More Today Than Yesterday

The woman waiting outside had her beat for hauteur. She wore an arched brow and knowing smirk as though her face had been etched that way. Everything about her seemed pointed, from the tips of her high heels to the triangular silver broach that held her scarf pinned to her shoulder. A black silk dress and scarf, at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning! How on Earth did she keep them so immaculate, when on her shoulder rode a pure white cat, fluffy as a sheep, whose half-lidded blue eyes were no less judgmental than her mistress's?

Elizabeth had felt quite chic in her tan trousers and mauve sweater, but suddenly she became intensely aware that the sweater had a tear near the neckline and the trousers were not long enough to hide her shabby Uggs.

"May I help you?"

"Ambrose says he owes a debt to someone in this house," not so much as a hello, or good morning, or sorry to disturb you. The woman went on as though Elizabeth were supposed to have any idea at all what she meant, "I have come to pay it."

Elizabeth blinked. "Who, may I ask, is Ambrose?"

The woman's only reply was to run one gloved—gloved! Long black opera gloves, she wore—finger under the cat's chin. Its eyes winked out as it raised its head, and a rich, thick purr rumbled out of its throat.

Elizabeth blinked again. Important to tread carefully, she told herself. The woman was obviously insane, so she would have to play along until she could get the door closed again and call the police.

"I beg your pardon," too harsh, "but I'm afraid I have never seen you or…Ambrose before. You must have the wrong house."

"No," without seeing how, the woman had stepped around her and was now standing in the center of the living room, studying the framed photos on the wall above the TV, "this is the right one. Ambrose has an excellent memory. But it wasn't you we wanted. There is a girl here, is there not?"

"Excuse me," Elizabeth clutched her phone so hard the screen felt brittle under her fingers, "but please go back outside. I don't know you and I don't have people I don't know in my house!"

"But you do know me," the woman said, smiling. "Let's think on it, shall we? How would you know me? Am I a barista from your favorite café? No, you would not know her name. Perhaps I have just joined your book club? Ah, I know! Those school board meetings you never miss. Yes, Elizabeth. I'm Seraphina Jones, from the PTA. You'd be thrilled to have me here, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Elizabeth said, setting down her phone and extending her hand. The silk gloves were cool as water on her palms. There was no feeling of warm skin underneath. "Mrs. Jones, I'm thrilled to see you here. Won't you have something to drink?"

"You're too kind," Seraphina replied, drawing her hand away, "but I'm afraid I don't have time for a visit today. I just need to see your daughter and then I'm off to the bake sale."

"There was a bake sale today? I didn't hear about it," Elizabeth's forehead puckered as she struggled to remember. No, she was certain today's page in her diary was blank except for her hair appointment at two and the boys' fishing trip. "Shouldn't that have been on the annual calendar?"

"Mrs. Scanlon," Seraphina sighed, "your daughter?"

"Oh, of course," she'd call Helena about the calendar later. "Sarah!" she called, walking towards the stairwell. No answer. "Sarah! I hope you don't have headphones in, young lady! You know they're no good for your hearing."

A tousled head poked over the railing. "What is it, mom?"

"Mrs. Jones from the PTA is here to talk to you. Something about her cat, Ambrose?"

"Oh," Sarah ran a hand through her hair and disappeared back over the railing. After a moment, she thumped down the stairs, still in her ratty pajamas of faded black leggings and an oversized Hello Kitty t-shirt.

"Why aren't you dressed yet?" Elizabeth hissed. "It's almost lunchtime."

Sarah blinked. "It's Saturday. I can get dressed, if you want."

"No, no," her mother shook her head, "that wouldn't be much better anyway. Don't keep Mrs. Jones waiting."

They rounded the corner, Sarah lagging behind, arms crossed tight over her stomach. Elizabeth nudged her ahead and made a mental note to discuss the importance of good posture later, yet again.

"Mrs. Jones, this is my daughter, Sarah."

"Nice to meet you," the expression came out of her like a recording, spiritless and dull. Sarah extended her hand and seemed only to realize how strange their guest was when her soft silken gloves slid over her palm.

