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synaesthesia - σύν αἴσθησις - Gr. lit. “together sensation” - the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.
“It says something about witches that an old friend and an old enemy could quite often be the same person.”
-Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith
Dawn and the old grind. Andrea pours fresh coffee beans and mashes them to dark gunpowder. The robe slips down one of Miranda’s shoulders as she flicks open that morning’s Prophet. She does not bother to pull the fabric up. Movement across the page, black on white on grey and a whole spectrum of colour on array. She scans the kaleidoscopic typeface and a lock of silvery hair rests against the edge of her square-faced spectacles.
A muted laugh over the bronze-pitted roar and Andrea turns the contraption off, plunging the sun-slanted kitchen into fuzzy silence. “You look divine. How do you do it? It’s seven in the morning.”
Miranda only bends half an ear. “Magic,” she drawls.
“Must be.”
She glances up when Andrea crosses the kitchen and nudges Miranda’s head to one side to lay kisses like barbed wreaths at the base of her neck, travelling down to her exposed shoulder. Repressing a shiver proves difficult and concentrating on motley words even more difficult when hungry teeth rake across her skin. Miranda hisses. The pages crinkle beneath her hands.
“You can accost me after coffee,” Miranda murmurs, eyes closed, voice stern.
Andrea hums a hoarse scarlet note against her skin. “Is that a promise?”
In answer Miranda arches a cool eyebrow over her glasses but softens the look with a small smile as Andrea rounds the counter, putting an island between them. The distance is stretched with pale-veined marble. Miranda snaps the paper upright once more and continues to read -- some article about Ministry of Magic Affairs on page nine: Minister Granger Ousts Wizengamot.
Andrea is crooning something warm under her breath, the sound a muddied pink. Miranda turns a page and remarks, “Someone is awfully chipper this morning.”
“Of course, I am,” Andrea tamps down the coffee. “I love Saturdays. I love lazy mornings. And I love you.”
A stillness grips Miranda’s stomach, squeezes it tight. Slowly she lowers the paper and studies Andrea across the kitchen, Andrea who is pretending to focus on the precarious art of espresso making and not on Miranda’s reaction.
“Alright,” Miranda replies. An acceptance. An acknowledgement. A consent.
She searches for something wounded in Andrea's expressive face. There, a flicker of doubt, brief as a scented candle, then a wry smile and a shake of Andrea’s head. Miranda holds her breath and waits for explosions, for raised voices and recriminations -- Stephen throwing a porcelain mug against the floor and yelling ‘Can you stop being a frigid bitch for one second!’ -- but Andrea only turns back to her task and asks, “One shot or two?”
The relief trickles from Miranda in a near audible sigh. “One is enough. Thank you.”
She continues to read. Andrea continues to hum bruised peach-coloured tunes. She places a mug delicately at Miranda’s elbow. Heat on the tongue sears away an excess of taste. Together they sip bitter coffee and finish the crossword; their fingers brush as they pass the quill back and forth.
Stolen segments of skin between long lengths of cloth. Andrea’s reflection multiplies in the floor-length triptych mirror. Seated a few paces away Miranda props her chin on one hand, legs crossed, elbow resting on the curled arm of her chair. She leaves impressions in the leather -- kidskin, she decides. Too soft for cowhide. She allows her gaze to wander. Green does wonders for Andrea’s complexion. Brings out the dark of her eyes. Highlights the jade hues of her voice.
The seamstress kneels upon the pedestal at Andrea’s feet. She balances pins in her mouth and fabric in her hands. Folding the hem into a perfect straight line below Andrea’s ankles. Witchlight warms the interior of Twilfitt and Tattings, empty but for them on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.
“There,” the seamstress announces in a mumble, standing up and stepping back, picking needles from her teeth. “What do you think?”
The question is directed to Miranda, whose scrutiny roves. Lingering glances at Andrea’s low neckline. The hint of a collarbone. The breadth of a shoulder. The elegant clasps at her waist. Dress robes lined in fine-handed velvet and threaded gold that will cost a small fortune and will in the end still look far better discarded on the floor of their bedroom later.
“It looks nice,” Miranda declares finally.
When the seamstress stares at her, aghast, and Andrea rolls her eyes in exasperation, Miranda blinks. She scrambles for something more to say. “It looks -” she cocks her head with an apologetic grimace, “-very nice?”
Andrea snorts. “Cut it out, Casanova. We’re in public and you're making me blush,” she says dryly, though she flashes Miranda a broad smile in one of the mirrors. Once more Miranda’s eyes flicker to the plunging neckline of the dress robes. Andrea catches her sneaking a glance and her answering look smoulders.
Oh, yes. Far better on the floor.
Already Miranda is fishing out a fistful of Galleons. They need to leave. They need to get home so Miranda can undo all the seamstress’ careful work. Urgently. “How much?”
The seamstress quotes an outrageous sum and Andrea almost trips on her step down from the pedestal. Miranda pays and it is worth every brass coin.
Throwing down the letter onto the dining room table, Miranda snarls, "He's doing this on purpose!"
Caroline and Cassidy keep on eating their bowls of weet-bix, pausing to glance at their mother but nothing more. On the other hand, Andrea leans forward with a curious frown in her seat to read the letter, still munching on a bit of scratchy toast. "Barnabas wants your meeting to be moved to today. Is it a scheduling conflict or something?"
"It's the portkeys!" Miranda shudders at the very thought. She begins to pace in front of the table, fretting. "He specifically requests the location only be accessible through portkeys! He knows I hate them! This is payback for pulling that damn interview!"
