Page 3 of A Resistance of Witches

Isadora waited patiently.

“Britain has been no friend to witches.” Churchill tapped the ash from his cigar. “Why help us now?”

“Because without us you will lose, and then we are all doomed.”

Churchill regarded her in thoughtful silence before speaking. “You’ve seen it?”

“Not me, I have no talent for spying the future. But our Seers’ visions have been clear: Hitler’s army will never stop, not until they’ve overrun all of Europe.”

“If the Americans—”

“It won’t be enough. The Americans will only delay the inevitable.”

Lydia was growing tired. She could feel her body pulling her back like a fish on a hook, but she couldn’t leave. Not now. Isadora was the grand mistress of the Royal Academy of Witches—the most powerful witch in Britain, sworn to safeguard the secrecy of the academy with her life. Lydia couldn’t conceive of what horrific vision of the future could have caused Isadora to break that oath, and that failure of imagination frightened her more than anything her sixteen-year-old mind could have conjured up.

Churchill appeared to have aged in the last few moments, as if cursed with the terrible knowledge of things to come. “If you join us, will we win?”

Just before Lydia was flung back into her exhausted body, she heard Isadora’s reply.

“If we join you, you will have a chance.”

•••

Lydia maintained a careful silenceas Isadora and Churchill said their goodbyes, then followed her mistress to the waiting car. She noticed it again, the subtle change in the weight of the air as she passed back through that shining black door—not a magical feeling, but not exactly mundane either. Lydia had the disconcerting sense that she was returning to the ordinary world, only to find that there was no such thing as ordinary anymore.

Once they had settled into the back of the grand mistress’s chauffeured car, Isadora allowed her glamour to fade. She was sixty years old—handsome and well kept, but sixty just the same. Lydia had never seen her true face before that moment, and something about the sight of it, with all its lines and imperfections, drove home the gravity of what had just occurred.

“Well?” Isadora broke the silence. “What did you think?”

Lydia looked up sharply. “The prime minister seems very nice.” She paused. “I was glad to be able to see Downing Street for myself.”

Isadora held Lydia in her gaze.

“Miss Polk, if I didn’t want you to observe my conversation with the prime minister, you would not have been able to observe it.”

Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. “Grand Mistress—”

“Your skill as a projectionist is impressive. Most girls your age can’t remain hidden for nearly so long. They always end up showing their faces at the most inopportune moments.” Lydia stared, unsure how to respond. “The prime minister would never have been so candid in the presence of a stranger, particularly one so young. Still, I hoped observing might be instructive for you.” She arched one slim brow. “Tell me what you thought.”

Lydia swallowed. “Swearing the academy to the war effort, revealing our existence…”

“To the prime minister alone.”

Lydia nodded. “It’s never been done. We’ve always remained separate. Hidden.” She had a sudden, jarring thought. “The high council approved this?”

Isadora studied her. “The high council was not asked for their approval.”

Lydia was stunned. She knew almost nothing of the twelve witches of the high council, although she would soon learn. Some of them were her teachers, ordinary enough in the light of day, but together, under cover of darkness, they became something else entirely. She imagined them as otherworldly, like the Fates, or the Norns. Frightening, powerful women, not to be trifled with—and each with their own alliances and agendas. A decision of this magnitude would have required their unanimous approval. To proceed without it was unimaginable, even for one as formidable as the grand mistress.

Isadora chuckled softly at Lydia’s expression. “Have I shocked you?”

Lydia quickly fixed her face. “No, Grand Mistress.”

“The council still believes that secrecy and isolation will protect us from Hitler’s war. They’re wrong. I thought it best in this instance to ask forgiveness, rather than permission.”

Lydia tried to imagine begging forgiveness from the witches of the high council and shuddered. “It must be of utmost importance that we help, then,” she said carefully.

“Doyouthink we should help?” Isadora’s face revealed nothing.

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