I gave myself another once over, the floor to ceiling wall of mirrors, along with the impeccable lighting, highlighting all my flaws. Emily Rand had drummed into me from a young age that perfection should be strived for and presented at all times.
And so, here I was, scrutinizing my appearance. I had pulled my dull blonde locks back into a low chignon, pearl earrings accentuated the charcoal knee-length woolen dress. This outfit would be boiling, I could only hope that the air conditioning was cranked up.
My image was one of cultivated elegance - not natural beauty. Everything I had been taught centered on looking expensive, cultured even. We came from new money, and while I wasn’t sure that that mattered, it seemed to weigh heavily on my mother, who kept trying to keep up appearances with the O’Luc’s. Honestly, that family just seemed to have good breeding - Aria and her mother both looked like models.
My father, on the other hand, was always grappling to ‘uplift us’ even further by presenting various business mergers and deals to the SinClaire syndicate, whilst I simply tried to flourish in this world of the wealthy. I was awkward by design, unsure of where my place in this world actually was. I often just felt like a fraud. Naturally, my parents didn’t handle my bouts of melancholy well. And I had heard the whispers about what an odd girl I was. Those same whispers had my mother smiling within those close-knit circles, whilst simultaneously spitting venom in their tea, and while I appreciated her version of support, I knew that the hushed whispers grated on her. I was the weak link in her presentation of the perfect family.
I pulled out the dull hair clip, the smokey purple stones glinting back at me in the afternoon light. Only once I had slid the hairpin into my hair, I breathed deeper. I’d charmed that amethyst hairpin for protection, and if ever I needed a Magickal charm of some sort, High Tea with my mother would certainly be it. I lived a carefully orchestrated life where my ‘social commitments’ always took me out of town when my mother was in town. We lived past each other, and even so, it didn’t stop her from pestering me, hammering me for details of events that I hardly found significant. Chiseling away at my resolve to not be part of her ludicrous circles. Emily Rand was exhausting on the best of days, but being the daughter of Emily Rand was suffocating.
I bent down, adjusting my anklet. It was really simply a mixture of black obsidian gems with one moonstone. I’d fashioned my everyday-protection bracelet into an anklet - it was easier to hide that way, especially when these society events demanded that I wear diamonds and eccentric jewels. To the unknowing eye, it looked like a cheap flea market trinket, but I knew better. I scrutinized the way the anklet sat around my ankle in an attempt to judge whether it would draw attention or not. My fingertips fluttered over the rounded gems as I picked off hidden crests of dried wax from the candle booster spell I did a few days ago. I knew I’d be picking wax off of the thing for another few weeks because wax seemed to somehow get into everything.
Gala events and charity dinners meant that high stakes jewellery was expected to be worn, and so I did, only I spelled those too. Because at the end of the day, regardless of what kind of rock it was, it still came from the earth.
My blue silken scarf was still neatly wrapped around my deck of cards, holding them lovingly - protecting them from the outside world until they were needed. I ran my thumb over the silk wrap, pins and needles prickled at my fingertips as I felt the square edges beneath as I slid them into my bag, away from housekeeping and any prying eyes that may enter. They were comfort - they were home. These cards were as much a part of me as I was of them and I hated not having them with me, but I could hardly fit the deck into my clutch purse without raising questions.
The thread that connected me with my deck thinned as I slid the bag into the wardrobe nearby. The knowledge that I was leaving them fluttered through me. My knuckles ached from clenching my fists too tightly in an attempt to not simply dive back after them. This was Magick for you. It was an undeniable connection. A thread that wound and tethered you to people and things. It was in everything we experienced daily, only few people actually saw it for what it was.
I knew that my parents brushed off all that I was as a phase - the typical rebellion phase. And really, don’t all girls like scented candles? And the new jewellery I came home sporting after Summer Camp - well, don’t all young teen girls fashion friendship bracelets?
It wasn’t so much an indulgence as it was wilful blindness. My mother’s lips would press together, creating a thin line of disapproval. The small frown on her brow a clear indicator of truly how much she disapproved. But the Magick was freeing. The art of Witchcraft, ritualistic in a way that I had never experienced. Repeating my rehearsed, regular spells became meditative due to the sheer amount of repetition.
Something unfurled within me, whispering words of unspoken wisdom into the shell of my ear, running it’s delicate finger from the base of my spine, all the way up to my skull. I couldn't help but exhale in pleasure every time I touched Magick, tasted it, even. There was a rightness to it. The knowledge that this is what I was meant to be doing - had always meant to be doing.
My mother’s hushed, urgent whispers, demanding to know how long such a phase should last. The memory of those whispers carrying down the large marble hallway would be something that remained with me for a long time. As if my father of all people could offer up an answer. He hardly even knew what I enjoyed for breakfast, let alone why his daughter was going through a supposed ‘goth’ or ‘emo’ stage. It was around that time that I began suppressing what I was around her. Hiding my Tarot Cards. Candles were scented and delicate - nothing more. The Intention Oils I kept in my cupboard were simply "bath oils". I began moulding two distinct versions of my life - one freeing, the other stifling. Two sides of the same coin, neither fully whole without the other.