"Cass, can you pass the orange juice? I left my wand upstairs," Caroline says aside and pours herself a glass when Cassidy wordlessly pulls the carton of orange juice from the fridge with a wave of her wand.
Meanwhile Andrea folds the letter back up and tries to mollify, "I know you get a bit nauseous, Miranda, but it's only for a moment. It'll be over before you know it."
"A bit nauseous?" Miranda repeats incredulously. She clenches her hands. "And on a Tuesday!"
"Come to think of it, you always had me rearrange your meetings so you didn't have to travel on Tuesdays," Andrea mumbles around another thoughtful bite of toast.
"That's because Mum thinks Tuesday is too orange for travel," Caroline adds from the sidelines.
"Yellow, darling." Miranda corrects. A horrid hazard-vest yellow.
Cassidy kicks her sister under the table and grins. "Yeah, Caroline, get it right!"
"Shut up!"
"Hey, enough!" Andrea reprimands. Rather than look chagrined, the girls shrug and return to their breakfasts. Andrea brushes her fingers free of crumbs and says, “Do you want me to come with you? I don't have to go into the office today, strictly speaking."
Miranda frowns at her. "Why on earth would you do that?"
Fishing another block of weet-bix from the box, Cassidy explains, "It's called being emotionally supportive, Mum."
Miranda blinks. "Oh." Her pacing slows, then stops entirely and she looks at Andrea, whose face somehow manages to be open yet give away nothing at the same time. "You might as well, I suppose."
Cassidy drops the cereal box onto the table. Caroline gapes. Andrea beams. "Alright, then. When do we leave?"
Twenty minutes later, Miranda's stomach is growling away, clawing at her intestines for lack of food after she had only allowed herself a glass of water for breakfast. She glances nervously down at the leather-strapped wristwatch sitting on the kitchen counter; Andrea had insisted on choosing the portkey this time. A small crack runs across the glass face, obscuring the club-footed number six. “Remind me to buy you a new watch.”
Andrea frowns. “What’s wrong with my watch?”
Cassidy is washing dishes with a few lazy flicks of her wand while Caroline props herself up to sit atop the counter beside the stove, picking at her red-painted fingernails. “Just let her buy you something. Trust us. It’s easier that way,” Cassidy says.
Not looking up from her nails, Caroline adds, “It’s how she shows affection.”
“It’s also how we got Patricia. True story.”
Cheeks burning, Miranda snaps, “And Patricia needs walking.”
The twins roll their eyes in unison. “She’s ancient and arthritic, Mum,” Caroline reminds her.
“Now.” Miranda points imperiously towards the front door.
With knowing smirks – confident and smug in their victory – they leave. In their absence, the dishes continue to clean and dry in midair, cupboards opening and closing until the kitchen fairly sparkles.
“You ready?” Andrea asks, already holding one end of the wristwatch, waiting.
“No.” Miranda chews at her lower lip. Her palms sweat. Wiping them discreetly on her cloak, she inhales deeply, squeezes her eyes shut, and takes the plunge.
The moment her fingers touch the portkey, magic hooks into a sickening space beneath her navel and reels her along like a fish through water. The world tilts. Miranda lands on her feet but holds her breath, afraid to do more than hunch her shoulders. Every sensation skips rope and swaps places. Her mouth weeps with dye and Miranda makes the mistake of opening her eyes too soon.
Whatever Andrea sees on Miranda’s face has her approach with outstretched hands, the way one would approach a statue on the verge of collapse. "Miranda, I think you should sit down."
Andrea speaks in elements. Instead of words, emblackened sulfur comes pouring forth. They pile at Miranda's feet in great crumbling chunks and burn with noxious fumes, yellowing the air. She stares at them on the ground. When the weight of Andrea's hand makes contact with her shoulder – a concerned touch turned bile – Miranda's chest shudders. She turns aside and is ill all across the pavement. The water she had allowed herself to drink that morning has been honed with an acidic edge in the forge of her stomach; it shaves the ridges from her throat and slices down her tongue. She can feel the cloven tip against her bottom teeth, forked like a snake's.
Leaning her weight against her knees, Miranda empties her stomach until she is reduced to dry heaves. Andrea's hands continue to rub at her back – knifetrails of bleeding colour. "Stop," Miranda gasps, pushing Andrea weakly away. "Stop. Stopstopstop."
Andrea retreats. She hovers nearby. "I'm sorry! Is there something I can do?"
Sound carries a neon chemical burn. Miranda swallows back the taste of vivid chlorine and wipes at her mouth with the back of her wrist. It's difficult to form speech with a forked tongue. She manages to hiss, "Stop talking."
Andrea's mouth opens, then immediately shuts again. She wrings her hands while Miranda closes her eyes and takes deep breaths until the trembling slows and the air runs clear as glass. Gradually, the moment passes. When Miranda straightens, her robes stick to her back, clinging with cold sweat. She reaches up to wipe her brow and her fingers come away wet.
Pulling out her wand, Andrea wordlessly summons a glass of water and hands it over. Miranda takes it and hazards a sip. “Thank you.” She washes away any lingering charring from her mouth and prods her tongue at the backs of her teeth to check that it has knitted itself back together. “I think we’ll take floo powder home.”
Andrea presses a chaste kiss to Miranda’s cheek. “You’re sweet. But you’re apparating back; I won’t make you take the chimney after this.”
“I am not sweet,” Miranda grouches, draining the last of the water. Her mouth tastes bitter and vile. She needs to brush her teeth.
