Priscilla Northwest hated seeing photographs of herself. If nothing else, they reminded her of how much she had changed over time. Of happier times that were half-forgotten, smudged by time and regret, that could never again be entirely summoned. The only ones she enjoyed were pictures of herself and her daughter together (even if He appeared in all of them). If she were honest with herself, Pacifica might be the only reason she were still alive in 2018. And if her family was going to split apart...

Yet as she sat alone in the drawing room, accompanied only by a clock ticking metronomically in the background, photographs surrounded her. Pictures of herself and Preston, aging from a fresh couple in love's first bloom to comfortable adulthood to angry, crabbed middle age. Also several pictures of herself, as a teenager playing polo or tennis, as a young woman modeling for a photo magazine or beauty contest, as a beaming young mother and repressed older socialite forced to swallow her regrets for the sake of the Family Name.

The picture she hated most of all might have been the most revealing. Taken by Preston not long after they started dating, it showed her reclining on a California beach wearing a striped two-piece bathing suit and sun hat, mischievously pulling a pair of sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. In every way she looked different: her hair a darker shade of brown, her figure fuller, her face rounder (much like Pacifica's, in fact). And more than anything, she looked so happy; a young woman full of beauty and energy and life, possessing hopes and dreams not yet crushed by time, age and an awful marriage.

Now she felt like a refugee from a Fitzgerald novel or a Visconti film, drowning in her own family's decadence, too complacent and resigned to pull herself out. She didn't think of saving herself, didn't think she could. Didn't think it would be worth the effort, even if she wanted to. But she still had a daughter to protect, if only she could figure out how.

Her eyes then stopped on another picture - a picture of herself from about eight years ago on a tennis court, posing happily with a racket leaning against her right leg. Pacifica, wearing a matching outfit, hung shyly to the other leg, smiling at the camera. Maybe the last time she remembered being happy.


Priscilla Connolly was just 21 when she met Preston Northwest. Six years her senior, he was a dashingly handsome man, full of energy and dreams of turning his father's dying business into a major concern. It was easy to be attracted to him then; his ambitions were those of a young man, his opinions animated with energy, his manner suave and charming.

Priscilla met him largely by accident. From an early age she wanted to write, and she was studying journalism at Oregon State when, in junior year, a classmate suggested she try modeling to make some extra money. Priscilla took her up on the offer, and modeled for several local photographers for a meager sum - barely enough to buy cheeseburgers with her girlfriends on Friday night. Instead, she put her heart into her writing and reporting; two weeks after one photo shoot, in fact, she published an expose of charity embezzlement among one of the campus's biggest fraternities, earning her scorn (and occasional threats) from campus jocks and jerks, and the respect of most everyone else.

But then her pictures won the attention of a talent scout, who suggested she try out for the Miss Oregon beauty pageant. Priscilla was flattered but reluctant, only agreeing when she learned that it came with a cash prize and a scholarship to Lindenwood University in Missouri. Not seeing any other way to afford graduate school, she pooled together her money with two of her friends', and a small donation from her parents, to apply.

Priscilla despised being a contestant. She hated being judged on her looks alone, as if nothing else about her mattered. She hated wearing skimpy swimsuits and having to perform talents and tricks to gawking judges like a trained seal. She didn't even like most of the other girls, who were varying degrees of vain and obnoxious, all of whom wanted to win much more than she did.

Priscilla didn't win: she came in third place, a decent showing for a first-time contestant. Not that she was overly upset at this outcome. But she did attract the attention of young suitors, mostly rich boys (and occasionally older men) looking for a pretty girl and a good time, all of them viewing her as a trophy rather than a proper girlfriend. And one of them was Preston Northwest, who boldly propositioned her outside her dressing room and asked her to lunch.

He made quite an impression, and not just for his chiseled good looks. Perhaps he talked a bit too much about himself, perhaps his opinions on NAFTA and the Clinton Administration were a bit too strident for her tastes, but she didn't consider those insurmountable problems. She liked his drive and passion, she liked that he had a brain and a dream. She liked that, at least at first, he seemed genuinely interested in her writing and her hopes of becoming a reporter. And, she had to admit, she liked that he had money.

