Going Your Own Way, but with Magic

Chapter 17

"What?"
"I could bring them back. Shadows of them, for a short while. They'd see you. You could talk." I don't have to pretend to be confused. Parents. My parents. The dead ones. My name is Max, I am an orphan. My parents. My dead parents. She's offered to raise the dead. For me.
"You can bring back dead people?" She shakes her head. Her eyes are earnest, and I swear there's tears brimming.
"No. I...I suppose you could call them ghosts. Some people leave shadows, especially those with unfished business. I could call those shadows. Bring you- bring all of you some peace." Peace. She wants to chat with my parents ghost. So they can see their daughter. My poker face is long lost.
"You'd do that?"
"They'd be so proud of you." I am not going to cry in front of her. I swore I wouldn't cry in front of her, I don't know if I ever actually swore but I swear now. That's one oath I've broken. A tear falls into my lap. I don't try to wipe it away. Bitch. Manipulative, conniving bitch. She's trying to turn me into a puppet. It's working. I would do anything for that spell. Seeing my parents. Would they be proud? I set my school library on fire, ran away, got kidnapped by an evil witch. Technically, that's their fault as well. Assuming magic is genetic. Learning magic from them gets added to the folder of Elisa's life. That's something they gave me, something more than shaky memories. Magic. Cecelia is smiling and I want to slap her. I don't talk; I can't trust my voice.

I'm going to refuse. I am not going to be selfish, I am not going to be stupid. I am not going to let my heart get the better of me. Cecelia is not my friend, she is my jailor. And this offer is for a reason. I'm going to refuse. This is, obviously, total bullshit. Of course I'm going to accept. Forgive me, whoever's up there. I am weak and selfish and stupid. I want to see my parents.

Cecelia won't give me a fixed date. I curse myself for being so obvious with my emotions. I've given her a clear hold on me (more of a hold than the 'I could kill you with a flick of my wrist'). I haven't yet begged her. I have some pride. I have quite a lot of pride, and it's probably going to kill me. One afternoon she said the words "all in good time, my dear", without a hint of sarcasm. I was halfway between laughing and stabbing her. I haven't given up on escaping, either. I take knives from the breakfast table, and I hide them. Half a day later, they always show up back in the drawers. Every time I find a catch in the magic shield, the pain starts. I scream for the people downstairs, and Cecelia pointedly shows me how great magic soundproofing is. I stand with my toes curled over the edge of the balcony, I ask if I can go get groceries, I try to use the ancient for emergencies only landline to call Jamie. I lose my nerve, she refuses with a patronising grin, the phone zaps me. She ignores all these attempts, smiling indulgently.

She's bought me clothes. Flouncy party dresses in ice-cream pastels, made for a much younger girl. Those black patent shoes with a strap in the middle (I didn't know they made those in adult sizes), hair bands to match the dresses. I don't know if she wants a sister or a daughter. I wear some of the less offensive ones, always keeping my clothes in a bundle against my chest. I don't trust her not to get rid of them, and they're the only thing I have from home. I start to almost like a dark blue cotton dress.

She does magic tricks for me, I make myself smile and clap. I drink a lot of tea and eat a lot of apples, I persuade her to buy me a DVD. Sleeping Beauty is too subversive, but Snow White is acceptable. The whole 'trapped in a tower by an evil witch' plotline probably put her on edge. It kills a couple of hours. I've watched it three times now. The worst part about this life is that it isn't unacceptable. My cells don't reject it. I am living like this, I can continue to live like this. With time, the longing for home may even dull to an ache. That's what terrifies me.

"But when?" I'm pouting and my voice is petulant. She wants to pretend I'm five, she's getting the full five year old experience.
"Soon." If I punch her, will she crumble to dust?
"Tell me when!" I've changed my mind about not being an actress. When (if) I get out of here, I'm applying for an Oscar. Do you apply for an Oscar? Point is, I want an Oscar.
"I suppose you do deserve to know." Her voice is teasing. She's dangling bait, and it takes superhuman effort not to grab at it. I raise an eyebrow like I couldn't care less. "Alright, my dear." My dear. That's a step up from her usual. Oh well.
"A week from now, midnight exactly. It's a difficult spell, and it takes time." A week's time. In a week's time, I will see my parents. My parents. God, it's going to be awkward if I do manage to escape between then.
"Thank you!" I throw my arms around her neck on some crazy whim. The bones in her back are worse than the one's in her hands, but she looks pathetically happy. I pity her a little more. I don't hate her any less.