With a light laugh, Andrea waves her wand and the glass vanishes. “This is the one time my taste trumps yours. Deal with it.”
Courage for larch. Bloodied strands of dragon heart fibre stretch like the strings of a harp. A bold combination for a bold future master. Miranda lifts up the heartstring with a wave of her wand and it sings when it's bonded. Materials roar out their colours, loud enough to drown everything else. How ironic, she thinks -- people slap her with monikers that label her as insensate, when in fact she navigates life tumbled with feeling. Why can't the others hear it? Steadfastness in a silver strand. Brilliance upon a wing. Tenacity in the blood.
The pretty drones around her office buzz about, collecting their materials, but their instincts leave much to be desired. They hesitate. They second-guess. They dither. Miranda taps her fingers against her desk, but the sound lacks its usual ominous sterling clatter ever since Andrea's prolonged presence in her life. The drones should notice the matches between reagents immediately. They should smell it. Feathers for maple. Heartstring for spruce. Silver for vine.
“No, not the pine,” Miranda sneers at one of the drones. The girl backs away, lowers her gaze, trembles beneath the weight of Miranda's ire. Spineless idiot. Miranda waves her away, waves them all away. “Get out. Just get out.”
Both Nigel and Emily raise their eyebrows at the departure of the others, single-file and cowed, until the glass door sequesters the two of them away with Miranda. “Long week?” Nigel ventures with an air of forced calm. Emily shuffles with her notebook and tries to look busy.
Tap of her fingers. Rap of her blunted nails. A storm brews at her feet and boils in her lungs. “Long enough,” Miranda hisses.
“When does Andy get back from her trip? A basilisk, wasn't it? Nasty creatures.” Emily shudders. Andrea must have told her over hemlock tea or butterbeer.
“Tomorrow night.” Miranda answers. “She's been chasing it across Greece.”
“It’s a better posting than The Prophet.” Nigel adds with a shrug. “Better pay with the Ministry, at least.”
“She doesn't need the pay,” Miranda growls. Gold spills from Miranda's vault in Gringotts. Andrea couldn't make a dent in those funds if she tried, and God knows she's never tried regardless of Miranda's encouragement.
With a snap of her fingers, Emily spirits her notebook away. “She likes the pay. Symbolically, at least.”
Miranda glowers. “So I’m told.”
Nigel recognises the dangerous blackened note in her voice and begins to steer Emily from the room, a hand on her arm. “We’ll get to work on the -- didn’t you say she was coming back tomorrow?”
Frowning, Miranda peers around Nigel to where he is pointing out her office. Just outside Andrea is chatting with one of Miranda’s latest assistants. She is cradling a sackcloth that oozes red. It seeps into her robes but she either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice. The moment she sees her, Miranda is on her feet, standing at tense attention behind the desk. She watches Andrea give the assistant -- what was her name again? -- a friendly little wave and finally enter the office.
“Hey, you two!” She greets Nigel and Emily first. Miranda grits her teeth and covets Andrea’s gilded smiles.
Before Nigel and Emily can respond, Miranda accuses, “You’re early.”
“Yes. And I brought you a present.” Andrea places the bloodied sackcloth on Miranda’s desk and peels back the wrappings.
A low hiss escapes Miranda at the sight of the basilisk horn. It weeps blood and faintly sloughs like the scent of fresh-cut grass. Oh, yes. This will do nicely. Ebony, Miranda decides. Or -- no. Yew. It must be yew. Slow-growing. Long-lived. Incredibly toxic in every regard. They even smell the same. She’ll carve the wood herself in the likeness of a pale serpent.
Across the desk, Andrea grins at Miranda’s single-minded fixedness on her gift. “Oh, yeah. I really know how to pamper a lady,” she brags to the others.
“Because nothing says love like a great big bloody trophy from a fifteen-meter-long snake that you tracked and killed yourself,” Emily snarks, but she looks impressed nonetheless.
“Excuse you! Sixteen meters!” Andrea bristles with feigned outrage. “And I didn’t kill it! I relocated it. The horn just snapped off in the scuffle.”
“Whatever did the Beast Division do before you arrived?” Nigel teases and nudges Andrea with his elbow.
“Oh, hush. They got along just fine without me.”
In spite of her words, Andrea beams with pride. Even with blood on her robes she looks green and golden enough to kiss, so Miranda does. A hard quick press of their mouths. Then she digs the hooks of her attention back into the basilisk horn, pulling out her wand. Miranda does not notice the wide-eyed looks Nigel and Emily exchange at the startling display of affection. She is already cleaning and preparing her prize.
Behind her Andrea sighs, but she sounds only dramatic instead of peeved. “You leave for a week, return laden with priceless treasures and what do you get? Ignored. That’s what.”
“Wish I could get ‘ignored’ by someone, too.”
“Nigel!” Emily thwacks him across the arm. “Oh, stop laughing, Andy! It will only encourage him!”
The warm air is filled with the drumming of footsteps, bright and flashing. Caroline and Cassidy race down the stairs and plateau onto the wood-panelled foyer. From the kitchen island, Miranda looks up sharply and glares at their feet. The soles of their shoes throw copper-shod scoria with every step; they dent her floors. She clutches an empty glass of wine in one hand. A sharp rebuke rises on her tongue.
“Hey!” Andrea waves her wand at them in admonishment before Miranda can speak. “No shoes in the house! You know the rules!” The carrots and potatoes continue to peel themselves over the sink.
