The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(14)

“Run, Abigail,” Priscilla muttered. “Run as fast as you can.”

It took several minutes, but eventually a light tap sounded on the door.

“Permission to enter, Miss Priscilla?”

“Granted.”

Abigail moved into the room with all the presence of a mouse, eyes averted and shoulders hunched. Good, Priscilla thought. She remembered not to make eye contact.

“Prepare me for tea, Abigail. Mother has already called. We musn’t be late.”

“Yes, Miss Priscilla.”

Abigail limped into the room, her lame right leg trailing a little behind the left. However much it hurt, she hid the pain. Grimacing was not attractive, even in a servant, which Mother reminded Abigail often.

“Bring my dress,” Priscilla said, turning back to her mirror. Now that she’d completed her morning transformations, she could allow the servants inside. If they knew the truth, their gossiping little mouths would let all of Ashleigh know that the Mortons used transformative magic to look perfect. They’d be shunned and ridiculed, possibly ruining Papa’s career.

The equivalent of the fires of hell in Mother’s mind.

Secrets, secrets, Priscilla thought, wondering what it would feel like to let the truth go free. Would Mother burn with embarrassment? What would Priscilla do with her free time if she didn’t have to practice more transformations? The appealing thought left as soon as it came.

Beauty is everything, Mother’s voice reminded her.

Abigail appeared with the dress in hand, ready to slide over the see-through shift Priscilla’d been lounging in all day.

“Be careful!” Priscilla warned, nervous that a single out-of-place curl would draw Mother’s attention. “I spent an hour on my hair. I’ll not have you ruining my hard work.”

Abigail bowed her head once but said nothing, as Priscilla preferred. They wrestled the dress over Priscilla’s shoulders and down onto her curvaceous hips. Abigail pulled the silk ribbons up the back so that it tightened over Priscilla’s chest, accenting her natural hourglass figure. She gazed down to see the top swells of her bosom.

You did come in a bit early, didn’t you? Mother was right. Again.

“Cinch the waist a little tighter,” she said, earning a silent nod of approval from her Mother inside. “I’m not sure who is here. I need to be ready for anything.”

Abigail tightened and pulled the dress until it met Priscilla’s satisfaction. Too small around the chest already, it pushed her breasts up like a pedestal. Breathing could be a problem, but that wasn’t new. Priscilla stepped up to a gilded mirror and checked her reflection for any flaws. None, as usual. Not a single freckle on her alabaster skin. A little prickle of worry nagged at her anyway. Mother always found something.

“Would you like your new pearls?” Abigail asked, stooping to pick them up from the floor.

“No. They’re fake.”

Abigail’s bushy eyebrows rose, but she wisely posed no question.

“Mr. Rutherford’s son sent them over to me as a present for my birthday last week, but they aren’t real. I can tell by the painted gloss on the outside. Really, Abigail,” she drawled in a cruel tone, “don’t you know anything about jewelry?”

The deliberate barb hit the mark. A quiet flinch on Abigail’s face gave Priscilla a momentary feeling of power. Abigail wouldn’t know anything about pearls—she’d been working for the Mortons since she could carry a tray. The closest Abigail would ever get to pearls was cleaning them.

“Get me the real pearls Father gave me for my birthday last year,” Priscilla commanded. “The earrings as well. Mother will be upset if I don’t wear the earrings. And hurry! She’ll scold me for being late.”

Abigail hobbled over to the armoire, where she struggled to reach the appropriate black box. The nuisance of her short height added to that of her gimpy leg made Abigail doubly handicapped. Priscilla watched, wondering if Abigail would let her practice a few transformation spells on her round, freckled face.

No, Mother would never allow it.

Many years before, just to throw the servants off, Mother had made Priscilla practice transformation on Abigail and fail on purpose.

Then there won’t be the slightest suspicion, Mother had said. Priscilla did a spell that shredded Abigail’s hair into short pieces and turned the ends purple. An unfortunate accident, Mother said, shaking her head back and forth while the servants bustled around them. Priscilla won’t be doing transformations anymore, will she?

Abigail had worn a scarf around her head for months.

Priscilla shook her head, breaking off the memory. A little pang of remorse twisted her chest every time she thought of it.

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.