Unnatural Magic

by C.M. Waggoner

Onna’s mother’s youthful indiscretions as a successful authoress were forgiven due to her exemplary behavior now as a frugal and fastidious housekeeper—Sy’s

The fuck?

All of the boys seemed to think that her moods were directed toward them,

That is universal

But then she wet her handkerchief in earnest because it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that she could be clever and polite and work hard and mind her elders and smile prettily and mend her dresses and clean her nails and chew every bite twenty times and do everything that every adult had ever told her she ought to do and still not get what some silly troll-blooded boy with a pony and a tutor and a house in the country got just because he wanted it.

She was, however, irreproachably polite, and she thought that one of the essential abilities of a polite and genteel young lady was to create pleasant fictions in order to preserve her companions from unpleasant truths.

“I’m afraid that it’s very possible that I’m still drunk now. Would you like to see your rooms?”

It was a confoundedly uncomfortable thing to be in love.

“Our poor is different from yours.”

She was in the habit of apologizing for making faces that men thought weren’t very pretty. It occurred to her, very briefly, that she resented being made to think about her face when she was trying to focus on the contents of her mind.

“If believing in the rights of ladies to publicly engage in serious scholarship and of gentlemen to publicly wear a delicious magenta taffeta in the summer makes me a radical, then I can only embrace the label.”

By the time they were through, Onna felt strangely exhausted, as if her brain was trying to ride a bicycle through a tub of molasses.

“I think I’ll have Mrs. Macosti bring more tea, darling. I like to have something to do with my hands whilst I describe the worst moments of my life.”

“I’ve never in my life had answers handed to me. It was always me who was expected to hand answers to everyone else, and smile while I was doing it.”

Pretty is what one calls a pair of silk slippers or a potted orange tree. It loses its interest. No one is pretty after one has stared at them for fifteen years over the breakfast table. Attractiveness is a function of personality. Prettiness is lent to you by youth; attractiveness is purchased with experience.”