The twins gangle a good hand above Andrea -- they certainly didn’t inherit their height from Miranda -- but their shoulders stoop enough to compensate for the difference. “We’re heading out with friends to celebrate passing our O.W.Ls.” Caroline explains.
“Don’t slouch.” Miranda pours the wine. Burgundy sloshes in the bowl. “How late do you intend to be out?”
Both twins straighten their spines, but only Cassidy answers, “Midnight.”
Miranda stops pouring and arches an eyebrow.
Caroline groans in that long-suffering teenager way of hers. “Fine. Eleven.”
“And not a minute later,” Miranda confirms, setting the bottle back down.
They grin, broad beaming smiles. Before they dash from the house Cassidy calls over her shoulder, “Thanks, Mum! Love you!”
“Alright,” Miranda hums in acknowledgement and sips at her wine. Its corroded black-pepper taste clashes with its smooth texture -- a swampy result -- and she scrunches up her nose before taking another begrudging drink. She takes note of the label on the bottle and strikes it from any future purchases.
The door slams shut behind the twins. The vegetables grease themselves in oil and file together in neat little rows into the oven. Miranda ignores the way Andrea watches her -- with puzzlement, with softness, with kindling on the edge of a blaze.
“It would appear we have an unexpected evening alone.” Miranda summons another empty glass with a gesture. “Wine? I’m afraid it’s not very good.”
Andrea’s glance could start forest fires. “Yes, please. I’m sure it’s fine. Not all of us have your exacting tastes.”
“Bully for you.”
At the restaurant, a string quartet plays in the far corner. Their table sits nearby, cast in floating candlelight. The last time Miranda ate here, she and Andrea had sat three tables over and the string quartet had been mercifully absent. Tonight, the cellist has a set of working ears, but the violinist furthest on the left -- the lead, no less -- presses his fingers too high along the neck every time he bows the E string. Or any string, for that matter. Miranda clenches her teeth and pulls the serviette into her lap. She twists it roughly between her fingers. A muscle ticks in her cheek.
Andrea and Nigel study the dessert menu. Miranda doesn’t bother. When the violinist plays an A sharp, it bleeds at the edges of a B -- singed apricot instead of coral pink -- and the thought of food lurches in her stomach, cinders piling up in her mouth. She winces.
Nigel places his leather-bound menu down on the table and brackets it with his elbows. “Alright, what is it? Not that I don’t enjoy a free meal, mind you. But I doubt you invited me out for my scintillating conversation. Not to mention Miranda here looks like she’s about to pass a kidney stone.”
The weight of Andrea’s hand on her knee does little to alleviate the grinding of Miranda’s teeth. “We wanted to treat you to something nice,” Andrea says. Her thumb strokes a soothing path over Miranda’s thigh. “And Miranda needs to make an announcement.”
“Well, if you’re wanting a baby daddy, I’ve got news for you and it’s called: prostate cancer on both sides of my family. Though, really, I’m flattered.” Nigel doesn’t try to hide his impish smile when his comment earns him a glare from Miranda.
“Don’t be absurd-!” Miranda almost chokes on the taste of a C flat. Like biting into a sour plum when she expected a burst of sweetness. Taking a deep breath, wringing the cloth between her fingers, throttling it the way she wants to throttle a certain musician, she forges on. “Congratulations. You’re fired. Emily will be taking your current position. I am going to announce you as my apprentice and successor next week.”
Whatever Nigel had been predicting, it is not this. He stares at her. “And Andy had to twist your arm, I presume?”
Miranda scowls. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because you don’t look very happy about the arrangement.”
“I’m perfectly happy with it -- it was my idea to begin with.”
“Then, why are you so -?” Nigel gestures to her posture.
Miranda’s jaw begins to smart from gritting her teeth so hard. Finally, she hisses, “It’s that damn violinist!”
“What?” Andrea looks over her shoulder at the string quartet. “Why? What’s he done?”
“It’s not what he’s done, it’s what he’s doing.” Miranda’s nostrils flare. The F sharp slips to a foul teal instead of a spongy violet and her knuckles go white around the napkin. “I’m going to kill him and salt his ashes.”
“Woah, ok! I’m sure we can find a non-violent solution to this - uh -” Andrea pats at one of Miranda’s clenched fists, “-disagreement.”
“I have a better idea.” Miranda stands abruptly and Andrea gives her a panicky look, as if she’s prepared to leap in front of the violinist and take a cruciatus curse to the chest. Miranda throws her napkin down on the table in disgust. “I’m going to settle the bill and meet you both outside.”
A few Galleons and a handful of Sickles later, Miranda breathes a sigh of relief outside the building. The street bustles with noises and smells. The clammy cold seeps into her fingers. A car tyre splashes in a puddle along the road. Two women share a cigarette on their walk. Jarring sensations but dampened, as opposed to the violinist wielding his bow with all the finesse of a knife to the ribs.
The ring of a bell announces the door opening behind her. A hand presses gently to the small of her back. “Feeling better?” Andrea asks.
Miranda nods. “Much.”
Nigel stumbles at Andrea’s heels. Andrea smiles widely at him. “Since I didn’t get to say it inside: congratulations!”
He accepts her hug with a chuckle, appearing lost in her arms. “You’re timely; don’t worry. I’m still processing everything.”
Stepping back, Andrea gives Miranda a pointed look, jerking her head towards Nigel.
With a beleaguered sigh, Miranda relents. “Oh, alright.”
When she leans forward to kiss the air beside Nigel’s cheek, she stiffly presses her wrists to the backs of his arms and in return he gives her a single gruff pat on the shoulders. It’s like hugging a tree -- uncomfortable for all parties involved -- but it makes Andrea happy and has the added bonus of making Nigel look completely boggled.
