The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(8)

“This was an accident,” Leda admitted, gesturing to the hut.

“Perhaps. But your determination and intellect are not.”

“Never?” Leda asked after a small stretch of silence. “You’ve never made a mistake?”

Isadora gave her a toothy smile.

“Never.”





Camille

Bettina cleared her throat as she took a sip of black currant tea.

She did it before every single sip. Just as she read the mail every morning over the same type of tea, in the same cup. Routine was life, and Aunt Bettina lived it well. She wore the same black dress, the same stern bun, and the same apathetic air. She was small boned, with a thin frame, graying blonde hair, and sharp eyes. Bettina’s unwavering lack of change was enough to make fifteen-year-old Camille dotty.

Worse still was Aunt Angie, who sat at the far end of the table, her right index finger constantly lifted to her upper lip with a handkerchief wrapped around it. Her nose ran all year, rain or shine, forcing her to sniffle every two-and-a-half minutes. Camille didn’t doubt that her two aunts were good people, but she imagined they were better in smaller doses.

“Once I finish the mail,” Bettina said, without looking up from the current letter, “we will start your first algebra lesson.”

“Algebra?” Camille groaned, earning a sharp look of reprimand. She forced away a frown and lightened her tone. “Is there something else we can try?”

“Absolutely not.”

Camille tightened her jaw and steeled herself for another long day.

With a methodical air, Bettina lifted a scroll with her left hand, took it in her right, undid the twine tie with her left, took another sip of tea, had a careful bite of biscuit, took another measured sip, set the cup down, then tugged on the parchment, and peered at the words over the top of her half-moon glasses.

Camille watched the ritual with detached interest.

I’m going to fall asleep at the breakfast table, and then she’ll make me sit in the chair again, staring at the wall.

“Can I work on my sewing instead?”

“You do need some work with your stitches,” Angie whispered, eyes flickering over her plate half-full of breakfast. She gazed off, out the window, wandering vapidly into lands that no one else could see. Camille wished she’d drink more of her special tonic and slip further into the stupor that usually claimed her.

Knowing she could do nothing but wait for the algebraic torture to begin, Camille settled back in her chair with a sigh. Once Bettina finished the letter, she folded it up and looked to her niece. Camille gave her a hopeful, pleading look.

“Yes,” Bettina said, “you may work on your sewing.”

Camille perked up.

“After you start algebra,” Bettina clarified, robbing Camille’s hope and leaving her more depressed than ever.

“Oh Bettina, please, no!”

“Your math skills need work, Camille.”

Bettina started the ritual over with another letter. Realizing she’d lost the battle once again, Camille sighed, propped her chin on her hand, and gazed out the window. There never was conversation over tea. Or at any time, for that matter. She wished she could at least go outside, where white blossoms had sprouted on the trees. They were so lovely and frail, like delicate porcelin cups balancing on twigs. Unlike the drab house, with little color and no warmth. Camille longed to sit in the sun.

“Well,” said Bettina, with a low hum of surprise in her voice. She pulled the letter away from her face and peered at it over the top of her glasses, as if that would help her see it. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

Both Camille and Angie looked up. It had been a long time since Bettina had been surprised about anything. Camille was too shocked to move, worried it might break the moment.

Bettina readjusted her position on the chair, but said no more. Her forehead scrunched into heavy lines, making her thin face appear asymmetrical. Angie looked away, her attention already elsewhere. Camille waited, fists clenched. It had something to do with her—she could feel it.

“What is it, Aunt Bettina?” she asked in a prim tone.

“The letter is from the Network.”

“What?” Camille asked.

Angie perked up, showing more life than she had all morning.

“Is my new tincture of blessed thistle in? I haven’t been able to eat well since my last supply ran out. This indigestion is horrible.”

“No, it’s not about your tincture. The letter is in regards to Camille.”

I knew it! Camille thought, her heart fluttering. I knew it was about me!

Bettina looked over her glasses again, staring straight into Camille’s eyes.

“Isadora is coming to town. This confirms your interview.”

“Interview?” She repeated the word as if it were foreign. “Isadora?”

Had they delivered the letter here on accident? Leda was the only one interviewing with Isadora. She’d been talking about it for months.

“I signed you up for an interview that will determine if you can attend Miss Mabel’s School for Girls. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hear you talking about it all the time. Isadora will be here five days hence.”

Camille felt faint. The room swam before her eyes and she grabbed the edge of the table. Attend Miss Mabel’s School for Girls? Wasn’t that the dream of every girl in the village, in all of Antebellum? On the verge of hyperventilating, she took several slow, deep breaths.