Page 42 of Big Little Spells

Once inside the room where we last ate a lot of pizza from Redbrick, I see there are a parade of white dresses. They’re all lined up, hanging there in thin air, a veritable onslaught of pale white and ivory ruffles and layers and, in one particular nauseating case, fur.

“These are—”

Emerson squeezes my hand so hard I yelp. And do not finish my sentence.

“These are very traditional,” she says diplomatically.

My mother eyes Emerson. “The Beltane prom is a traditional night, as I think you know. It is when witches introduce their children to society. It is the first step of a witch’s journey to his or her true place in witchkind. A tradition practiced in our communities since antiquity.”

She does not point out that our failure to find our power at the ceremony following Beltane called into question not just our place in witchkind, but our whole family’s. They call such things an indictment of the bloodline. A stain that can never be wiped clean, my father had howled at me.

As if I failed my pubertatum at him.

“And while it’s an event worthy of all the pomp and circumstance even the second time around, Rebekah and I had some modern touches in mind,” Emerson says calmly, because apparently ten years dancing around Carol and uppity people who wish they were Carol has given her even better skills at handling our mother than she used to have. “Obviously we wouldn’t want to be vulgar. But we do think it’s better that we make certain our dresses are appropriate.”

“We wouldn’t want to be inappropriate at prom at twenty-seven,” I mutter sarcastically. Emerson gives my hand another hard squeeze. This time I keep my yelp to myself.

“We are, after all, not young girls,” Emerson points out. “And shouldn’t dress like them.” She tips her head to one side. “Maybe fewer ruffles?”

A few? I yelp all I want where only she can hear me. Try no ruffles. Anywhere. Ever.

There is nothing wrong with a well-placed ruffle, Emerson returns as our mother frowns at her precious white relics. We’ve got to give her something. Like it or not, we need her approval.

There’s a lost cause if ever there was one, I return. Darkly.

Mom clearly has no idea we’re talking in our heads. Or if she does, she’s far more concerned with deciding whether or not to actually listen to one of her daughters for the first time ever.

“May I?” Emerson asks, indicating the dresses.

Mom gives a short nod and then watches as Emerson drops my hand, then uses magic to whittle down the monstrosities to something marginally better. Still hideous in my estimation, but at least not completely embarrassing. Elspeth’s expression goes from distrust to something closer to amazement as Emerson magicks the dresses into different looks.

“Your magic...” Mom clears her throat, and any trace of emotion—like that moisture I thought I saw in her eyes for a second—disappears. “Well. I’m not sure this is quite right.” She studies the toned-down dresses with a furrowed brow, but her gaze keeps going back to Emerson. Her hands that glow. With magic.

“I think this one would look good on you, Rebekah,” Emerson says, pulling the simplest-looking dress toward her, so it floats across the room to us. She smiles at me, much too big, encouraging me to go along with this.

I don’t want a cotillion frock, thank you.

She maintains her nearly maniacal smile. We’ll do our own last-minute alterations if we have to. Let’s just get the approval over with. It’s necessary.

We clearly disagree on the definition of necessary, but I look at the dress. I suppose no white dress is ever going to fill me with joy, and though there is a ruffle around the neckline, it’s a lot more understated.

It’s not lost on me that this is likely as good as it’s going to get where prom is concerned. And more, that this is a test. Mom is now watching me closely, and I know why. She’s waiting for me to prove what a child I am by flying off the handle. The way I always used to. She expects it.

I will wear a dress that looks like an actual wedding cake before I play into that. There’s one hanging there across the room, whispering of petticoats and nightmares.

I take the relatively reasonable dress instead and aim a smile at my mother, all happy daisies and bright blue skies. “What do you think?”

She looks at the dress, and then Emerson’s hands. She does not look at me. I get the strangest feeling that she’s almost disappointed that I’m not having a defiant little meltdown. Maybe I am too.

“All right,” Elspeth agrees. “Then you should wear this one, Emerson.”

She pulls over one that still has a fair amount of ruffles on the skirt, though it’s not a full wedding cake horror. Still, it reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. Emerson is trying so very hard to keep the smile on her face, but her eyes are a little wild.

Hoist on your own petard, magic hands, I drawl at her.

But Emerson ignores me and bites that bullet. “All right. You approve these?”

Emerson sends the Nellie Oleson dress to the couch, then makes our obnoxious binders appear on the coffee table.

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