Such were the colors of my girlhood dreams. Alas, we women seldom get the life we would choose for ourselves. Instead, our lot is chosen for us, by those who claim to know best, and before we know it, we’ve been shaped into someone we don’t recognize, remade in someone else’s image. For the Roussels, this is especially true.
For seventy years, we kept a salon in the Rue Legendre, with a small apartment above for living. It wasn’t much as salons go, small but smart, with shuttered windows and a purple door to distinguish it from its neighbors. Purple is the color of our kind, the color of la magie—of magick. We could have afforded to put on a better show, a fancy sign or smart canvas awnings, but our clients valued discretion almost as much as they valued Maman’s gift with a needle. And who could blame them? No woman—a French one least of all—wants it known that she requires help with les choses de c?ur. Many did require it, though. Still, many were turned away, deemed a poor match with their chosen grooms and therefore ill-suited for a binding.
One did not simply walk in off the street and commission a gown from Maman. To become a Roussel bride, three things were required: a referral from a previous client, a vow of discretion, and absolute honesty. And even then there was no guarantee that the prospective bride would be found worthy. There was a process, tests that must be passed, questions asked and answered, and of course the readings, all of which took place in Maman’s little sitting room at the back of the shop.
The would-be client would arrive at the appointed time. Alone. Never with her mother in tow. A tray of refreshments always awaited—a plate of biscuits and sweet dark chocolate served in thin china cups. The bride would settle into her chair with her refreshments. Maman would smile her disarming smile over the rim of her cup, and the questions would begin.
How long have you known your young man? How did you meet? Does his mother approve of you? Does yours approve of him? Have you discussed having children? Have the two of you been intimate? Does he please you physically? Has he ever been unfaithful to you? Have you been unfaithful to him?
Occasionally, they would try to lie, but it did them no good. Maman could smell a lie before it left someone’s mouth. And the price of a lie was to be turned away.
After the questions, she would move on to the true test. The women were instructed to bring a personal article of their own to the interview and also one belonging to their fiancés: a hairbrush or a ring, something each used and touched every day. Maman would hold the items in her hands one at a time, letting her eyes go soft and her breath go deep, until the images began to come up. Echoes, she called them. Of what has been and what is to come.
It will sound strange to you, like make-believe. It was stranger still to watch it through a keyhole when I was a little girl, spying on things I did not yet understand. And then one day, Maman explained. Every soul creates an echo. Like a fingerprint or signature that becomes infused in the things around us. Who we are. Where we belong. What we’re meant to bring to the world. No two echoes are alike. They are ours and ours alone. But they’re incomplete—one half of a perfect whole. Like a mirror without a reflection. And so each echo is constantly seeking its other half, to complete itself. That is what we look for in a reading, a sign that the lovers’ echoes are a match.
Nearly two-thirds of the brides who sought Maman’s help were turned away, and no amount of money could entice her to change her mind. These were critical considerations, after all. It was her reputation on the line, and she must be careful of it. One failure could ruin her, ruin all the Roussels.
I was twelve when she began to school me in earnest. A year earlier than her maman began with her. When I asked why, she said there wasn’t time to wait. I would need to be ready when the time came. I didn’t understand then. I wouldn’t for several years. But I did as I was told. And so began my lessons at the knee of the Dress Witch.
My training consisted of three parts. The first was divination, which, according to Maman, was where any sorcière worth her salt should focus first. It is known by other names. Scrying, dousing, invocation. Naming it one rather than the other makes no difference. La magie is a supple thing, powerful yet pliant, adaptable to many forms and uses. Smell. Sound. Sight. Touch. Even taste can be used if the practitioner is sufficiently schooled. For the Roussels, it is touch and the ability to channel a person’s story—one’s echoes—through our fingertips.
When it comes to spells—and to happiness—there is no such thing as one size fits all. Good magick, effective magick, is about knowing your client’s story, who they are and how they live their lives, what makes them tick. To be effective, you must get at the truth.