Xiomara’s smile turned acidic as she raised her brows, “… You’re American?”Merlin fucking wept. Xi sipped her coffee, scalding as it was, then held her mug close to her chest, letting the warmth settle her. Xi’s first thought, honestly, was that any American wix worth their salt would be able to name her boyfriend on sight. That was enough cause to ask the witch to leave. But this was a hedge witch, and as much as their magic held up, Xi couldn’t deny that as a people, hedges were… Peculiar. They stood on the fringes, and there was every chance this one wouldn’t know her Pinnocks from her Malfoys.
… Xi still wanted her gone, on principle.
“Do you mind waiting here, just for a few minutes?” Xiomara flashed a smile that could pass as both flirtatious housewife and gracious host, padding around the witch to head for the stairs, “I just need to grab someone- he’d be dying to meet you.”
In their room upstairs, Nate was sleeping through one absolute bitch of a hangover. His frail commitment to sobriety from narcotics meant he felt every single morning like this in its fullness, and usually Xi would leave him be- but she was not dealing with another. Fucking. American. In her house.
Xi raised her wand, flicking her wrist so the covers pulled back from over Nate’s head, then twirled it. A ball of swirling water was raised above Nate’s head, poised to drop.
“Fuck off, Xi,” Nate groaned, his eyes still firmly shut as he reached for the duvet blindly.
Xi scoffed, and let a few drops fall on his face, “You want to try that again?”
A sigh, and Nate held his hand above his face, opening his eyes a crack, “Babe, please, we didn’t get in until four-”
“There’s an American hedge here? From Buffalo?” Xiomara rolled her eyes when this had no discernible impact on her boyfriend, “Can you just go and… Deal with her? I literally cannot handle it.”
Nate groaned, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes, “… Xi, I’m-”
Xiomara didn’t let him finish, letting the ball of water drop onto her boyfriend’s head in response. She ignored his shout, and the way he thrashed about in bed. Xi straightened, putting her wand back up her sleeve, “Get up. And get her out. Now.”
Call it spying or snooping or eavesdropping, Kamala Rivers was exceptionally good at it. In the living room, only one thin (hastily reinstalled with hardware store plywood) wall separated Kam from the kitchen. She dragged a chair over and listened intently, deciding to just shut her textbook and be done for the day. She could always catch up on schoolwork later, but she absolutely could not go without hearing a hedge witch’s story.
Xi left the room, barely casting a glance at her (which was a welcome change), and Kamala shot up like a rocket, peeking back into the kitchen now that the blonde was gone. “Sorry for thinking you were selling solar panels,” She seemed to have shocked the witch, who jumped a little. Kam looked apologetic and then explained, “It’s just, everyone who knocks in the morning is usually selling solar panels. Whenever new people come it’s usually in the evening, when I’m back home? Or they meet at the bar, then come back here, and they’re gone by the time I’m back the next day, but-”
Kamala, who was just very excited to meet someone new who didn’t immediately hate her on sight, just grinned. “So you’re a witch too, right? That’s why she let you in? What’s your discipline? Do they call it that in America, or something different?”
Unless you know of some other New York? Theo wanted to say, but refrained, instead just nodding her head politely. She watched the woman’s demeanor flip on a dime—subtly, of course, this woman had clearly had an upbringing of social etiquette—but Theo could tell. And her tone—flecked with the slight vocal inflection of native French that had been softened by years of dedicated practice in English, Theo was now sure of it—was no longer suspicious, as much as it was just annoyed. At Theo simply being American.
Definitely French, then… Theo thought with bemusement, the outline of a profile already starting to form inside her head. She considered briefly that she could have left the details of her history with hedges at ‘Canadian,’ and then played into the Quebec angle with this woman, but ultimately knew she’d made the right call; smaller acts of deceit were easier to pull off, Theo had found, if you strayed as minimally as possible and with purpose from the actual truth.
Besides, it probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference, anyway, with someone as inherently judgmental as the blonde who stood before Theo; phoniness and insincerity poured off of this woman and her sharp-edged smile, as flawless as a diamond, in waves, prickling the edges of Theo’s skull with an impending migraine. People this calculated were exhausting to be around, so it came as a small relief when the blonde excused herself from the room to go find someone.
When she was decidedly out of sight, Theo’s posture relaxed as she pushed a stream of air through her lips. She walked around the kitchen’s island that had separated Theo and the blonde, cataloging everything she saw automatically; when she reached the half-full pot of coffee with stacks of plain IKEA mugs lined up in the cabinet above it, Theo removed one, and poured herself a cup. She took a sip and sighed with contentment as the lukewarm liquid spilled down her throat; it had been brewed way too bitter, but still fully loaded with caffeine, and thus heavenly, at the moment.
In want of anything better to do but snoop while she waited for the blonde’s imminent return, Theo opened up the fridge and surveyed its contents; it was sparsely filled up with a very random assortment of perishable goods, but nothing unusual or noteworthy, as far as Theo could tell. Except for several industrial-sized food storage containers that were full of, upon closer inspection, some kind of soup? There was a handwritten label, or perhaps a note, that was taped to the top: ‘Too cold to be living on cereal—stick this to those skinny ribs! Will bring lasagna next week when I come to check wards, til then stay out of trouble. xx’
A crease formed between Theo’s brows as she read the note again; she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen this handwriting before—
She jumped, startled by a voice behind her, and hastily shut the refrigerator door. Theo smiled brightly at the very teenaged hedge witch she’d been so keen to talk to and said, “Don’t sweat it—you were way nicer than I would have been to a pushy door-to-door salesperson…” The teen then blurted out a lot of information very quickly, all with refreshing sincerity, like an open book.
Theo had follow-up questions, but found herself on the receiving end of the young woman’s questions, instead. She seemed so excited about the prospect of connecting with someone new in this way, so Theo gave the girl a friendly grin and said with as much pride as she could stomach, “See for yourself, eh?” She shrugged one shoulder out of its sleeve and moved her body to reveal a small cluster of seven-pointed stars that was inked there, somewhat faded in the fifteen years since Theo had been unwillingly marked by them. Theo hated them, hated the sick, itchy feeling that overtook her whenever she caught a glimpse of the tiny tattoos in a mirror; when she’d been returned to her family in New York, Theo had scratched the spot compulsively until it bled and scarred—still to this day, lines of faintly-raised skin, the outline of nailmarks, could be felt when you ran your fingertips over the stars. Theo’s aunt and uncle had wanted her to get them removed, had offered more than once to pay for it without question, and Theo had been very tempted to be rid of them. But in the end, she’d kept them, to serve as a reminder of all she’d endured, motivating her to fight to change things for others, to protect those not in a position to protect themselves.
And, Theo supposed, they came in handy in situations like these.
She hid the tattoos away again, after a moment, and said confidingly, “I circuited in Canada, actually, but I’m pretty sure they call it ‘discipline’ everywhere…anyway, mine’s not very flashy—‘Intuitive Polygraphy,’ is what the safehouse that gave me my first star called it. You know, like a polygraph machine?”
Theo took a sip of coffee to calm her nerves; she was eager to press this girl for as much as she could, and she knew these moments that they were left alone to speak candidly would be fleeting, but she was also wary not to spook the young hedge by asking too many prying questions too quickly. Gently, Theo probed, “What about you, have you got your stars yet? How’d you get involved with Free Trader Beowulf? Do you like it, here?” She held out her hand and added, “…I’m Theo, by the way.”