Miranda quickly moves away and this time when she speaks she softens her voice as much as she’s able. “You’re already there, Nigel. Another year and you can strike out on your own.”
Nigel turns his blank expression on Andrea. “Do you have smelling salts? I think she just gave me a compliment, but I can’t tell.”
Andrea shrugs. “Sorry. They’re in my other purse.”
“Figures.”
Miranda drapes herself in Chanel, in Dior; she winds her neck in a white Hermès scarf. She had forgotten how to dress for muggles. She had poured over glossy publications and then she had poured herself into clinging black fabric and shoes that could kill a man. On the trip over, Andrea had declared the outfit unfit for Thanksgiving dinner at her family’s farm.
“You said your parents lived in Cincinnati!” Miranda accuses her when they arrive at a quaint house situated on a hundred-acre plot.
“Just outside of Cincinnati,” Andrea clarifies, though there's not another building in sight. She offers an apologetic smile, which makes her eyes dark and lustrous, and which in turn makes Miranda’s scowl deepen.
Shrugging against a prickle of the November chill, Miranda grumbles. “You might have mentioned that earlier.”
“Why couldn’t you have just worn the outfit I picked for you? Caroline and Cassidy took my advice! Look!” Andrea gestures to the twins in their matching cosy sweaters. The twins in turn do nothing to hide their grins at the quarrel unfolding before them.
Mouth thinning to a narrow line, Miranda sniffs. “I’m supposed to be a fashion icon or something, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but it’s just my parents and maybe a few of my cousins. It’s not like we’re in the city where other people could see you.”
“So, you’re saying I could have forgone these muggle rags entirely and worn my robes?” Miranda’s voice creeps down a few degrees and into frosty territory.
Andrea -- ever the smart one -- quickly abandons the argument. “Oh, look! I think I see dad!”
As Andrea rushes off, Miranda squints after her. Caroline and Cassidy follow. “Nice one, Mum,” Cassidy flashes a thumbs up.
“Yeah, you two are neck and neck now,” Caroline adds, making her way up the drive towards the green-painted porch.
Miranda turns her glare upon them. “You keep score?” she asks, incredulous.
“Duh,” they reply in unison.
Tonguing at the backs of her teeth, Miranda mulls over this news. Gravel crunches underfoot and the house rises above them with windows of warm yellowish light. “Who’s winning?”
The twins exchange unreadable looks. Then with identical smirks they mime locking their mouths and throwing away the keys. Laughing, they quicken their steps, jogging ahead to drape their arms around Andrea's shoulders and walk with her.
Miranda growls, “Traitors.”
Once inside, Miranda all but preens beneath the startled stares from Andrea’s immediate family, the widening of their eyes when they see her stand in the front door, framed in the fading autumnal light. Robes would have transformed her into something sleek and predatory and unapproachable. Chanel only accomplishes two out of three and soon Andrea's mother has cornered her between the fireplace and the Lladro. Preening is out the window with the turkey now. They tread in shallow waters, carefully discussing the pale weather and little else. Miranda bites back the urge to pull out her wand and stun herself unconscious.
Through a sliding glass door leading to the back patio, Andrea emerges. She is wearing tough leather boots with only enough heel to be considered practical. “You two are talking.” She gestures between her mother and Miranda. “Or did dad slip something into the punch?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Andrea,” Miranda says at the same time Elizabeth exclaims, “What a thing to say, Andy!”
They scowl at each other with suspicion and no small amount of dislike.
Andrea has to school her features. “Right. My bad.” Stepping around the freshly chopped logs piled against the wall, she crosses the space between them. “Just came to let you know that I'm taking the girls horseback riding. Be back in an hour or two.”
She is leaving Miranda here. She is leaving Miranda here all alone with her bitter yellow-sounding mother. Andrea wards off Miranda's glower with a smile and a disarming kiss that leaves Miranda blinking and flustered. As she strides off, Miranda admires the way Andrea fills her jeans. Perhaps she could make an exception for muggle clothes. For a rare occasion.
Elizabeth is watching her oddly. “What?” Miranda snaps.
“Oh, nothing. I could've sworn you almost looked warm-blooded just then.”
“We all have our moments of weakness,” Miranda drawls.
Elizabeth actually laughs and the sound appears unexpectedly sincere. A real laugh -- not one of those fake titters -- all earth and mossy stone.
The conversation runs much more smoothly after that, even venturing to the daring topic of hay-bailing. Joy of joys. Miranda checks the tacky clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty-two minutes down. Two-thousand eight-hundred and forty to go.
Flossy rays of sunlight leave scorching trails along the sand. From the sun-bleached beach the waves extend to the horizon, a blue hot enough to hurt. Miranda trades her reading spectacles for a dimmer pair that shield her eyes. Seated on a couch beneath the broad-striped awning of the beach house patio, she balances an open book on her thighs.
“Can you pass me my drink?” Andrea asks beside her, gesturing to the glass sweating on a table next to Miranda.
Miranda does as requested, but says, “I seem to remember you being in possession of a perfectly serviceable wand. Or has it gone running off again?”
“You’re magic enough for me,” Andrea retorts and smiles around the pink straw when Miranda rolls her eyes.
Turning back to her reading, Miranda hears the chatter of the twins swiftly approaching from within the house. They pass by the couch and head down towards the water. Grains of sand shift beneath their weight. Miranda spares them a glance, then frowns. “Cassidy, what on earth are you wearing?”
