The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(16)

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.