"A pleasure, Sarah," Mrs. Jones said. "Mrs. Scanlon, would you mind if I talked to Sarah outside for a few minutes?"

"Not at all," to her daughter, then, "Go get your slippers; I don't want you running around with dirty socks when you come back in."

Sarah, eyes wide and arms crossed even tighter, stared between her mother and their guest as though she'd never seen either of them before. But that was silly; Sarah knew Mrs. Jones as well as Elizabeth did, even if they'd never been formally introduced. Elizabeth fixed her with a Look. A Look that said, louder than any warning: don't embarrass me.

"Sarah, before the grass grows, please. They're under the table in the breakfast nook."

Keeping one eye on Mrs. Jones, Sarah backed away towards the kitchen, where Elizabeth had tripped over her abandoned slippers twice already that morning. They heard her kicking her shoes out from under the table, then a slow scuffle as she came back into the living room.

"Mom?" her voice was oddly fragile, "do I have to? Can't you come out too?"

"It's just Mrs. Jones, dear," she said, rolling her eyes at their guest. "Honestly, I don't know why she's so shy."

"It's only right to be wary of strangers," Mrs. Jones replied, "but you have done me a great service, Sarah Scanlon, in saving the life of my familiar. I promise I mean only to do you all good and no ill."

"See?" in her saner moments, Elizabeth might have been put off by the woman's odd, archaic phrasing and her talk of familiars, but her daughter's growing panic didn't touch her in the slightest, "Now go on. Mrs. Jones has places to be."

Seraphina preceded Sarah out the door and allowed the girl to stay where she stood, one hand still on the doorknob, ready to retreat at any moment. She smiled. The girl had a good head on her shoulders. Normally, the glamour she settled over Mrs. Scanlon should have been strong enough to extend to her daughter, but in this case, the girl retained enough wit to see through her deception.

All to the good. Holding a glamour was like holding in a sneeze; the slightest thing could disturb it, to explosive consequences. Better to have the truth out in the sun, where it belonged.

Also, the persona of "Mrs. Jones, PTA President" was offensive. Mrs. Jones drove a mid-sized SUV and had nightmares about her roots suddenly growing out, thick and dark as vines. So narrow was her mind that her greatest fear was that everyone would know she was not a natural blonde. Even her husband didn't know. Ugh. The horror of maintaining such a lie!

"Who are you?" Sarah jutted out her chin in precisely the same attitude as her mother's. Oh, it would hurt her to hear that! Seraphina filed it away. "You're not Mrs. Jones. I don't know what you and mom are trying to do, but just tell me. Are you from one of those scared straight programs, or something?"

"Well spotted," Seraphina nodded, "But no. You are a far better daughter than your mother deserves. Does she always speak like a caricature of middle-aged motherhood?"

"Kind of," a little giggle burst out, but still aware of how odd the situation was, she stifled it before it could bloom into a laugh. "Who are you?"

"My name is Seraphina," at least it was that morning; it was a 'Seraphina' kind of day, "I am here to pay a debt incurred by this worthless one here," she caressed Ambrose to soothe her words' sting, but she hated suburbia and would not be here for anyone less important to her. "You fed and watered him when he was lost. Your actions saved his life."

"I remember," Sarah said, slowly. "I thought he was a stray. I called him Mr. Fluffernutter."

Seraphina closed her eyes. What an abomination of a name! No wonder Ambrose had put on two pounds that last week, with all that artificial sweetness oozing from his new title like processed caramel syrup. Despite her horror, a ripple of fond amusement vibrated out of Ambrose along with his purr.

Only for you, darling.

"Well," she opened her eyes, "what will you have in exchange? I have all the usual cantrips and spells. Would you have something charmed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, surely you understand. You must have taken something from all those books you have. I'm a witch, girl."

Now she laughed, but it was hesitant, doubtful. "No, you're not. Witches aren't real."

"I wasn't Mrs. Jones, but your mother believed me."