Both of them go stock-still. “Nothing,” Cassidy answers, tugging the bulky t-shirt down more firmly over her bathing suit.
“Obviously, it’s not nothing.” Miranda gestures and the two of them trade a shifty look. The kind they used to give one another when they broke an expensive vase in the foyer and lied about it.
Immediately Miranda stiffens and sits forward. She removes her dark-tinted glasses and pins Cassidy in place with her stare. “Tell me,” she demands.
Cassidy bites her lip. Slowly she lifts the shirt. Miranda inhales sharply. Dark woodgrain scarring across her skin; the scrolled markings extend from flank to ribcage. Alarm drives back the sound of the waves beating the shore. The book slides from Miranda’s legs and drops to the ground. In an instant Miranda is on her feet. “What happened?” she asks, though she knows the answer. The pattern is too distinct to be anything but -
“Splinching.” Cassidy pulls the shirt back down. Wringing of the cloth between her hands. She won’t meet Miranda’s eyes. “It was an accident during the tests.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now? Someone from Hogwarts should have contacted the house!”
Instead of Cassidy, Andrea answers from the side. “They did.”
“What?” Miranda’s snarl is pitted with acid.
Andrea puts down her drink and holds Miranda's gaze but speaks to the twins. “Girls, I think you should go inside and let me handle this.”
They flee back to the safe confines of the beach house, leaving Andrea and Miranda alone.
Hands clenched into fists. Nails biting her palms. The ocean a stone’s throw away and she can only hear the clamour of blood in her ears. Anger sings in her teeth. It overflows. It floods her with colour and feeling -- sickly sour whites and the taste of rancid iron. “Talk,” Miranda commands with a rasp. “Now.”
Andrea stands so that they are of a height and crosses her arms. “You were visiting Uagadou and couldn’t be reached. The school got a hold of me and since I’m listed as one of the emergency contacts, they didn’t pry further. Cassidy didn’t want you to know. She didn't want you to be disappointed.”
“I'm not disappointed! I'm furious!” Miranda growls and her words swoop on a note low in her chest.
“I know what she went through, alright? I splinched myself, too. I understand. She came to me because of that, and then she begged me not to tell you.”
“And you listened?” Miranda can hear her own voice rising but can do nothing to stop it. “She is a child!”
Square jaw. Eyes defiant and dark. Andrea insists, “She is not a child. Nor was she at the time.”
Going pale, Miranda stares at her and breathes softly, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s -” Andrea falters, but takes a deep breath and continues. “She’s fine, Miranda. It was about a year ago -”
“A year?”
“She didn't want to worry you.”
“Well! So long as I'm not worried!” Miranda quips snidely. The air is awash with noise. It claws at the skin of her jaw and forearms. Heavily Miranda drops back onto the couch and scrubs at her face with her hands.
A dip in the cushions beside her. “Hey.” Andrea puts on her best smile and rubs at Miranda's knee in that infuriatingly soothing way of hers. “They know you care. We all know you care. That was never in doubt. They adore you, Miranda.”
Miranda’s throat works. She watches Andrea's hand like it’s a viper, but makes no motion to push her away. “Of course,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Of course. I know that. You don't need to tell me that.”
Andrea shrugs. “I like telling you nice things. And I'm going to keep on telling you, so get used to it.”
Miranda rolls her eyes. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Fine.”
“Are you just trying to get the last word in now?”
“Yes!”
“Miranda!” Andrea’s tone tinges purple with reproof and she taps at Miranda’s knee.
“Don’t ‘Miranda,’ me! I’m still angry!”
Andrea winces. “Oh.”
“A year, Andrea! No! Stop! No more touching!”
Immediately Andrea pulls her hand back as if stung. “Sorry. I know sometimes you don’t like - I mean -”
“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just -” The couch cushion presses up against the backs of her thighs. Miranda stands again to escape the sensation and begins to pace, but the wood-painted floors scrape against the soles of her feet. She flings her hands like she’s trying to rid them of water. Her ears ring. “-too much stimulation. Anger is very loud.”
Andrea blinks up at her. “Ok,” she says slowly. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes!” Miranda rounds upon her, fury painted in livid strokes across her face. It boils along a lurid path in her throat. She has swallowed a live coal. She breathes orange sparks. “Next time something like this happens, you inform me! Immediately!”
“I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.”
One of Andrea’s eyebrows and the corner of her mouth lift in a hesitant kind of amusement. “Still after that last word, huh?”
“Oh, shut up. You’re not out of the doghouse yet,” Miranda snaps. Then she storms towards the door. “I'm going to go talk to Cassidy.”
Inside Caroline is rummaging through the kitchen. When Miranda looks at her, she points up to the ceiling without a word. Miranda climbs the stairs and the padding of her feet against the steps sticks with grains of windswept sand. Creak of the landing. A sliver of light cuts through a gap in the door to Cassidy’s room. Miranda has to stop herself from pushing in. She dawdles for a moment and despises herself for it. She knocks and waits.
“Yeah. Come in,” Cassidy’s voice floats weakly from within.
The hinges squeak when Miranda opens the door and steps inside. Leaving the door ajar, she crosses the room and sits beside Cassidy atop the rumpled blue bedsheets. Their shoulders brush and Miranda has to stifle the urge to shy away from the feeling. Together they sit in heavy silence, mulled and fragrant as a wine spiced with cloves.
“I need -” Miranda swallows thickly. “I need you to tell me when something like this happens. I need you to feel comfortable enough to do that. If you don't tell me these things, how am I supposed to help?”
