A/N: Another big thanks to those of you reading and reviewing/messaging, I've outlined the rest of this story and plan to see it through to its completion, so that will be fun and challenging. Feel free to send prompts, should you be into that sort of thing, as I'll probably want some fluff to break up the process. Thanks again!
My Little Black Star
Chapter 6: A Reunion of Sorts
Cordelia pursed her lips and rose slowly from behind her desk. She wrapped tentative fingers around the end of her cane, palming the delicately curved wood and swinging it lightly from side to side. She was aware that Madison and Nan still sat, expectantly, or, at least in Madison's case, begrudgingly, waiting for her to finish outlining the battle plan, but Cordelia just couldn't. She lost focus, filled suddenly with a strange, familiar pull in her chest. It lifted her up and tugged her from the office, drawing her toward the foyer, toward whoever had been ringing their bell.
She heard the murmur of voices grow louder as she approached and the rhythm of her heart quickened slightly.
"Who's there?" Cordelia drew closer to the voices and they fell silent. She could feel Zoe near to her, somewhere to her left, and there was something else. Something strong and almost-bright in her never-ending darkness; a faint glow in the black.
"A witch. Seeking Safety."
"Somebody is lookin' to kill me," a warm low voice drawled. She knew that voice, but couldn't seem to place it.
Cordelia extended her hand and after a few pregnant seconds, she felt a slight shock and then the weight of soft hands clasping hers. She scarcely had a moment to register the grit of dirt clinging to the lightly calloused fingers before gasping violently. The vision as it crashed over, coming in wave after furious wave. She felt searing pain and gripped the girl's hands tightly as her mind flooded with pain and mud and the agony of a body stitching itself back together. She beheld a flash of blue eyes and curling blonde hair rising from black, dense mud and in the recesses of her mind a cry echoed, "It's you who will end in flames! I swear it!"
Cordelia staggered slightly as the vision faded, she refused to let go of the girl's hand. She knew that face, she knew this story and with one psychic shock, she was able to connect the pieces.
"You're Misty Day," she said, strong and sure.
Cordelia had read the tragic tale of the poor girl in the local paper. Misty Day, a young woman over in Lafayette, a handful, or so, years younger than herself was missing, presumed dead. The Cajun girl had, in the midst of a revival meeting, displayed the rare gift of resurgence, but she had done so surrounded by skittish bible-thumpers and they burned for it. The story had stood out to her, not simply because it created a neat cautionary tale to relate to the girls of the house, but because the name, Misty, reminded her of something that had happened to her when she was their age. She never could have imagined that the girl whose sad tale she had relayed and the girl with whom she had shared a captivating afternoon could be one and the same.
"You were set on fire and left for dead. Whatever troubles you had, they are ours now. You're under the protection of this coven." She paused, almost imperceptibly, "This is your house."
Cordelia wished – not for the first time that morning – that she could see. She needed to see M, or Misty, rather, with her own eyes so she could be sure her visions weren't just playing tricks. How many times had she wished to see that woman again? Hundreds? Thousands? She had gone to the library everyday for three months hoping to "run into" her. She spent nights unable to sleep, trying to recall the warmth of her laugh, resigning herself to the loss after a year had passed with no hope of contact. And now the fae Cajun was standing on her doorstep seeking sanctuary and Cordelia couldn't even see her face.
"Could my friend stay, also?" the voice was silky and soothing, unmistakable. "I left her out back in the greenhouse.
Cordelia nodded and slowly swung around, finding the edges of the baseboards with the tip of her cane and gliding toward the rear of the house. She had only taken a handful of steps when she felt a hand at her elbow.
"It's alright, I can manage it on my own." Cordelia tried not to snap, but she had already tired of her own reliance on others and was in no hurry to accept assistance especially when it had not been requested.
"I know you can, Miss Cordelia," she felt an arm slip through and link in her own as the sweet, southern voice lilted, barely above a whisper, "but I thought ya might be so good as to allow me to escort you. It's the least I can do after those kind words."
Cordelia could feel her cheeks warming and merely nodded her consent. The use of the honorary felt so silly and yet so blissfully familiar, it pulled the memory of their time together from the vault of her mind, and allowed it to flood her head with reminiscence. She had almost forgotten the sweet smell of earth and fragrant flowers that seemed to accompany the girl on her arm.
True, it had been only one afternoon, but their meeting had lingered, held in a place of reverence and fondness, until such time that it became painful to recall, and ultimately locked away.
Cordelia longed, desperately, to know what might be going through Misty's mind. She wanted to run her fingers over the blonde woman's face, feel the ridges and valleys of her features so that she might know how the Cajun felt about their sudden and unexpected reunion. She was given slight release when she felt a shallow breath at her neck followed by a simple admission.
"I missed you."
With that, Misty withdrew her arm and Zoe took the lead as Cordelia pushed ahead, into the greenhouse.