My parents lapped up the lies I told because the thought of their daughter - the same daughter that attended ballet recitals and learnt the piano - being part of the Occult was absolutely preposterous. I quickly learnt to dress the part and say the right things at the right time to avoid my parents' scrutiny, lest they halt Summer Camp entirely. I ensured that I maintained a weekly coffee date with some of my mother's friends' children - old classmates and supposed confidantes, and smiled and nodded at their mundane chit-chat about upcoming marriage proposals and charity exhibitions, all the while I mentally listed the spellwork I would do that night. And, to some extent, I did belong in their world. I still glanced at one of my private school male classmates and appreciated his physique - all built up upon lacrosse. I still enjoyed some of the same movies and music they did. And, I was still seeking out new experiences, as if I were some inexperienced teen, willing to taste every new encounter at least once.
Magick and Witchcraft were two separate practices. With Magick, sometimes all it took was an inane thought to make something happen. The Witchcraft was the ritualistic aspect of this. I had been trained in all forms of Witchcraft, which meant that not only was I perpetually covering up my ‘good luck’ and intuition, I was also constantly making excuses for all those small daily rituals that had imbedded themselves in my daily routine. No wonder I appeared odd.
Olga - our housekeeper - made it near impossible to create an altar or sanctuary of any kind, and so, over the years, I had taken to practicing my spellwork in my marble bathroom. It wasn't ideal, but it worked. I boasted a briefcase that held my crystals and statues that fitted neatly beneath my vanity. It was a sort of portable altar, and it helped that the briefcase was a dusty pink colour, leaving everyone to believe that it was filled with extra makeup and beauty gadgets.
My truth lay in my eyes. It was always plain to those who truly looked. I supposed they truly were windows to the soul and all that. I often wondered if my mother genuinely couldn't see it, or if she simply didn't care. As long as I maintained her carefully crafted image, I supposed everything was right in her world.
The black and white checkered tiles seemed to pay homage to an era that revelled in colonisation. If I wasn’t certain that I was actually in London itself, I would easily have placed this hotel in Zambia, or perhaps even India. Dark, emerald green couches had been positioned around low level tables to create clusters of intimate meeting spaces. I couldn’t imagine my mother being thrilled by those couches - such seating made it incredibly difficult to maintain good posture. I entered the parlour, timing my entrance to gain maximum attention in a seemingly discreet manner. Executed in a way that I knew would gain my mother’s approval. The dark wooden panelled walls, along with the brass bell-jar shaped lighting, immediately put me at ease. I didn’t have to enjoy the company, but at least I was comfortable in this type of setting.
All eyes must be on Corinne Rand. I could hear her voice in my head. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if the voice that spoke to me was mine or hers. No, that wasn’t true either because I liked flying under the radar, she had just instilled in me that to not be noticed was a fate worse than death itself.
The Hamilton was the type of venue that served you your High Tea, which meant that the mere mention or suggestion of a buffet table would have the wait staff shuddering in horror, even if it made their job’s a thousand times easier. The dining area lacked all the gimmicks that high society had seemed to become accustomed to. There was no open kitchen. There wasn’t a visible area where the cutlery was stacked. And there wasn’t a buffet table. The room boasted a large bar at the end, mahogany with the same brass accents that could be found scattered through the parlour. The irony, of course, was that no one actually used the bar because everything was served at your table, including drinks. A coat closet could be found just off the dining room, close to the small hostess platform, but other than that, the sunken room was solely a dining hall. Ruefully, I wondered how many of these high society types had gotten off in that closet.
The Refined elegance of the Hamilton, along with those brass chandeliers hanging strategically, casting flattering lighting, onlys served to cement the true reason my mother had chosen this place. Cool woven rugs pulled together each seating area, creating the illusion of privacy within the dining setting.
The picture of elegance, my mother sat with her chair angled slightly towards the entrance, ankles crossed, hands clasped on her lap as she raised her head to look at me. Her blue eyes scanned me from head to toe, a practiced smile appearing. That hint of approval indicated that my appearance was up to scratch. Her chair was positioned in a way that she wasn’t looking directly at the entrance - because she did not wish to appear too open - whilst still ensuring she could witness the comings and goings of the patrons in attendance for High Tea.
I walked towards her, bending, I gave her a small peck on the cheek.
"Good morning, Mother," I sighed, seating myself on the opposite chair.
Why did these tea places always have the most uncomfortable seating?
"You're late," she stated. Cool, direct, no apparent anger. This pretty much summed up my mother.
I shrugged in nonchalance, crossing my thighs, ensuring that my dress rode up just slightly, exposing my thigh - in direct contrast to her neatly crossed ankles. I enjoyed pushing her boundaries of etiquette, suppressing my smile as her aggravation rose to the surface. Her hand twitched at my indecency, but she wouldn't say anything - not here where it may possibly cause a scene. This was the game we played, I pushed her limits in small ways, and she huffed and puffed in outrage. Imagine if she knew that her daughter was a Witch, what would she say then?
I watched the gentleman seated at the table across from us track the movement. His gaze lingering on my thigh for a heartbeat longer than what was socially acceptable. When his gaze finally found mine, I flashed him a conspirator's grin. It looked like he was also enduring tea with his grandmother.
A grey Tom Ford suit with pretty-boy off-blonde hair styled just right in order to seem unstyled had me pegging him for a fellow rich kid tycoon. He wasn’t bad looking, not by a long shot, but the manicured pretty boy types didn’t seem to do it for me, and I had yet to find someone who did.
Turning back to my table, my mother’s lips were pressed in a thin line of irritation. She had noticed the wordless exchange. I suppressed a giggle. The fact that such a small, inconsequential thing annoyed her, made me smile. I was petty sometimes.