Cassidy shrugs. “There wasn't anything to be done. They took me to the Hospital Wing and I spent a few nights regrowing some organs and ribs. If I’d told you, it just would have made you upset.” She says it so succinctly. So matter-of-fact and past-tense. Done and dusted and Miranda had been absent the whole event.
Reaching over, Miranda squeezes Cassidy's hand until the tips of her fingers go white, until Miranda strains for breath. To feel her daughter solidly, irrevocably there and whole. “I would rather be upset and know. Don’t keep me in the dark. Please don’t -”
When her voice cracks, Miranda lifts her chin and looks up towards the ceiling. The raw wood beams arch overhead. How quickly she had run from her muggle father. Never told him anything she didn’t deem him worthy of knowing until he was gone, until it was too late. Knowledge and feeling all wrapt up and bound together. Pull here. Action there. She is a skein of Newtonian physics and now she can’t even bear to look at her daughter for fear of what reaction it might invoke. How quickly she’ll unravel at the edges.
Cassidy breaches the silence first. “Do you have any idea-” she whispers, “-how difficult it is being your daughter? Being anything less than perfect?”
Miranda laughs, a rough watery bark of laughter. “I have an inkling.” She sniffs and wipes at her cheeks with her spare hand; she refuses to let Cassidy go. Not yet. “I’ve never expected you to be perfect. I know you’re not perfect.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” Miranda adds hastily.
“Yeah, I know.” Cassidy sighs. She has been interpreting Miranda since she could structure reality with language. She knows -- surely, she must.
Miranda’s hands have started to tremble. Cassidy looks up at her in something like awe. “I'm alright, Mum,” she asserts until Miranda can no longer tell who’s consoling who. “I'm alright.”
“That's all I want.” Miranda gasps. “I just want to know that you're alright.”
Cassidy lets her hold her hand until the shaking stops. Their bare knees are wedged together; Miranda’s filmy sarong has ridden up her thighs. Miranda focuses on the feeling of their laced fingers, the pulse in their thumbs. Faintly she can hear Andrea and Caroline preparing something in the kitchen downstairs -- the distant clatter of copper-rimmed pots and slow-moving murmurs.
Cassidy must hear it as well. “Don't be mad at Andy. It's my fault.”
“Oh, you know me. I can never stay angry at her for long.” Miranda releases Cassidy, pats her hand as gently as she knows how. Then she gives a resigned nod towards the door. “Go on. Go enjoy the beach with your sister, but for God's sake -” Miranda points at the t-shirt, “-leave that rag behind. You don't need it. You look beautiful.”
Cassidy kisses the side of her head. “Thanks, Mum.”
Miranda must give a speech at Nigel’s awards ceremony, crowning him as a master wandmaker in his own right after the many long years spent faithfully at her side. Wand tip pressed against her throat, the Sonorous charm casts her low murmur across the assembly. Next to Nigel and Emily at the head table, Andrea sits, watching her on the stage. The dress robes Miranda have bought for Andrea swathe her in verdant-dark glory. The goblin-forged choker gleams at her neck, diamond-bright.
Suddenly the air overgrows with warmth. Suddenly Miranda flounders with words. The heat sears up her thighs and she clears her throat to continue speaking, but Andrea is still smiling at her across the room. The sight of her scatters thought and sound. As Miranda finishes the paean she cannot hear the thunder of applause over the flash of Andrea’s throat.
Back to her seat she strides, delicately lowering herself into the chair. Miranda jumps half out of her skin when Andrea runs the arch of her foot along the back of her calf beneath the table. The table leaps with a clatter of cutlery.
“Everything alright?” Nigel asks.
“Yes,” Miranda all but wheezes.
Dinner takes an age. She barely eats. The taste is all wrong. The choice of fallow deer or tender hare drenched in carnal sauce veneur when she should be eating something else instead. Miranda picks at the artful passionfruit coins and sneaks glances to the side. She bites her lip in lieu of biting the skin of Andrea’s bare shoulders. All the while Andrea converses easily with the other members of the table and toes at the hollows of her ankles until the knife trembles in Miranda’s clenched fingers.
When a hand runs up her inner thigh, Miranda grabs it and gives a painful squeeze. Rather than being scolded, Andrea’s smile only broadens. Waiters with white gloves pass out dessert. Miranda doesn’t even bother dipping her spoon into the bergamot parfait and the seconds crawl by on all fours.
Hauling Andrea from the after-dinner mingling -- de rigeur be damned -- she cannot get them home quickly enough. Miranda fumbles at the golden clasps that cinch the dress robes high at Andrea’s waist. Velvet heavy and dark beneath her hands. Andrea pinned up and squirming against the closed bedroom door. Miranda plies her with teeth and tongue until she whimpers and gasps. Most days Andrea speaks in shades of green, but now she is awash in lavish scarlets.
“Tormenting me all through dinner -” Miranda gasps, frantically stripping free of dress robes until they pool at their feet, until Andrea wears nothing but skin and diamonds. “Inconsiderate -!”
“Me?” Andrea groans between kisses, grinding down on Miranda’s thigh slipped between her legs. “You should have seen yourself on stage.”
When Andrea tries to take off the choker, Miranda grabs her wrists. “Leave it,” she rasps.
