The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(3)

“Oh, Reginald, you’re soaking wet,” Mama said. “You’d better change before you get sick.”

He ruffled heads and kissed a few cheeks, dutifully listening to the reports of all the childish adventures of the day. Then Mama herded the children into their respective beds after they told Papa good night. Within minutes the kitchen was empty again. Bronwyn sighed and returned to the dirty dishes, that relentless master which never seemed to end.

Papa came back just as Leda and Bronwyn finished drying the last dish. Bronwyn grabbed the bowl of stew from its place by the fire and set it in front of him.

“Oh, what a long day! This smells like a fine stew, Bronwyn. Thank you.”

She smiled in adoration and sat down across from him. Mama settled into the rocking chair nearby, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes with her hands on her round belly.

“Why were you late, Papa?” Leda asked. She stood across from him, gripping a chair in her hands, seeking balance.

Don’t say they won’t pay you early. Don’t say they won’t pay you early.

He didn’t look at her but paused in thought, staring at his bowl with a frown.

“I had a few things to clear up.”

“Is everything all right?” Mama asked, opening her eyes when Papa hesitated. He paused, thinking, and then turned to Leda.

“No. It’s not.”

Leda’s heart plummeted into her stomach. This can’t be happening. Attending Miss Mabel’s has been my only dream, my only request.

Don’t take this away from me.

Papa took a drink of water and then continued. “I spoke with the other witches at work today about getting the sacrans in advance to pay for Miss Mabel’s, but they said no. Even if they had, the cost is more than we have saved, what with the new baby coming.”

His gaze softened and he looked right at her. “We can’t afford to send you, Leda. Not this year, anyway.”

Her heart started to crinkle, pulling from the inside out. Her chest felt like a wall of rock, unable to expand so she could breathe.

We can’t afford to send you.

The curse took over, sending her mind into a nonsensical blur of overwhelming images and possibilities. She let it take her away. An escape. An alternate kind of reality. The thick plug of tears in her throat and the sound of her desperate gasp brought Leda out of it. Bronwyn stared at her lap, playing with the edge of her apron, unable to meet her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Leda,” Papa continued. “I know how much this means to you.”

No, you don’t. You could never know.

She stepped away from the table with a shaky breath, her eyes averted.

“Leda, please stop.”

But she didn’t. She turned, walked calmly to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Outside, rain dropped down the windowpane in liquid shadows. She drew a deep breath and lowered herself onto the makeshift bed. The whirling future abated a little.

“No tears,” she chanted. “No tears.”

Her mother’s voice filtered through the door.

“Just leave her, Reginald. Give her a few moments.”

“I want to—”

“An explanation won’t help. Not right now. Trust me. Let her be.”

Yes, Leda thought. An explanation will only take away all hope. At least this way I can pretend. I can still imagine that I’ll attend Miss Mabel’s, that I’ll be someone, that I won’t be stuck in the cycle of my family, drowning because no one knows who I am.

Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. With eight mouths to feed, and another on the way, the sacrans were already stretched further than they could go. Her heart filled her throat as a lone tear fell off her cheek and landed on the back of her hand.

???

Leda woke to a pale pink sky and a numb left arm. She stared out the window, and with a bitter sigh wished it would be ugly weather instead.

The soft sounds of Mama moving about reminded her that the day had to begin. The sight of Mama in the kitchen flapped through Leda’s head, bringing with it hundreds of other possibilities. All of the visuals were of the same familiar routine. Bread. Sweeping. Chasing a sibling. Hunkering down in the cupboard. Walking to the village to run an errand for Mama.

Leda had cried herself to sleep in her work dress, so she crept out of bed and made her way straight to the kitchen without a sound. The fire in the grate snapped and popped, heating a cauldron of breakfast mash. Leda walked away from the unappealing gray mass, her hunger stricken. What she wouldn’t have given for a fresh handful of strawberries!

“Hey Leedee,” Mama said, taking a blob of dough from where it had been rising near the fire and carried it to the table. Flour speckled her apron and arms.

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

Startled, Leda looked up in question. Mama motioned towards the chair beside her workspace. Her hands kneaded into the ball of dough, occasionally slapping a bit of flour onto it, leaving dustings on her arms and cheeks.

“You help with every meal, Leda. You deserve a break. Why don’t you sit and talk to me?”

“I don’t want to talk about—”

“I know. But we’re going to talk about it anyway.”

Leda sat down and stared at the floor, but Mama grabbed her chin with a gentle touch and turned her face upwards. Leda could feel the soft grit of the flour on her jawline.