"Hello?" she called, venturing tentatively into the greenhouse, finding the edge of her workbench with wandering fingers. "Don't worry, you're amongst friends."
"Of course I am, Cordelia. So long as Fiona isn't with you."
Cordelia immediately recognized the affected, Mid-Atlantic accent; she could see the flame colored hair and cat-eye glasses, even without the use of her eyes.
"Myrtle?" She staggered toward the eccentric doyenne, grateful beyond words to hear her dramatic lilt. "Oh my god, I thought I'd never see you again!" Cordelia felt the soft embrace, delicate, diplomatic, as Myrtle enveloped her.
"Poor choice of words, girl." Myrtle drew back and Cordelia became slightly self-conscious as she sensed the woman's gaze trace over the scars framing her eyes, glazed and glassy. "But given my wretched appearance, maybe it's a good thing you're blind as a butter knife."
They exchanged a few pleasantries and Nan commented on Myrtle's hair, which confirmed the accuracy of Cordelia's imagined appearance of her mentor. Cordelia rattled off the latest tragedies in a series of, what she felt were her, shortcomings and Myrtle rebutted her observations. Cordelia could hear some rustling and someone... humming? The sound of the watering can clanking softly. She knew, instinctively, that Misty must be watering her plants. Still trying to make things grow in spite of the chaos around them. That's a good sign, Cordelia thought to herself, almost missing the tail end of Myrtle's discourse.
"Misty Day," Cordelia felt a rush of air as Myrtle gestured away from her toward positioning her to face the sound of water and metal. The room suddenly fell deathly still. "Behold! Our next Supreme."
The girls stood, rifling through the clothing, in a large room – twice the size of Misty's shack – crowded with paintings of intimidating women. Some of the portraits glared, while some hung quietly, passively benevolent. There was a fire in the hearth, supplied by Madison in an inexplicable act of generosity, and it gave the room warm glow. It also, however, threw tall, dark shadows around the room that gave Misty pause and caused her to fidget.
The wild blonde witch slipped into the crimson robe, handed to her by an overly theatrical Myrtle. Misty took great joy in observing the woman she had revived flutter about and talk in outlandish highs and lows. People, she thought, are a lot like flowers: you plant them in the earth, care for them, encourage them to grow, then suddenly they flower with unexpected brilliance. She couldn't think of a better analogy for the colorful woman now distributing clothing and touting her love of mothballs.
Misty smiled, in spite of herself. She fiddled with the tie of her cape, unsure of what exactly they were all doing, but relishing the rush of being asked to participate. She'd only been in the house a few hours – this time – and she'd already been settled in a room, between Cordelia's and Zoe's, which suited her, and was now helping with some sort of sacred ritual. While she was no stranger to the ominous nature accompanying the ceremony, it already felt safer than any she'd suffered through with her father. She was safely tucked among people who understood her, who saw what she did as a gift rather than a curse or some sort of divine mandate, and who seemed to think she had the makings of a leader. She wasn't sure about that last bit, but for now, she'd go along and learn all she could.
While that was all more than she had ever hoped to deserve, the sweetest reward granted in the midst of this fraught situation, far and away, was Cordelia.
Miss Cordelia, she echoed in her head.
How was it that she had spent all that time in search of answers when they were waiting here all along? She had run, years ago, out of fear that someone like Cordelia would never understand her troubled past and her strange gift, when, in fact she may understand it better than Misty, herself. The thought that she might find the kinship she had so desperately desired, not only among the girls here, but with Cordelia, filled Misty with a giddy effervescence she was hiding poorly.
"I feel like a queen," Misty lifted the black lace veil and swept it neatly back over her blonde waves. She still stood barefoot, her mud-caked feet peeking out below the ceremonial red cape. Otherwise, she looked just like every other member of the coven, which tickled her.
She watched as Zoe helped Cordelia into her robe, tying it gently at her neck. Then the girls fell to bickering over whom should rise as the next Supreme, something for which Myrtle seemed to think Misty was uniquely suited, based on reasons the wild girl couldn't hope to understand. She was still reeling over the heady feeling of inclusion; she wasn't jumping to lead this gaggle of girls, she didn't even know how to begin to lead. She had watched her father guide his flock, and living through the tragedy of its termination, she knew it was something she never wanted for herself. No, she was happy to hang back, wide-eyed, and observe, to steep in the intoxicating energy of those who neither revered or reviled her.
They continued to wheedle one another until Cordelia's sharp voice cut in.
"Being the Supreme isn't something to wish for. It's not a gift. It's a burden. How many of these women had happy lives?" Misty gazed around the room, understanding that these glaring portraits held the images of previous coven leaders. Cordelia continued, "They had the power, but with it came the crushing responsibility of the coven. They all bowed under the weight, except my mother, who ran from it."
