Ambition could twist easily into ruthlessness, and if her mother had ever struggled to fit the Cunnington family mold the way Calladia did, there was no sign of it now. Cunningtons had always been socialites and politicians, as judgmental as they were influential.
“My tone is fine,” Calladia said. “Especially considering I’m nearly thirty years old and you no longer supervise my every action.”
She despised the defensive edge to her words. No matter how much time passed, she still felt like a rebellious teenager, and with the stress of the day wearing at her, Calladia was slipping into old patterns.
Hecate, this house. It scratched at her like one of the poofy dresses she’d been forced to wear growing up. It was straight out of a magazine spread, all silk and brocade, silver and crystal, gray and blue and cream. The Spark family home across the street had also been oppressive for Mariel growing up, but at least that hodgepodge monstrosity had character. The Cunnington home felt like a frozen lake.
Calladia thought of sunshine yellow walls and golden wood, and the loss of her home stabbed her in the gut again.
“How did you antagonize this demon into exploding your house?” Cynthia asked.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Calladia protested. “He thought I was sheltering a rival demon. No idea where he got that from.”
Telling the truth was out of the question. There was no way Cynthia would approve of harboring a demon, especially since a different demon—Oz—had accidentally nearly electrocuted her at the last town hall.
“If he heard that rumor, others may have as well. Is anyone else aware of the situation?” Cynthia grabbed her smartphone and started typing, no doubt some message to her beleaguered assistant, who was tasked with everything from procuring exotic potion ingredients to crafting social media responses to emergent crises. Crises such as family members pissing off demons, apparently.
“I mean, probably,” Calladia said. “Considering all the smoke and fire.” As explosions went, it hadn’t been subtle.
“No, I mean, does anyone know it was an attack, not an accident?” Cynthia’s thumbs stilled on her phone, and she looked up. If Calladia’s announcement had temporarily stunned her, she was back in action, the crafty expression on her face indicating an upcoming bout of scheming. “Then again, that could be a compelling campaign trail narrative. An underhanded attack against my daughter, no doubt funded by a rival candidate—”
Calladia shot to her feet, outraged. “Do not twist the destruction of my house into propaganda. You aren’t even up for reelection for two years.”
“It’s never too early to start planning.” Cynthia typed more, then set the phone aside. She clasped her hands in her lap and widened her blue eyes in a sympathetic expression that made Calladia’s teeth itch. That look was normally turned on unwitting constituents. “I understand this must have been upsetting, Calladia, but every setback carries an opportunity if you can control the message.”
Calladia focused on regulating her breathing. Her mother sounded so earnest, like she was imparting essential wisdom to a beloved daughter. It was an act she’d gotten eerily good at since deciding to run for public office, and Calladia hated the mask even more than she hated her mother’s overt disapproval. “I don’t want to control a message,” Calladia said. “I want to get some supplies from the basement and leave.”
“Leave and go where?” Cynthia looked confused. “The guest room is available.”
The guest room had once been Calladia’s bedroom, not that there was any evidence of it now. The soccer posters and athletic trophies had vanished while she’d been away for her first semester at college, and the daisy-patterned bedspread had been replaced with a plain cream comforter. The carpet that had borne witness to a young witch’s mishaps—burn marks, caked-on wax, spices ground into the fibers—had been ripped out and replaced with hardwood.
Calladia hadn’t stayed in the guest room since college. The sanitized version of her childhood bedroom only reminded her that her mother would sanitize her if she could.
“Thank you, but no,” Calladia said. “I just need some of my things from storage.”
Cynthia sighed and rose to her feet, smoothing her already smooth skirt. “I don’t understand why you insist on being spiteful. After all I’ve done—”
“What have you done?” Calladia demanded, the thin thread of her restraint snapping. “Other than constantly shame me for not turning out exactly like you.”