Not that Priscilla's family was poor, exactly. Her parents, originally from Connecticut, both worked solid 9-to-5 jobs: her father as the foreman at a fiber company, her mother as a bookbinder's secretary. But between her and her older brother, along with their modest house outside Corvallis, money was always tight, and her parents had the bare minimum to put both of them through school. Graduate school - a Master's Degree - was out of the question, at least on their dime. Her grades, while solid, weren't good enough to earn a full-time scholarship. Better to be financially secure than to follow one's heart.

And maybe Priscilla liked the idea of being a society wife. When Preston first showed her around the family estate in Gravity Falls, her jaw hit the floor. She'd never seen a house so large in her life, aside from some colonial-era buildings she'd visited back in Connecticut as a little girl. She met Preston's parents, who were stern and forbidding, yet seemed to approve of their son's choice for all that.

So it was a whirlwind courtship, entered into quickly, for reasons good (young love, mutual attraction) and bad (insecurity, fear of being left behind). They became engaged just after Priscilla graduated college, married a few months after that, her dreams of writing put on hold. Sixteen months into their marriage, Priscilla gave birth to Pacifica. And their relationship deteriorated from there.


Priscilla couldn't blame her daughter, a jewel of a little girl she loved from birth and smothered and spoiled as much as she could. She could, however, resent Preston, who hated Pacifica's crying as a baby and, in frustration, started ringing a bell to drown her out. As Pacifica grew older, her father noticed that the bell had a mollifying effect on her whenever she lost her temper, and continued doing it until the conditioning became ingrained in her mind. Then he enlisted his servants to do the same even when he wasn't around.

In hindsight, that should have tipped Priscilla off that she'd made a mistake. Her husband viewed their daughter as something of a liability, a pet or a Thing to be trotted out for photographs and public events, to be appeased when possible and shamed when not. Maybe he resented that Priscilla didn't give him a son, the only child acceptable to a certain breed of narcissistic male, or maybe that's just the way he'd treat any child, regardless of gender.

The older they got, the harder it became to look past Preston's faults. And the more they rubbed off on her: the more they made her vain and shallow and obsessed with status, the more snobbish and unaccepted of people outside their social circle. The more complacent they made her. The more unable even to enjoy things that she had loved in the past.

Priscilla slid comfortably into her role at first, enjoying the perks of being a wealthy socialite. She loved clothes, enjoyed the wide array of expensive outfits and jewelry. Unlike the beauty pageant, which made her feel self-conscious and awkward, having clothes that were hers to own made her feel beautiful, happy, comfortable. She enjoyed having endless leisure time, liked indulging her daughter, enjoyed feeling secure. She even liked the social events and parties Preston dragged her to, even if she found most of his peer group boring at best and obnoxious at worst.

Over time, however, she grew more and more bored, more restless, unable to find fulfillment in pampered wealth and endless social engagements. She tried to take up hobbies which she invariably lost interest in, or failed at, within months, or weeks, or days. She continued playing tennis with her husband, her daughter, with servants and a few friends when she could; increasingly, since she no longer felt like writing, it became her only outlet for her frustration.

And like many things, it seemed a possible outlet for Priscilla to express herself, to assert her individuality and personhood. Twice, in 2009 and 2010, she thought of applying for an amateur tennis tournament, hosted in Salem by the Lieutenant Governor. The first time, she entrusted the application fee to her husband, who claimed that he lost the money and forgot about it. The second time, not trusting Preston, she applied in person and made it into the tournament.

To no one's surprise (at least, no one who knew her), she did extremely well. She'd built up a wicked serve over the past few years, and managed to smoke the first few rounds of competitors easily. The frumpy housewives and politicians' wives who played tennis on a lark were no match for Priscilla Northwest! And after she made it to the final round against Mitsy Cranwell, the wife of a State Senator who'd won the tournament four years in a row, she became genuinely excited.

The event was covered by the society press as one of those fun outings for rich people to experience, and the middle and working classes to observe jealously through magazines and newspapers. But the consensus was that Priscilla Northwest, heretofore the pretty but vacuous thirty-something wife of a minor industrialist, looked like a genuinely gifted player. And so, the night before the final round, she received a phone call.

"Mrs. Northwest, my name is Tabatha Baker!" a cheerful voice called. "I'm from the United States Tennis Association, Pacific Northwest Region! We're looking for new members to play professionally, and I saw your match against Agatha Wong yesterday! Very impressive - four aces! And you have the form of an Anna Kournikova! We'd love to have you as a member."

