Page 2 of A Resistance of Witches
“Lydia, stay here.”
With that, Isadora and the prime minister disappeared into another room, leaving Lydia behind.
She stood alone, feeling awkward and insignificant without Isadora by her side. The walls were bare, with only empty nails and ghostly outlines to suggest the art that had been hastily taken down and carted away in the wake of the Blitz. Rain pattered on the shutters, too loud in the cavernous silence. After a moment of fidgeting, Lydia sighed and seated herself in a hard, high-backed chair against the wall. She thought she heard the tinkle of Isadora’s familiar laughter, but she couldn’t make out any words.
Why bring me along only to have me wait outside?she wondered irritably.
Then an idea occurred to her. She would be in terrible trouble if she were caught, but projectionwasher strongest subject. She felt sure she could manage without being detected.
Lydia chose a spot on the wall upon which to fix her gaze and allowed her eyes to relax. Her breathing slowed. If the butler had walked by, he might have thought she was extremely deep in thought, or perhaps a little odd, but he did not appear. She waited until her body began to feel heavy, almost as if it were sinking into the floor, and then, very quickly, she stood.
When she turned around, she saw herself sitting in her chair with a far-off look on her face. She hated seeing herself like that, even morethan she hated looking at herself in the mirror. In the mirror she could arrange her face in a way that would minimize its flaws, turn up the corners of her lips to make herself look softer, although not necessarily prettier. Now that she’d stepped outside of herself, her face had gone slack, mouth turned down, eyes fixed on nothing. She resisted the impulse to reach out and fuss with her hair.
Isadora’s laughter rang out again. Leaving her body where it sat, Lydia followed the sound, walking unseen past room after empty room, noticing the deep marks left in the plush carpets where desks and chairs had once been, until she heard Isadora’s voice again, coming from just behind a set of heavy wooden doors. She took a breath and stepped through, bracing herself against the uncomfortable way the matter tugged at her as she slipped through to the other side.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room was furnished, with shelves of books lining the walls, and an enormous mahogany table running the length of the room. Churchill and Isadora were seated at one end of the table, their bodies angled toward one another. Churchill had already begun working on a fat cigar, while Isadora pulled a black cigarette from a sleek, monogrammed case. Churchill offered Isadora a light, which she accepted with a coy smile and tilt of her head.
“How is Clementine?” Isadora asked.
“She’s managing. You know Clemmie. Unflappable as always.”
Isadora exhaled a plume of lavender smoke. “And you? How are you?”
“Well, the damned Huns haven’t managed to kill me yet, although they do keep trying.” Churchill coughed and gestured with his cigar toward the shuttered windows. “It’s only dumb luck the Luftwaffe haven’t blown Downing Street to kindling, although they did get close. Last month they blew up my kitchen. Very nearly killed my poor cook, as well.”
It felt treasonous, spying on Isadora, to say nothing of the primeminister. Lydia found herself slowly backing into the gloomy corner by the door—although she was certain she could not be seen—as Isadora offered some polite, sympathetic comment regarding the prime minister’s cook.
“Isadora.”The way Churchill said the name was so familiar, Lydia would have blushed had she been inside her body. “It is wonderful to see you after all these years, but neither of us has ever been very good at idle chitchat. Why are you here?”
Isadora held his gaze and drew on her cigarette, taking her time.
“The war,” she said. “You’re losing.”
The prime minister pursed his lips, then nodded.
“I’d like to offer my help.”
Churchill raised an eyebrow. “Like in Pretoria?”
Isadora smiled. “Pretoria was personal. This would be something more…official.”
“Isadora, forgive me, but I’m old and grumpy and, as you yourself pointed out, quite busy at the moment losing a war. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d speak plainly.”
Isadora lifted a snifter of brandy from the table and sipped it slowly before speaking. “I’m offering you the aid of the academy.”
Something dropped inside Lydia’s chest, as if she’d tripped coming down the stairs.
Churchill’s cigar sat forgotten in his hand, ash gathering on the tip. “You mean…”
“The witches of Britain are at your service.”
Churchill sat very still, regarding Isadora through a plume of smoke. Lydia held her breath.
“Why?” he said finally.
Isadora raised her eyebrows.
“The witches of Britain have never offered their assistance before.Not during plague, or war. I daresay you’ve had good reason not to. Why, before this moment, I only had the vaguest notion that your academy even existed. If it weren’t for the things I’ve seen with my own eyes, the things I’ve seenyou do…well, I would think you were quite mad.”
