Page 25 of Wicked Bonds
Her breath steams up the glass, and she writes a word with her fingertip, then smears it.
Backing away I chuckle silently, because I saw what she wrote.
Fuckers
Wickersly may live to regret finding this one.
Thirteen
Rose
At the ungodlier hour of six a.m. on Saturday morning, a pounding on my door shocks me awake before I seriously debate just rolling over and pretending I’m dead. But the knock happens again, and then again, each one louder and more determined, so I stagger out of bed and answer it.
Standing in the corridor is a woman who looks like she’s been up since before the invention of clocks. Her gray hair is twisted into a bun so tight it’s threatening to detach her scalp, and she’s wearing a navy dress with a hem below the knee and a high collar buttoned to her chin.
“Miss Smith?” she says, not waiting for a reply. “I am Mrs. Bright. I’m here to assist you with the wardrobe conjuring, as it seems you haven’t managed to handle it yourself.”
My brain, which is in bed, just blinks at her. “Wardrobe what?”
She sighs with the deep exasperation of someone who’s spent her life waiting for people less intelligent than her to catchup. “Students are expected to conjure their own basic clothing and accoutrements upon arrival. But,” her eyes rake over my t-shirt… which I slept in… again, “we make allowances for those with… unconventional backgrounds.”
I try not to take that as an insult. “Can I put on pants first?”
“Of course. But do hurry. I have other things to attend to.”
She’s already in the room before I can finish tugging on my jeans, her eyes scanning the sparse decor. She spots the wilted succulent on the windowsill, the battered backpack.
“You’ve made yourself at home,” Mrs. Bright observes, which is rich considering home is a place I’ve never actually had. We moved so much I could never remember where the bathroom light switches were when I got up in the middle of the night to pee.
I decide not to respond. Instead, I cross my arms and wait for her to do whatever it is she’s here for.
“Let’s begin,” she says, clapping her hands once. The sound is sharp, and it makes one of my eyes squint.
She walks over to the closet, which is empty except for a single wire hanger.
“You’ll need at least five complete changes of clothing,” she explains, “plus appropriate footwear, outerwear, and any accessories suitable to your status.”
I stare at her. “Is this like, magical Project Runway?”
She doesn’t crack a smile. “Precisely. Watch.” I’m impressed that she knows what reality tv even is.
She closes her eyes, mumbles something that sounds like Latin, and makes a complex movement with her hands. The air shimmers. On the bed, a perfectly folded stack of clothing appears, then disappears with a wave of her hand.
“Your turn,” Mrs. Bright says, stepping aside.
I lift my arms, trying to remember what she did. The incantation is a blur, but I mash the syllables together and move my wrists. There’s a pop, a sulfurous smell, and a pile of clothing lands on the bed.
It’s a crop-top hoodie in neon tie-dye, a frothy purple tulle miniskirt, two mismatched socks—one bright red and the other green with white polka dots, and a rainbow clown wig.
Mrs. Bright doesn’t blink. She snaps her fingers, and it vanishes in a puff.
“Again,” she says. “Try to focus on intent.”
I focus as hard as I can, but my brain is soup. I flick my hands, and say the magic words. This time, I conjure a pair of black jeans, a threadbare t-shirt that says “ASSHOLE” in cracked lettering, and black non-descript shoes.
“Better,” Mrs. Bright allows. “But next time, make sure you visualize the garment precisely. Specificity is key in conjuration. Also, refrain from offensive slogans unless you wish to accrue disciplinary points.”
We repeat the process a half-dozen times. Each attempt is a little less embarrassing. Sometimes the magic rebels and I end up with something weird, like a jacket with seventeen sleeves, a pair of shoes fused together, and once a canary yellow bra with silverspikes that floats in the air for a full minute before Mrs. Bright dispatches it with another snap of her fingers.