"Oh my word!" Priscilla said, a little too loud. "I'm flattered, but...I don't think I'm that good. It's just something I've picked up in my spare time."

"Hey, I'm not saying that you're gonna be the next Serena Williams. But we sponsor players at all levels, and you could make a splash in the local circuit at the very least. Someone beautiful and talented like yourself has a great chance of making it! What do you say?"

Priscilla leaned against the wall, barely containing her excitement. Pacifica, then around ten years old, came out in the hallway. She was going to ask her mom for a snack, but saw her gleeful smile and began hopping up and down, anticipating the great news she'd share in a moment.

"I'd say...I'm in! Thank you so much!" And she hung up the phone and pumped her fist in excitement.

"Mom, what's going on?" Pacifica asked. "Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

"Pacifica," Priscilla said, beaming at her daughter - a smile Pacifica had rarely seen before, and would never see again. "Your mom's gonna be a professional tennis player!"

"Yay!" And Pacifica squeezed her mom in a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you, Mom! You've been so good at tennis for so long, and now people everywhere are gonna realize it."

Priscilla kissed her daughter's forehead and messed with her hair. "We'll see, dear! We can hope!"

As the girls celebrated, Preston watched from the shadows across the room. And he knew that, however reluctantly, however much it hurt, he'd have to crush his wife's dreams.


Preston Northwest was not, at least in his own mind, an evil man. He certainly wasn't a sociopath, despite what his enemies might think; he simply didn't allow petty things like emotion and empathy, regret and remorse to stand in the way of his career or his good name. He was the product of a family that viewed success and prestige as ends to themselves. Even if it meant hurting those closest to him.

His first response, when he heard Priscilla's news, was naturally to congratulate her. Then, before he could, his mind weighed the options: winning a tournament against the wife of a State Senator, especially one that Preston did extensive business with, could hurt their standing in Oregon's social circles. At the very least it would hurt his short term business opportunities.

So Priscilla had to lose. As he reasoned it out, there seemed no other option.

It didn't occur to Preston, as he weighed these ideas, that Marshall Cranwell might not be as much stock in an amateur tennis match as he did. That his wife winning a tournament and becoming a semi-famous player might actually enhance the family's prestige, rather than hurt it. Preston already had a beautiful wife who was widely liked and admired. He didn't want to take a risk, shake the status quo and potentially.

And perhaps some part of him didn't want her to outshine him, even for a moment. To succeed on her own terms, to be something more than Mrs. Northwest. Though that wasn't something he'd ever admit, even to himself.

So he hid in a dark corner of their mansion until his wife and daughter departed, still chattering with excitement. Then he snuck into his office and dialed a friend at the USTA with a proposition.


Appropriately enough, the next day was sunny and comfortably warm. Priscilla wore a snazzy white shirt with a tennis skirt, which made her look five years younger. And Pacifica wore the same outfit as her mom. They posed together for several photographs, mother and daughter each dressed to impress and ready to win.

Priscilla spotted Tabatha Baker in the crowd, a trim, middle-aged woman who waved at her. Priscilla started to walk over, until Preston stepped in front of her.

"My dear, I'm so glad you made it here today!" Preston told her, his voice dramatically loud, for the benefit of spectators.

"Thank you, Preston," Priscilla responded, hugging him. "It means so much that you're on board with this."

Her sincerity and happiness made Preston feel a pang of regret. But he fought it down, as he usually did.

"If only I could be, my dear," he said, still smiling for the benefit of onlookers. "Unfortunately, Marshall Cranwell is one of my biggest investors, and I can't afford to have you embarrass his wife in front of everyone."

"Preston..." Priscilla's mouth dropped open.

"Just think, Priscilla," Preston said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It won't do for our family to have Cranwell pull all of us money out of the mudflaps just as we're about to make a profit for the first time in three years. Will it?"

And a gleam of menace underlined the last words; a threatening glare twinkled in his eye.

Priscilla's face dropped in shock. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Preston wanted to her lose on purpose. In front of not only Ms. Baker, but everyone they knew in Oregon.

"Best of luck, dear," Preston said as he walked off into the crowd, taking Pacifica with him. Then he whispered: "I know you'll do the right thing."

Priscilla watched, her stomach twisting in knots as she looked after them. To her chagrin, she saw Preston stand next to Tabatha Baker and start chatting with her...having a pretty good idea what they were talking about. And he saw Pacifica, apparently oblivious, beaming hopefully from the sidelines.

