Page 1 of A Resistance of Witches
One
London, November 1940
Years later, when Lydia recalled that day at Downing Street, she would often find herself thinking aboutthe door.
It was an ordinary door in almost every respect, if unusually beautiful—glossy black, with a sheen so high she could nearly see her reflection. Gleaming brass mail slot. Iron knocker. The number ten, painted with the zero at a slightly whimsical tilt. And yet, to Lydia, there was something enchanted about it as well. In hindsight, she would think that perhaps it was because in all the stories, passing through a magical door was a rite of passage—the black-and-white partition where one’s old life ends, and a newer, stranger one begins.
It was a chilly day in London, the coldest they’d had since March, and an icy mist fell across the paving stones like lace. Lydia would forever remember the way her jacket itched at the back of her neck, how her stomach twisted into knots as she stole a glance at the woman beside her: Isadora Goode, her mentor of just two weeks. She watched in fascination as the frozen raindrops twisted away from Isadora’s formjust before impact, as if each one had considered the cost of the collision and then thought better of it.
Isadora reached out and rapped the knocker, hard.
One. Two. Three.
The face Isadora wore that day was thirty-four. Thirty-four, she had informed her young charge, was exactly old enough to be taken seriously, but still young enough to be interesting. Lydia was sixteen and two weeks and wore her face exactly as it was. By graduation she would master the art of glamouring her features, making herself appear pink cheeked and button nosed, a sweet rose of a girl like so many of her classmates, instead of skinny, pale, and hawkish. She would wear her glamour daily, the way some women wear lipstick. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.
A butler opened the glossy black door and peered at the two women.
“Miss Isadora Goode and Miss Lydia Polk, to see the prime minister,” Isadora said briskly.
The butler scowled. “I’m afraid the ladies do not have an appointment.”
Lydia watched as Isadora pulled a mother-of-pearl case from the pocket of her peacock-blue overcoat and, from the case, a card. It was inky black and bore no name, just a single inscrutable symbol, embossed in gold.
“I believe you must be mistaken,” she said.
The butler blinked at the card, then back up at the two women in the doorway. He appeared momentarily confused, then seemed to remember himself.
“Yes, of course. The prime minister has been expecting you.” He looked surprised as the words fell out of his mouth, as if they’d been spoken by someone else.
When she thought back on that day, Lydia recalled that there had been a change in the air as she passed over that threshold—a prickling of the skin, a sensation of falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Funny,as the place didn’t look like anything very special to her. She’d expected glittering crystal chandeliers and tall, light-filled rooms, something like the great hall of the academy, only grander. Instead, it was rather drab and smelled of cigars. The windows had been fitted with blast-proof shutters that blocked out the light, and there was an abandoned quality about the place. Above her head, the electric candlesticks in the light fixture gave off a faint hum.
“Miss Polk, do stop goggling.” Isadora frowned as the butler disappeared with their coats.
Lydia quickly turned her attention to her shoes. They were cobalt-blue suede, and already beginning to bite into her ankles.
“Isadora Goode!” Lydia looked up again to see a rotund man approaching them at a swift pace. Isadora’s face broke into a perfectly arranged expression of joy.
“Winston!” Isadora embraced the older man, kissing him once on each cheek.
“My God, how long has it been?”
“Too long.” Isadora smiled warmly.
He looked extremely old to Lydia, older than he had appeared in the black-and-white newspaper photographs she’d seen of him before that day. He was jowly, with thinning hair, and wore excellent clothes that somehow managed to look rumpled on his round frame. Still, his eyes were a shocking shade of blue, and there was a sharpness there that Lydia liked.
The prime minister’s brow furrowed as he took in Isadora’s face. “Why, it must be more than thirty years. But you look…why, you’re…”
“Winston, you embarrass me.” Isadora laughed softly. Lydia didn’t think Isadora looked embarrassed at all.
“Please allow me to introduce my apprentice, Miss Lydia Polk. Lydia Polk, Mr. Winston Churchill.”
Lydia curtsied. “Prime Minister.”
“Charmed, Miss Polk.” Churchill leaned over and took Lydia’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Now. What brings two such lovely creatures to call on a tired old man?”
“I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit,” Isadora murmured, and Churchill nodded gravely. “May we speak privately?”
“Of course.” Churchill gestured for Isadora to come with him. Lydia began to follow, until Isadora stopped her with a sharp look.
