprieve from the monotony.
A complexion like yours can’t handle the harsh sun, and we wouldn’t want a blemish, would we? Mother’s voice echoed like a bell in her mind with all the certainty in the world that a single flaw would bring about the collapse of Antebellum.
Not a single imperfection.
Priscilla rolled her eyes.
“Cilla, darling.” A shrill voice called up the stairs, making her cringe. “Time for tea!”
She glanced over her shoulder. The closed wooden door was no barrier to a voice like Mother’s. Steel couldn’t stop something so high and demanding.
Priscilla walked over to a dress hanging from a padded hanger on a nail in the far wall. The crushed white velvet felt divine on her fingertips. Truth be told, a more ridiculous choice for tea didn’t exist. The sleeves lacked the right lace and the extravagant figure wouldn’t fit such a simple event. Mother would scorn it.
“But she insisted I find something memorable,” she said out loud, as if the dress would answer back. It didn’t, leaving her even less certain. Priscilla bit her bottom lip and looked at the other dresses crowding her closet. There were so many, yet none of them seemed right. As she pulled out a light pink one, her mother’s voice played through her mind.
Pink is acceptable when you’re ten, dear. But we must put on a more mature look for you now that you’re fifteen and soon to be marriage material.
Stuffing it back into the closet with a huff, Priscilla eyed a light-yellow gown with an extra layer of lace around the top.
Too bright outside for yellow inside, Mother’s voice chided in her mind. You’d look like the sun, and one can’t compare with the sun. Frustrated, Priscilla dropped the dress to the floor of the closet, slammed the door closed with a crack, and gave a satisfied nod.
“I’ll wear the white one,” she said, “and Mother can deal with it. This is all Abigail’s fault. If she didn’t take so long doing her chores she could have already picked my dress out with Mother.”
Blaming it on someone else eased the ball of anxiety in her chest.
If it’s not good enough for Mother, Priscilla reasoned, then it’s because Abigail didn’t come up after her lunch chores.
She’d need help preparing for tea to Mother’s satisfaction. Inevitably, there was always something she did wrong. Priscilla looked at the servant’s cord on the wall and cast a spell. The cord bobbed up and down, as if pulled by an invisible hand. Why pull the rope when magic could do all the work? A tinkling bell sang in the servants’ quarters far below, calling Abigail to her.