The right thing? The right thing would be to beat Misty Cranwell and become Priscilla Connolly again, if only for a moment. The right thing would be to show Pacifica that she could, and should follow her dreams and become whoever she wanted to be. To not be defined purely as someone else's trophy.

Priscilla wondered if she had the strength to do the right thing. But she thought again of the prospect of her daughter, potentially poor and without friends, cruelly yanked out from her social circle by her mother's hand. And, right or not, she made her choice just as the match began.


"That was a terrific match, dear," Preston reassured her later on as they returned to the mansion. "You had her on the ropes until the end...Can't believe you double faulted twice in one game."

"Just bad luck, I guess," Priscilla said through a pained smile. Inside, she was screaming.

"Well, these things happen," Preston said off-handedly. "I'm sorry that Mrs. Baker decided not to offer you that sponsorship, too. I know you were looking for to it. I suppose there's always next year."

"Yes," Priscilla said mechanically.

"Daddy, why did Mom have to lose?" Pacifica asked, cutting through her charade.

"What do you mean, Pacifica?" Preston demanded, shooting his wife an accusing look.

"You told Mom the right thing to do was not to beat Ms. Cranwell," Pacifica insisted. "And you told Mrs. Baker that she shouldn't let Mom be in the tennis association. Why?"

Preston looked to Priscilla, as if demanding that she explain herself to their daughter. Priscilla bit her lip, then looked away shamefaced.

"Sometimes we have to sacrifice our own dreams for the greater good," Preston insisted, deciding to bite the bullet. "If your mommy had won, she would have been famous and gotten her picture in the magazines. But your daddy's business would have lost a lot of money. And I wouldn't have been able to buy you that new pony I'm getting ready to buy you!"

"I don't care about a new pony," Pacifica insisted. "I care about Mom winning! She spent months getting ready for this tournament! She was the best one there! And you wouldn't let her win."

"Pacifica..." Preston started.

"Why do you always treat Mom like this, Daddy?" Pacifica continued. "Why do you think you're the only one who matters? Me and Mommy care too..."

As Pacifica continued, Priscilla watched, heartbroken, waiting for a moment to interject. Then she saw Preston reaching into a drawer, and her heart froze as she realized what was about to happen.

"Preston..." she muttered helplessly.

RING! RING! RING!

And as Preston rang the bell, Pacifica bowed her head and became instantly quiet.

"Now go to your room like a good girl," Preston ordered her, gently but firmly.

"Yes, Dad," Pacifica said, before shuffling quietly out of the den.

Preston put the bell away and turned back to his wife. "I am sorry," he said, with the barest hint of sincerity. He moved forward for a hug, then thought better of it. Instead, he patted her on the shoulder and retired to his study, leaving Priscilla to wallow in her misery.

And from that moment on, Priscilla Northwest never knew a moment's happiness. She knew, through her husband's cruel action, that she would always belong to him, that anything she did to step out from his shadow would be met with either a velvet glove or an iron fist.

So she dove deeper into playing tennis - privately. And riding horses - privately. And social events where she did little more than hold her husband's arm and occasionally make small talk. She was pointedly reminded, again and again, that she didn't matter except as an extension of her husband.

Deprived of anything else, she started obsessing over her looks, the only thing of value which Preston allowed her (indeed, encouraged her) to retain. First it was a modest application of hair dye to cover up a few flecks of gray. Then a crash diet and exercise to lose excess weight. Then, just before her 36th birthday, a face lift. Always gently prodded by Preston, who never asked her to do anything, but who always approvingly commented on her latest change, telling her that beauty could never cost too much.

Anything for Priscilla to remain young and beautiful looking. Even if her beauty became artificial, her face pinched, her hair much lighter than it naturally was, her figure improbably thin.

This was her life now.

All she had now was her looks - and her daughter. And she wondered how much longer she could keep those.


As she stared at that tennis picture, Priscilla made a decision.

She pulled out a cell phone and looked for Pacifica's number. And typed her a text:

Pacifica - Your dad knows you're in Gravity Falls. Sent Pierre. Be safe and careful. I know you can do this. Love, Mom.

She felt a tear welling up in her eye as she typed this, terrified what might happen to her daughter if Pierre had to drag her back by force. Feeling a shame that she wasn't strong enough to do more.

At least she gave her daughter a chance to be better. At this point, it was all she had.