A Resistance of Witches

One

Years later, whenever Lydia looked back on that day at Downing Street, her mind always returned to the door.

In almost every respect, it was an ordinary door, albeit an unusually beautiful one. It was glossy black, polished to such a high sheen that she could nearly see her reflection in it. There was a gleaming brass mail slot, an iron knocker, and the number ten painted above, the zero tilted at a slightly whimsical angle.

And yet, to Lydia, there was something enchanted about it.

In hindsight, she supposed it was because, in all the stories, passing through a magical door was a rite of passage. It was the black-and-white partition where one's old life ended and a newer, stranger one began.

It was a chilly day in London, the coldest they'd had since March. An icy mist settled across the paving stones like lace.

Lydia would forever remember the way her jacket itched at the back of her neck, and how her stomach twisted into knots as she stole a glance at the woman beside her: Isadora Goode, her mentor of just two weeks.

She watched in fascination as frozen raindrops curved away from Isadora's form moments before impact, as if each drop had considered the cost of the collision and thought better than to strike.

Isadora reached out and rapped the knocker, hard.

One. Two. Three.

The face Isadora wore that day was that of a thirty-four-year-old woman.

Thirty-four, she had informed her young charge, was exactly old enough to be taken seriously, but still young enough to be interesting.

Lydia was sixteen years and two weeks old, and she wore her face exactly as it was.

By graduation, she would master the art of glamouring her features, making herself appear pink-cheeked and button-nosed, a sweet rose of a girl like so many of her classmates, instead of skinny, pale, and hawkish.

She would wear her glamour daily, the way some women wore lipstick. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.

A butler opened the glossy black door and peered at the two women.

"Miss Isadora Goode and Miss Lydia Polk, to see the Prime Minister," Isadora said briskly.

The butler scowled. "I'm afraid the ladies do not have an appointment."

Lydia watched as Isadora pulled a mother-of-pearl case from the pocket of her peacock-blue overcoat. From the case, she produced a card. It was inky black and bore no name, just a single inscrutable symbol embossed in gold.

"I believe you must be mistaken," Isadora said.

The butler blinked at the card, then back up at the two women in the doorway. He appeared momentarily confused, then seemed to remember himself.

"Yes, of course. The Prime Minister has been expecting you." He looked surprised as the words fell out of his mouth, as if they'd been spoken by someone else.

When she thought back on that day, Lydia recalled that there had been a change in the air as she passed over that threshold—a prickling of the skin, a sensation of falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Funny, as the place didn't look like anything very special to her.

She'd expected glittering crystal chandeliers and tall, light-filled rooms, something like the great hall of the academy, only grander.

Instead, it was rather drab and smelled of cigars.

The windows had been fitted with blast-proof shutters that blocked out the light, giving the place an abandoned quality. Above her head, the electric candlesticks in the light fixture gave off a faint hum.

"Miss Polk, do stop goggling." Isadora frowned as the butler disappeared with their coats.

Lydia quickly turned her attention to her shoes. They were cobalt-blue suede, and already beginning to bite into her ankles.

"Isadora Goode!"

Lydia looked up to see a rotund man approaching them at a swift pace. Isadora's face broke into a perfectly arranged expression of joy.

"Winston!" Isadora embraced the older man, kissing him once on each cheek. "My God, how long has it been?"

"Too long." Isadora smiled warmly.

He looked extremely old to Lydia, older than he had appeared in the black-and-white newspaper photographs she'd seen of him before that day. He was jowly, with thinning hair, and wore excellent clothes that somehow managed to look rumpled on his round frame.

Still, his eyes were a shocking shade of blue, and there was a sharpness there that Lydia liked.

The Prime Minister's brow furrowed as he took in Isadora's face. "Why, it must be more than thirty years. But you look… why, you're…"

"Winston, you embarrass me." Isadora laughed softly. Lydia didn't think Isadora looked embarrassed at all.

"Please allow me to introduce my apprentice, Miss Lydia Polk. Lydia Polk, Mr. Winston Churchill."

Lydia curtsied. "Prime Minister."

"Charmed, Miss Polk." Churchill leaned over and took Lydia's hand, bringing it to his lips. "Now. What brings two such lovely creatures to call on a tired old man?"

