Great, so I’m going to need MA permission for any digging I need to do in these buildings.
I must be making a face because Luisa adds, “Don’t worry, your mother has already cleared your access. You can come and go from this building as you please.”
Awesome. Twenty-four-hour access to the headache tablets I’m going to be needing soon.
We start climbing a winding flight of wooden stairs and Rafi finally lets go of my hand. The stairs are steep, but we don’t stop at the first level or the next. Each level has a door, and each door is made from old oak adorned with art nouveau swirls and huge symbols carved out of the wood. We pass a spoon in a circle on the first floor, and judging by the fresh smell of cookies, I’m guessing someone is baking inside. Then, on the second floor, we pass a triangle with rays coming from it. None of these symbols are similar to the ones Jackson showed me.
“That’s my art studio,” Luisa says casually.
I want to ask her what kind of art she does, but I'm embarrassingly out of breath by the time we’ve reached the third floor. We’ve stopped by a door with a needle and thread on it, the thread in the form of a large S.
“What is this place?”
“Just an average Mage workshop. Nothing special,” Beatriz trills.
Ping. Ping.
I don’t know why she bothers lying. She knows I’m a Verity Witch.
Her mouth sets in a straight line and she sighs. “At the end of the nineteenth century, when women were fighting for suffrage all over Europe, us Witches were persecuted more than ever. We had to learn how to hide in plain sight, and seeing as most Witches already owned apothecaries, they created these secret meeting points above pharmacies.” She smiles, clearly enjoying her new role as teacher. “They are now the offices of the Spanish Spell Smiths. Every creative skill you can think of – sculpture, painting, cooking, music. When it’s injected with magic, it all starts in buildings like this one.”
I grew up surrounded by magic-infused music and art, but it never occurred to me to wonder where any of it was created...or by whom.
“Mine and Luisa’s outfits are already finished,” she adds. “We’re here for yours.”
“What about Rafi?”
“I already have something,” he says nonchalantly. The ping of his lie hits me just as Luisa interjects.
“I told you, Rafi, we are getting your suit today too. It’s covered.”
“No arguing,” Beatriz agrees. “The Silkmage is usually booked up before the ball.” She turns to me, back to her haughty self. “But she made an exception for you, Saskia. She managed to squeeze you in.”
Silkmage?
As if reading my mind, the door flies open, and standing before us is an elaborately dressed woman. She’s old, her skin powdery and white like crinkled tissue paper. Her hair is just as pale, towering like cotton candy held up by golden knitting needles. She looks us up and down through her comically large glasses.
“Late.” Her nose creates a new set of wrinkles as she screws it up in disgust. “How can you all go out dressed like that? Embarrassing. Vile. Call yourself Witches?”
Beatriz smooths down her plaid skirt and pats down her hair, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Yeah, we get it. You wish we could go back to the days of corsets and guillotines,” Luisa says to the designer. “Alas, Señora Estrella,” she gestures at her ripped jeans. “This is what the kids are wearing these days. Are our dresses ready?”
“Bah,” the old woman mutters, waving her gnarled fingers in our faces. She ushers us in, and we shuffle after her. I notice she's wearing a diamond-encrusted thimble, and slung around her bony shoulders is a massive ginger fur.
I look closer at her stole and find myself eye to eye with a Persian cat’s face. It blinks.
“Holy shit.” I stumble backward. “Your shawl just winked at me.”
Estrella strokes the fur absentmindedly, and it begins purring.
“Cashmere doesn’t like strangers,” she says, as if that’s explanation enough.
“Estrella is like Cruella de Vil,” Rafi whispers from behind me. “But with kitties.”
She skins cats? I survey the room and see more eyes blinking at me. There are about half a dozen cats strewn around the atelier, but mercifully they are all alive.
Estrella’s sharp eyes follow me.
“You like the pussies?”
I swallow the immature laugh forming in my throat. Behind me, Rafi is less successful. She shoots him a dirty look.
“You’re not in the MA, are you, boy?”
“Rafeek is a talented MA Elemental,” Beatriz interrupts.
Luisa shoots the Señora a stern look and adds, “and he’ll be needing a suit.”
We pass rows of sewing machines and mannequins, cats winding around our feet. One hisses as Estrella accidentally steps on its tail with an irritable huff.
“Cats in an atelier is a bold choice,” I say. “Don’t they love shredding fabric?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “They are all declawed and enchanted to never shed.”
A gold serpent bangle glimmers on her wrinkly wrist, reflecting the weak sunlight flooding the workroom. It starts to move, and I realize this isn’t normal jewelry; it’s an actual ruby-eyed snake, dipped in gold, coiling itself around her liver-spotted skin. If one more of this woman’s accessories blinks at me, I’m leaving.
I point at the bracelet. “Former pet?”
“Moliere. The most wonderful snake.” She points at her scaly pink boots. “And these are Kellogg’s, a fish given to me by Warhol, and Rice Pudding, a gift from Pablo. Both named after the gift-giver’s favorite breakfast foods.”
The boots are thigh-high. How fucking big were these fish?
“Which Pablo? Escobar or Picasso?” Luisa asks with genuine interest.
I like that her brain goes there, considering the old woman just told us she’s wearing her former aquarium on her feet.
“Picasso, of course. Let’s begin. I have another fitting after yours.”
The large room is lined floor to ceiling with shelves stuffed with reams of fabric, rolls of delicate lace, colorful leathers,