"I don't know," her grip tightened on the doorknob. "Maybe she's just tired, or she didn't put in her contacts this morning. You're not a witch. If you are," her chin jutted again, "prove it. Set something on fire."

"Bloodthirsty, aren't you? But I do not prove myself to anyone. You may believe me or you may not, as you choose."

"Okay," she dragged out the word like a stick of gum. "When you say 'cantrips and spells'…what exactly can you do?"

"Oh, the usual. A hint of intuition, whispering the correct answers to you on your next test. A philter to drink to clear away those pockmarks. What else can a middle-schooler want?"

"My zits aren't that bad," Sarah snapped, "and I'm in high school. I skipped a grade."

Seraphina's fingers twitched. What a vengeful storm she could raise with that wounded pride! Just a quick snip and she could have enough petulance to fill a cauldron! But no; at least for today, she was here to do good. Ambrose's claws in her shoulder were a pointed reminder of that.

Besides, perhaps it was her own wounded pride that made her so irritated. Though she knew many things, the minds of teenage girls was a topic she had not studied for a very long time. "Very well, then. What would you have?"

"I'm not even sure I believe you. But," she trailed off, tapping her nails on the doorknob, "Mom should have known you were lying. She knows when people lie. So she must really have thought you were Mrs. Jones. Can you teach me how to lie like that?"

"A talent in glamour isn't gifted. It's learned. And it would take more than a few minutes standing on a porch for me to teach you. I will do you a favor, but it must be a quick one."

"Why?" there was a cunning light in her eyes now, and Seraphina was a little cross with herself for reminding the girl of her books upstairs. Stories of witches, djinni, and fae-bargains were largely nonsense, but even a grain of truth holds some potential of sprouting. "You said I saved your cat's life. Isn't that worth more than what any dermatologist can give me?"

"I have never wanted an apprentice."

"I don't want to be one. I think. But if you're a witch, and if you owe me, then that's what I want. I want to know how to lie like you do, so people believe me."

"Why should a girl like you want such a talent in deception?"

Sarah's lips thinned. "I don't have to tell you that. So? Will you give me what I want? You have to, don't you?"

"I have to do nothing," Seraphina lied, fingers twitching again. No wonder mother and daughter crackled like ball-lightning when in the same room! They were both so self-satisfied in their own pig-headedness! She had not prepared for a mind-manipulation (nor was she very talented at it, but bite your tongue before you tell!) but better to brute her way through an inelegant spell than—

Ambrose flexed again, rising against her shoulders and digging down with every claw he had. His yowl was equal parts reproachful and threatening.

Well, well. A few lessons would likely give the girl all the skill she wanted. And, in comparison with her beloved Ambrose's life, it was a small enough price to pay. Too bad it was just larger than what she had planned.

"I will come to you thrice," she said, "You will learn from me what you might during those times. Beyond that, I pledge myself to nothing more, and my debt will be clear. Do you accept?"

Sarah shrugged. "Yeah. I guess. I still don't believe you."

"A warning, child," Seraphina tugged at her gloves, the silk catching on the scarification that ran from her fingers to her elbows. As she bared them to Sarah's sight, her eyes widened. By the time her own claws were bare, the girl had pressed full-length against the door, frightened but fascinated. Seraphina knew she wouldn't move, pressed so hard by her curiosity she would never feel the witch cut her throat if she chose.

"You need not believe in a knife for it to harm you. Now, do you accept?"

She swallowed twice around a tongue suddenly dry. Her voice rasped as it emerged.

"I accept."

"Good," Seraphina chirped. A bit of intimidation brightened her mood like nothing else. "There is a park, two streets over. Do you know it?"

Sarah nodded.

"Come to me there tonight, at midnight."

"Midnight? I have a bedtime," she blushed, embarrassed at letting that slip. "I mean, how can I explain that to my mom?"

"Why need you? Or, if you must, consider this your first lesson in lying. Come or not, I don't care. But if you don't, I will not come again to make up for it."

"Fine," Sarah said, turning the doorknob beneath her hand, "I'll be there. But I have pepper spray. Just in case you're a human trafficker, or something."