"I'm afraid this isn't a social visit," Isadora murmured, and Churchill nodded gravely. "May we speak privately?"

"Of course." Churchill gestured for Isadora to come with him. Lydia began to follow, until Isadora stopped her with a sharp look.

"Lydia, stay here."

With that, Isadora and the Prime Minister disappeared into another room, leaving Lydia behind.

She stood alone, feeling awkward and insignificant without Isadora by her side.

The walls were bare, with only empty nails and ghostly outlines to suggest the art that had been hastily taken down and carted away in the wake of the Blitz. Rain pattered on the shutters, too loud in the cavernous silence.

After a moment of fidgeting, Lydia sighed and seated herself in a hard, high-backed chair against the wall.

She thought she heard the tinkle of Isadora's familiar laughter, but she couldn't make out any words.

*Why bring me along only to have me wait outside?* she wondered irritably.

Then an idea occurred to her. She would be in terrible trouble if she were caught, but projection was her strongest subject. She felt sure she could manage without being detected.

Lydia chose a spot on the wall upon which to fix her gaze and allowed her eyes to relax.

Her breathing slowed. If the butler had walked by, he might have thought she was extremely deep in thought, or perhaps a little odd, but he did not appear.

She waited until her body began to feel heavy, almost as if it were sinking into the floor, and then, very quickly, she stood.

When she turned around, she saw herself sitting in her chair with a far-off look on her face.

She hated seeing herself like that, even more than she hated looking at herself in the mirror.

In the mirror, she could arrange her face in a way that would minimize its flaws, turn up the corners of her lips to make herself look softer, although not necessarily prettier.

Now that she'd stepped outside of herself, her face had gone slack, mouth turned down, eyes fixed on nothing.

She resisted the impulse to reach out and fuss with her hair.

Isadora's laughter rang out again. Leaving her body where it sat, Lydia followed the sound, walking unseen past room after empty room. She noticed the deep marks left in the plush carpets where desks and chairs had once been, until she heard Isadora's voice again, coming from just behind a set of heavy wooden doors.

She took a breath and stepped through, bracing herself against the uncomfortable way the matter tugged at her as she slipped to the other side.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was furnished, with shelves of books lining the walls and an enormous mahogany table running the length of it.

Churchill and Isadora were seated at one end of the table, their bodies angled toward one another.

Churchill had already begun working on a fat cigar, while Isadora pulled a black cigarette from a sleek, monogrammed case.

Churchill offered Isadora a light, which she accepted with a coy smile and a tilt of her head.

"How is Clementine?" Isadora asked.

"She's managing. You know Clemmie. Unflappable as always."

Isadora exhaled a plume of lavender smoke. "And you? How are you?"

"Well, the damned Huns haven't managed to kill me yet, although they do keep trying." Churchill coughed and gestured with his cigar toward the shuttered windows. "It's only dumb luck the Luftwaffe haven't blown Downing Street to kindling, although they did get close. Last month they blew up my kitchen. Very nearly killed my poor cook, as well."

It felt treasonous, spying on Isadora, to say nothing of the Prime Minister. Lydia found herself slowly backing into the gloomy corner by the door—although she was certain she could not be seen—as Isadora offered some polite, sympathetic comment regarding the Prime Minister's cook.

"Isadora." The way Churchill said the name was so familiar, Lydia would have blushed had she been inside her body. "It is wonderful to see you after all these years, but neither of us has ever been very good at idle chitchat. Why are you here?"

Isadora held his gaze and drew on her cigarette, taking her time.

"The war," she said. "You're losing."

The Prime Minister pursed his lips, then nodded.

"I'd like to offer my help."

Churchill raised an eyebrow. "Like in Pretoria?"

Isadora smiled. "Pretoria was personal. This would be something more… official."

"Isadora, forgive me, but I'm old and grumpy and, as you yourself pointed out, quite busy at the moment losing a war. So, I'd appreciate it if you'd speak plainly."

Isadora lifted a snifter of brandy from the table and sipped it slowly before speaking. "I'm offering you the aid of the academy."

Something dropped inside Lydia's chest, as if she'd tripped coming down the stairs.

Churchill's cigar sat forgotten in his hand, ash gathering on the tip. "You mean…"

"The witches of Britain are at your service."