She pulls them away from the door and guides them across the room to push Andrea atop the bed. Hands tangle in her hair. She is crowded with perception. Inundated by the silky heat of Andrea’s skin, the sharp rake of nails across her back, the pinch of sensitive skin between her teeth, the heady smell of sweat and sex atop clean linens, the grit and grain of the carpet as she kneels on the floor and drapes Andrea’s legs over her shoulders, the rose-tinted notes Andrea moans when she lifts her hips against Miranda’s mouth, the sharp taste of her. All Miranda’s senses are consumed with Andrea, who blends together as the person she had convinced herself of hating yesterday and the person she can no longer do without tomorrow.
A heel digs insistently into Miranda’s back. She holds Andrea’s hips down; they jump with every slow stroke of her tongue, seeking purchase but finding none. Miranda hasn’t been dreaming of this for hours only to let it finish in minutes.
Andrea clutches the back of Miranda’s head in one hand and a fistful of bedsheets in the other. Her breath stutters at the back of her throat. “F-Fingers.”
Instead Miranda pauses and bites along Andrea’s soft inner thigh. Her chin leaves wet smears in its wake. “Not yet.”
Andrea whines. Miranda does not relent. She flicks her tongue and keeps Andrea riding the bleeding edge until she presses her fingers up, up -- and Andrea’s spine arches. She barely has enough time to wipe her face against her forearm before Andrea is pulling her atop the bed. Miranda’s knees are planted to either side of Andrea’s waist. Her thighs already ache, but she ignores it when Andrea’s hand fits against her.
In contrast Andrea is greedy and quick and everything Miranda wants. She drives three fingers into Miranda and sucks hard at her breast. Little noises wrench from Miranda and she stifles a cry by fixing her teeth in Andrea’s shoulder. Andrea’s spare hand grips her hip and urges her along. A thumb presses against her clit. Shuddering, she comes, but before she can go limp and boneless Andrea’s hands maintain their tempo.
“One more. One more,” Andrea whispers against Miranda’s throat, nudging Miranda’s chin back. Andrea’s fingers brand the skin at her hip with desperation. “Please, please, please -”
Jaw clenching, Miranda does. For a moment, the world goes white at the edges. Then Andrea is dragging her down to sprawl against one another. While their breathing evens out, Miranda smooths back Andrea’s hair. The dark fringe sticks to the sweat of her brow. A strand gets tangled up at her temple and Miranda brushes it back as well. She admires the diamond choker around Andrea’s neck, tracing the space between stones and skin with the nail of her thumb.
“I'm sorry I'm not more -” Miranda grimaces against her sudden upwelling of guilt; she can’t fathom what possess her, “-expressive.”
Turning her head, Andrea frowns over at her. “What do you mean? You have plenty of expressions.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Four thousand different expressions of malicious amusement.”
Miranda huffs, a noise caught between a scoff and laughter.
“See? There's one.” Andrea grins and points. “Number four hundred and twenty-two.”
In admonishment Miranda nips at her finger before dropping her head to sigh into the hollows of Andrea’s collarbone beneath a glimmering of diamonds. “I just - I hope you understand that I -” Miranda swallows past an inexplicable dryness in her throat, and finishes lamely, “-That you are an important part of this family.”
“I know.”
“Because sometimes I’m not the most - wait what?” Miranda blinks. “What do you mean: You know?”
“Miranda, I've been in a relationship with you for seven years.”
“Yes, but -”
“Seven. Years.” Andrea holds up the appropriate number of fingers, still somewhat sticky from their recent rollicking. “You thought I attended all of Caroline’s Quidditch games because I didn’t understand I was an important part of this family? You thought I didn't know you well enough to understand that you love me?”
Miranda flushes; she can feel the heat creeping all the way to the tips of her ears. Embarrassment burns bright beneath her sternum; it pools in her stomach, a mephitic lake of unease. “Well.” She clears her throat free from the taste, but it clings to the tongue. “Good. That settles it then.”
She flops down beside Andrea and buries her head into the sheets. Maybe if she tries hard enough the fabric will smother her to death -- certainly a more graceful end than the one she currently faces, what with Andrea smirking like the Cheshire cat.
“So, you admit it?” Andrea’s grin reveals a few more teeth. “You love me?”
“Obviously.” Miranda’s droll tone is muffled by a thread count higher than most household incomes. When Andrea’s smile fades and is replaced by a stunned blankness, Miranda blinks at her. “What?”
In response Andrea rolls her over and straddles her. She kisses Miranda breathless and presses their naked skin together until Miranda clutches at Andrea’s waist. When Andrea pulls back, they are both breathing raggedly. “I didn’t think you’d actually say it.”
“I haven’t, you realise.”
“Why?” Andrea does not reproach, only inquires. She props herself on her elbows above Miranda and waits.
“I can. It’s just -” Miranda’s brows contort into a frown. “- difficult to describe the way I feel. About anything -- not just this. I am cursed with the dearth of language.” The smoothness of Andrea’s back warms her palms. Miranda strokes the divots of Andrea’s spine. She counts vertebrae. “Three lousy words couldn’t possibly encompass the depth of feeling I have for you.”
For once Andrea has been rendered truly speechless.
Miranda stares up at her. “Are you crying?”
“No!” Andrea buries her head in the crook of Miranda’s shoulder and sniffles back tears.
“This is precisely why I avoid these kinds of discussions to begin with,” Miranda grumbles but continues to stroke Andrea’s back. By the time Andrea props herself up again, their exposed skin has begun to cool above the covers. It warms quickly when a thigh slips between Miranda’s legs, making her breath hitch.
“I really do love you, you know,” Andrea announces and her eyes shine with such sincerity Miranda can hardly mock her.
Instead Miranda rises up to kiss her. “Alright.”