Cordelia's tone was cold and harsh, if forced a shiver up Misty's spine. "Can I say something?" she wanted to set the record straight, and maybe soften Cordelia, who, after her reunion with Myrtle had turned terse and adopted a standoffish attitude that gave Misty pause. "I don't want to be the Supreme."
Cordelia turned her head toward Misty, and while Misty was sure the woman could not actually see her, she shrank under the vacant gaze.
"Nobody gets to choose. When Fiona dies, whoever it is will be. Now, give me your hands."
Misty took Zoe's hand and felt Myrtle's gloved fingers lace in her other one as the ritual began. She tried to concentrate on the history of it all; she turned to receive breath and cut her finger at the appropriate moment and before they had begun, it was over. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
Cordelia sat across from Myrtle on the settee, listening to the faint rustling as the older woman dressed for the evening's activities of deception. It wasn't everyday they had the chance to coax one so reviled to cast off the mortal coil, Myrtle had announced, theatrically before throwing open the doors to her wardrobe. Cordelia had the sneaking suspicion that Myrtle might use any occasion as an excuse to don some new costume piece. Seeing as the woman had recently been brought back from the grave, Cordelia had little desire to begrudge her any happiness, however frivolous.
"Auntie Myrtle," The headmistress shifted slightly, legs crossed at the knee, hands resting on the curve of her cane.
"What is it little bird."
Cordelia heard the slight tinkling of metal and assumed Myrtle was selecting jewelry.
"What do you know about Misty Day? I mean," the young woman paused to consider her words, "other than her obvious power, what do you really know about her."
"Oh Delia, dear, you needn't worry." Myrtle's voice grew in volume as she approached and her sudden weight on the settee caused Cordelia to reposition slightly.
Gloved hands enclosed Cordelia's own and she was, in this moment, thankful for the older woman's habit of covering her hands, as even the slightest touch could trigger an unpleasant vision to be suffered.
"The girl has a good heart. I dare say she may be the most selfless person I've ever encountered." Myrtle sighed and sank into her own weight. "She found me, alone, charred to a crisp – said she was called to me, to my suffering – and took me in, no questions, no hesitation. She planted me in her garden, quite literally!"
Cordelia was lost in thought, but managed a weak smile at the thought of Myrtle, clean, crisp, obsessively neat Myrtle, settled deep into the dirt.
"I don't remember a great deal, but I do remember her speaking to me, through the mud and muck, as my body knit itself back together. She sang to me and read to me, Delia. She spoke kind words." Cordelia felt an arm wrap, protectively, around her shoulder. "And I guarantee, while she may seem simple and charming, there is fire there, and, most definitely, a mind at work. She will make a fine leader of this Coven, fair and kind. She is everything Fiona is not."
Cordelia bowed her head as tears stung her vacant eyes. She felt so strangely conflicted over this new twist in the plot that was playing out for all of them. She had harbored such apprehension and, perhaps, joy at the idea of finding Misty, but now the girl was here, presented as the potential new Supreme, and the only emotions that seemed to rise in the glassy-eyed headmistress were anger, sadness, and overwhelming confusion.
She didn't want the burden of supremacy to fall on this young woman, who clearly felt the same way. Aside from the staggering weight of responsibility for the coven, Misty's probability of being the new Supreme put her squarely in the center of Fiona's crosshairs. She wanted safety, kindness, comfort, and maybe time, for their newest charge. Not crushing responsibility and the vague but looming threat of death. Even if they could manage to keep her safe from Fiona, there was no guarantee Misty would survive the test of Seven Wonders.
She felt the saline sting the sensitive skin around her eyes and brushed away the tears as they came.
"My dear," she felt the soft satin of Myrtle's glove on her cheek, "Whatever is the matter?
"I'm just so worried. I can't lose another girl, not to Marie, not to my mother. Oh, Auntie Myrtle, I don't expect you to understand, I don't even understand myself, but I can't," she choked down a sob that threatened to erupt. "I can't lose this girl."
"She is rather unique. But she is under our care, and you made promises to her that I, for one, intend to keep." Myrtle wiped a stray tear before it fell from Cordelia's cheek and rose from the settee. "You're always so hard on yourself, Delia. And just think, if tonight's events go according to plan, my love, you won't have to worry about Fiona any longer. She will be little more than dust and Misty will be free to rise." There was more rustling and the faint clink of metal as Myrtle continued her preparations.
Cordelia knew she was being childish, but she just wanted all of this to fall away. She wanted to sit in a quiet café and find out where their new addition to the academy had been hiding these last few years. She wanted to know more than that, she wanted to know everything, but she'd settle for a quiet conversation. But even that was too much to ask with the threat of Fiona's avarice still lingering, not to mention the threat that forced the witch from her swamp in the first place.
If, as Myrtle said, their night went to plan, Fiona would be permanently deposed. She steeled herself against failure and re-dedicated herself to the cause at hand. Perhaps, when this evenings tactics were behind them, she might get her quiet conversation after all.