famous and powerful Watcher. She had just been sassy to one of the most powerful witches in the Central Network. Priscilla stared at the scroll with a feeling of disbelief. Isadora’s thin lips lifted into a smile, as if she had read Priscilla’s mind.
“Your transformation skills are very strong, as your mother said in the application she made on your behalf. They lived up to my expectation and then some. You’d do well with transformation as a career. I’m also giving you a chance at the school because you did exactly what I asked you. Too many girls do more than they are asked in a bid to impress me. We could use more students who do as they are told.”
“Yes,” Priscilla muttered. “Who wants to work with students who are willing to do more than their superiors ask of them?”
“Priscilla!” Mother said with a sharp tone, her nostrils flaring. Priscilla clutched the scroll in a tight fist. It was all so embarrassing. She’d read this wrong from the beginning. Isadora simply smiled.
“In a world of unexperienced magical teenagers, no one.”
“I thought you interviewed people,” Priscilla said, meeting Isadora’s eyes although she didn’t want to. She felt betrayed and angry.
“I do.”
“But you didn’t ask me any questions.”
“The best part of an interview rarely does,” Isadora said. “Let me caution you on pride. You have a great deal of it, and that’s far too much. You’ll not last long in a school like Miss Mabel’s if you indulge in it overmuch. Also be aware that your insecurities run your mind. You can’t let that continue forever, or it may turn you into someone you don’t want to be.”
Isadora’s eyes flickered to Mother and back again. Priscilla’s back tightened, receiving the silent message.
“Merry part, Priscilla,” she said, then turned and faced her mother. “Jeannette.”
Without another word, Isadora smiled, then walked to the door and let herself out. Priscilla and her mother stood there for several seconds, stunned. Then Priscilla ran to the window and looked out, but no signs of Isadora remained.
“Well, that was quite a surprise,” Mother said in a breathless voice. “I can’t wait to tell the ladies at tea later today! What do you think? They’ll just die from jealousy, I think. You’ll need to change that dress of course. It’s not proper. What were you thinking? Oh, and I think we should try and curb the attitude in future exchanges, hmm?”
The windowpane in front of Priscilla fogged up beneath her breath.
You’d do well with transformation as a career.
“Yes, Mother,” Priscilla said, wondering if she’d just inadvertently been handed her freedom.
Michelle
T he soup foamed and frothed.
Perfect, thought Michelle, pulling in a deep breath. It smelled like salty broth, sweet carrots, and the lightest hint of basil. The scent is just right. Maybe a pinch more salt. I’m glad I found those dried herbs.
“You have to keep stirring, Mace,” she said. “Or else the chicken will burn to the bottom. See?”
The six-year-old standing beside her rose to his tiptoes and peered over the brim of the pot. The scent of winter and bay leaves drifted through the house. A few chopped carrots swirled in the aftermath of the moving spoon, stirred from the dregs at the bottom.
“I see. Can I ask you a question, Meesh?”
“Sure.”
“Why do I have to sing the soup song?”
“Because it helps the soup cook better. Just like the bread song makes bread fluffy, and the pie song makes pie sweeter. It’s part of the magic.”
Mace thought for a second, his eyebrows pulling together.
“Papa doesn’t like it when you use magic to cook,” he said. “He says food tastes fine on its own.”
Michelle handed him the spoon and ruffled his thick brown hair.
“Yes, well, Papa eats the food anyway, doesn’t he? Here, you take over. I’m going to go get some more firewood. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.”
Mace took the spoon
“Your transformation skills are very strong, as your mother said in the application she made on your behalf. They lived up to my expectation and then some. You’d do well with transformation as a career. I’m also giving you a chance at the school because you did exactly what I asked you. Too many girls do more than they are asked in a bid to impress me. We could use more students who do as they are told.”
“Yes,” Priscilla muttered. “Who wants to work with students who are willing to do more than their superiors ask of them?”
“Priscilla!” Mother said with a sharp tone, her nostrils flaring. Priscilla clutched the scroll in a tight fist. It was all so embarrassing. She’d read this wrong from the beginning. Isadora simply smiled.
“In a world of unexperienced magical teenagers, no one.”
“I thought you interviewed people,” Priscilla said, meeting Isadora’s eyes although she didn’t want to. She felt betrayed and angry.
“I do.”
“But you didn’t ask me any questions.”
“The best part of an interview rarely does,” Isadora said. “Let me caution you on pride. You have a great deal of it, and that’s far too much. You’ll not last long in a school like Miss Mabel’s if you indulge in it overmuch. Also be aware that your insecurities run your mind. You can’t let that continue forever, or it may turn you into someone you don’t want to be.”
Isadora’s eyes flickered to Mother and back again. Priscilla’s back tightened, receiving the silent message.
“Merry part, Priscilla,” she said, then turned and faced her mother. “Jeannette.”
Without another word, Isadora smiled, then walked to the door and let herself out. Priscilla and her mother stood there for several seconds, stunned. Then Priscilla ran to the window and looked out, but no signs of Isadora remained.
“Well, that was quite a surprise,” Mother said in a breathless voice. “I can’t wait to tell the ladies at tea later today! What do you think? They’ll just die from jealousy, I think. You’ll need to change that dress of course. It’s not proper. What were you thinking? Oh, and I think we should try and curb the attitude in future exchanges, hmm?”
The windowpane in front of Priscilla fogged up beneath her breath.
You’d do well with transformation as a career.
“Yes, Mother,” Priscilla said, wondering if she’d just inadvertently been handed her freedom.
Michelle
T he soup foamed and frothed.
Perfect, thought Michelle, pulling in a deep breath. It smelled like salty broth, sweet carrots, and the lightest hint of basil. The scent is just right. Maybe a pinch more salt. I’m glad I found those dried herbs.
“You have to keep stirring, Mace,” she said. “Or else the chicken will burn to the bottom. See?”
The six-year-old standing beside her rose to his tiptoes and peered over the brim of the pot. The scent of winter and bay leaves drifted through the house. A few chopped carrots swirled in the aftermath of the moving spoon, stirred from the dregs at the bottom.
“I see. Can I ask you a question, Meesh?”
“Sure.”
“Why do I have to sing the soup song?”
“Because it helps the soup cook better. Just like the bread song makes bread fluffy, and the pie song makes pie sweeter. It’s part of the magic.”
Mace thought for a second, his eyebrows pulling together.
“Papa doesn’t like it when you use magic to cook,” he said. “He says food tastes fine on its own.”
Michelle handed him the spoon and ruffled his thick brown hair.
“Yes, well, Papa eats the food anyway, doesn’t he? Here, you take over. I’m going to go get some more firewood. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.”
Mace took the spoon
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