The Isadora Interviews (5 page)

“No,” she finally said, looking away, jaw set. Camille slumped back against the swing, tilted her head up and stared into the verdant canopy above. Leda had been more distracted than usual lately, what with the interview on her mind. Camille knew she wasn’t in the mood to talk, but then, Leda never was.

“I’m afraid,” Camille admitted, envisioning a future full of gray walls and Bettina’s rituals. “Even though it’s still a few days away now.”

“I know,” Leda said, swallowing, and Camille wondered if Leda was trying to stop herself from admitting that she was frightened too.

•••

The day of Isadora’s interview came all too soon.

One minute Camille was staring at a ceiling lit by early morning light, her stomach churning so much she was going to be sick, and then Mr. Hymas was leading her into his office where Isadora waited, whispering a quick, “Good luck,” as she walked inside.

Camille stood in front of the chair, refusing to sit down. At least, she didn’t want to. But the chair seemed to reach up and grab her, forcing her to sit with a heavy thump while Isadora looked on.

Only answer the questions,
Camille coached herself.
Don’t prattle on like you normally do. She’ll ask questions, you answer. Just like meals with Bettina and Angie, although Angie never asks you questions. She takes far too much of that medication to ask lucid questions—

“Merry meet, Camille,” Isadora said, interrupting her internal dialogue.

Camille startled, managing a forced smile.

“Merry meet, Miss Isadora.”

Her knees knocked together, causing her white socks to slide down towards her ankles like the wrinkles on a fat worm.

“This is a nice apothecary,” Isadora said, gazing around with her aged eyes. Her skin had more lumps than a raisin, and Camille wondered if that was what she’d look like when she got old. She’d prefer not to. Leda’s mother was lovely despite having had all of her kids.

“Yes,” Camille said for lack of anything else, and gazed around the walls of the back office. An old painting, faded around the edges, filled up one wall. The flowers on it were vibrant and bright despite the wearing effect of time. Vials and jars cluttered the shelves, nearly crowded out by old books tearing at the seams. A stack of parchments climbed the wall.

“Tell me about your aunts,” Isadora said.

“Bettina and Angie?” Camille asked in surprise. What could be interesting about them? They hardly ever left the house. “Well, uh, they took me in when my parents died.”

“The Kimeral plague,” Isadora supplied.

Just hearing the words made Camille visibly shudder.

“Yes,” she said, looking down. “I was just a little girl.”

“How did you survive?”

“I don’t know. One day my parents became sick, and two days later they were gone. Bettina came and brought me back. Hansham is so isolated that it wasn’t hit by the plague, luckily. I could have gotten it, but I didn’t.”

Camille snapped her jaw shut, silently berating herself.

Stop jabbering!

Her eyes fell to the desk, where a small feather raced across an open scroll. A shot of horror made her feel suddenly weak.

She’s taking notes!

“What kind of schooling have you had?” Isadora had to ask the question twice before Camille fumbled through a reply.

“H-homeschooling, mostly,” she managed after a hefty swallow. “There are no schools this far east. We’re too deep in Letum Wood. Mostly my Aunt Bettina taught me. Angie is always too sick, what with her indigestion and all.”

Camille, distracted by the feather that never stopped moving, heard herself rambling again but couldn’t stop it.

“Have you learned anything about herbs?” Isadora asked, peering into Camille’s globe-like hazel eyes.

“Is there a reason you’re taking notes?”

The question burst out of Camille’s mouth before she could stop it. She wrung her hands together in her lap, knuckles white.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

Isadora just smiled.

“Who said those notes are about you?”

Camille just stared at her, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Well, I—I just assumed . . . you asked . . . what was the original question?” she asked in a squeak. She couldn’t even think straight. That blasted feather never stopped.

“Herbs,” Isadora reminded her. “I wondered if you had ever worked with herbs.”

“A little bit. I know some herbs because of Leda and Miss Kathy.”

Isadora looked up from the diary, her thin eyebrows lifting.

“Have you ever thought of being an apothecary? They work with herbs every now and then.”

“Well,” Camille hedged. “I thought about it but I just . . . I just . . . it could be a pretty quiet job, don’t you think?”

“Could be,” Isadora reasoned. “How about a potionmaker, like your friend Fitz?”

“Fitz isn’t my friend,” Camille gently corrected Isadora. “Besides, potionmakers don’t work with people. That’s a job for witches like Leda, who are grumpy around other witches and want to work on their own.”

Isadora’s lip turned up a little at the corner, but she hid it by coughing into her fist.

“And you don’t want to work alone.”

“No!”

The answer came out far louder and more vehemently than she meant it to. Camille didn’t realize that she’d shot forward in her seat until it was too late and sat back with a sheepish look.

“I’d just die if I were locked in a room by myself,” she finished in a calmer tone.

The feather had stopped completely, and now Isadora just sat staring at her. Under such an intense gaze, Camille waited to feel Isadora rooting through her brain, looking for information as if she’d lost something there.

“Any other education?” Isadora finally asked. “Besides homeschooling, I mean.”

Camille faltered.

“Well, ah, Bettina has taught me reading, spelling, writing. A little bit of divination . . .” Camille trailed off.

Bettina doesn’t have the patience to teach me,
she almost said but stopped herself. The truth was that Bettina often became too exasperated to work with Camille, and left her to study by herself. In the end, distracted by the quiet, Camille would mostly daydream about exploring Chatham castle, sewing a new dress that wasn’t linen or gray, or what it would be like to wear lacy gloves to tea.

“Is that all?”

“N-no. I’ve learned more,” Camille said, eager to fill the silence but fearful that she’d somehow disappoint Isadora’s expectations. Isadora gave an encouraging nod, acting as if she had all the time in the world.

Maybe she doesn’t mind if I talk,
Camille thought, the tension in her shoulders easing a little.
Bettina never wants me to talk.

“Bettina is trying to teach me algebra,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’m terrible at it. Then she gets frustrated and tells me to figure it out and locks herself in her room for the rest of the day.”

Isadora didn’t seem surprised.

“What do you do then?”

“I try and figure out the algebra,” she said. “Really, I do! One day I worked on it for a full thirty minutes without day dreaming once. But I don’t really understand math. Sometimes Leda helps me, but she’s really busy studying too.”

Isadora hummed something.

“Can you do transformations?”

“Not really, but I’d like to!” Camille leaned forward in her seat, a flush of excitement on her face. “Leda once transformed a white flower into a pink one. She doesn’t really know how she did it, but it was so lovely! I’d love to change ugly gray rocks into a pretty rosebush, or something like that. Gardens are my favorite.”

“Have you learned any of the ancient languages?”

“No.” Camille shrugged. “I don’t see the point. We only speak the common language in Hansham and most of the Central Network.”

“How about divination?”

“Not really.” Camille’s eyes widened. “But that might be a fun thing to learn as well! Maybe it would help me make better decisions. Bettina says I’m terrible at making logical decisions.”

“Logic doesn’t always lead us down the right path,” Isadora said, folding her veiny hands on her lap. “Tell me about Miss Kathy’s. Mr. Hymas told me that you work in the bakery. Have you worked there for long?”

“Oh, yes!” Camille beamed. “I love working at Miss Kathy’s bakery. I started a couple of years ago, at least. I had just moved here and was having a terrible time. I missed my parents so much. Miss Kathy knocked right on our door and said she needed help with deliveries. I wanted to get out of my aunts’ stuffy house, and Bettina consented immediately.”

Isadora’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She paused for a moment with a thoughtful expression and then straightened up in her chair. The feather stopped writing.

“You seem to really love the bakery,” she observed.

Camille put her hands to her flushed cheeks, eyes alight. “Oh yes! Miss Kathy named me her official sampler, you know. She lets me try a little taste of just about every batch of whatever she makes, but she won’t let me work in the back yet. Says I’m not ready.”

Isadora smiled and the feather laid down on top of the diary, which closed over it. Camille didn’t notice.

“Why not?”

Camille let out another hefty sigh that tossed her bangs from her face. “I burned some cookies. Actually, I burned seven batches of cookies. But it was an accident!” she insisted. “I didn’t know the oven got so hot!”

Isadora opened her mouth to speak but didn’t have the chance.

“But she did say that I have a good sense of taste,” Camille rushed to explain, lest Isadora think her incompetent. “Plus, I have a regular delivery route to some of the older people who live out in cottages and can’t walk in every week. Everyone comes to the bakery. I think it’s because of all the candy at the front. Most of the children like the sour candy best, but I like the lollipops. I know everyone in Hansham, you know.”

Isadora smiled in an offhand way. “Yes, well, I think I’ve heard enough to make my decision,” she announced.

Camille’s stomach lurched, pulling her down from her happy world at the bakery and back to reality. “O-oh, yes,” she stuttered, folding her suddenly cold hands in her lap. “Okay.”

“I’m always completely honest with my applicants,” Isadora said, looking Camille straight in the eye. “Academically, you are not a good choice based on what I can see in regards to your current level of education. Miss Mabel’s is a very difficult school as far as the curriculum is concerned. There are many witches who simply can’t keep up with the school work and expectations.”

A cold feeling welled up in Camille’s chest. It reminded her of the fear she first felt when she saw her parents lying in their graves.

“Your ability to concentrate is weak. As you said, you’re prone to fits of daydreaming, emotion, and apathy. And there are many things at Miss Mabel’s that you will not be interested in learning.” A small smile came to Isadora’s face. “Algebra included.”

Camille looked down at her hands.

“You also rely on other people more than most, which dependency is not a trait of most girls at the school. I’ve seen it work out in a few cases, but most girls who attend Miss Mabel’s are self-motivated, organized, and driven.”

Bettina’s words came back with haunting clarity.

Otherwise it’ll be just your usual chaotic madness and you’ll have no motivation.

Camille couldn’t bear to look up, and could hardly endure the interminable stillness of the office in the meantime. She wondered how long she could keep it together, wondered how she would keep the scream in her throat.

Not long.

Of course Isadora was going to tell her that she wasn’t what Miss Mabel’s wanted. Why had she even hoped? She wasn’t Leda or Fitz or Miss Kathy or Bettina. She was Camille, and that wasn’t good enough. Isadora, seeing the look on her face, stopped and said, “Are you all right, Camille?”

Camille broke, crumbling into barely discernible cries.

“I hate Hansham!” she wailed, shame washing over her. “I hate the quiet house. I hate Bettina and Angie! I want to be with girls my own age. And even though Bettina says I should know, I don’t know what I want to be! Maybe I’ll be an apothecary so I can save people like my parents. Th-then little g-girls like me won’t h-have to grow up an orphan with aunts that d-don’t love her!”

The sobs wouldn’t stop.

Camille’s pent up craving for human touch, the overwhelming need for the comfort of a loving family, the hope of an escape from the austere grip of Bettina and Angie’s house all bubbled up, flowing out of her in great hiccups and sobs.

Isadora waited patiently, her hands folded, her thumbs twiddling, for the emotional current to subside. As soon as Camille had let it all out, when her face was red and her nose dripping, Isadora floated a handkerchief over to Camille.

“Thank you,” Camille mumbled, mopping her face and gazing up through her red, swollen eyes.