Chapter Text
The first time Cordelia Goode meets Misty Day, she can’t see her.
Well, she can see her, through the fragments of her mind’s eye, but she can’t really see her. She can see the images in her head that flash before her scarred eyelids of what Misty Day saw when she was burned at the stake. She can briefly recall the old picture that was plastered across newspapers once she’d gone missing. She can see bits, fragments, and that’s the only way she can put a blurry, unclear face to the name.
“You’re Misty Day,” she murmurs, her hand still clasped between the younger witch’s own. “You were burned at the stake.”
She doesn’t get to witness the girl’s reaction, when she tells her that she’s safe now. That she’ll be protected here. That places like this academy were made for people like Misty Day.
But she can feel the relief that floods Misty’s body, surging from her chest through her fingertips as she squeezes Cordelia’s hand tighter.
“Thank you, really,” the girl gasps with a southern twang. “Can my friend stay, also?”
And suddenly, just like that, the closest person to a mother Cordelia has ever had is back and in her arms again, and things are good. Myrtle Snow is back in the coven; and this Misty Day has brought her back.
Cordelia doesn’t think she has it in her heart to thank her enough.
“Mornin’, Miss Cordelia.”
The closeness of the voice behind her, piercing the ever-so-peaceful silence Cordelia has grown to enjoy in the mornings, makes the headmistress gasp and drop the cup of coffee she’s only just begun to pour.
“Misty,” she gasps, stepping away from the counter, away from the liquid that had just begun to creep down the front of her skirt. “Goodness, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry,” the younger witch says, and Cordelia can feel hair brush against her calves, can hear the clinking of the ceramic mug against the porcelain tile of the kitchen floor. “Didn’t mean to scare ya,” the girl continues, her voice lower now, and Cordelia assumes she’s cleaning up the mess.
Cordelia bends down, carefully, grasping at the cabinets to ensure she’s steady as she fumbles for a rag hanging from the oven, trying her best to blot it over the liquid settling on the tile.
“It isn’t your fault. I’m not used to company this early in the morning,” she admits as she wipes at the cool tile. “The girls enjoy their beauty sleep.”
“And you don’t enjoy yours?” Misty asks casually, reaching over to toss the broken shards of the mug into the garbage.
“I like the quiet of the morning,” Cordelia shrugs, wiping the last of the spill up with the cotton cloth.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” the girl murmurs, with that same sweet, southern twang, and Cordelia frowns.
“No, no, Misty,” Cordelia soothes, reaching out and finding the younger girl’s hand, clasping them in hers. “You didn’t. I’m glad you’re here.”
There’s silence, and Cordelia wonders if she’s smiling, wonders if she’s concerned. It’s one of the things she misses about being able to see. She can’t read body language anymore, and she doesn’t know if she’s said the wrong thing.
“Thank you,” Misty murmurs quietly, her calloused hands squeezing Cordelia’s in a way that Cordelia could only describe as hopeful. “It’s just- it’s been a long journey, to get here. If here is where I’m s’posed to be.”
“This house was built for people like you, Misty. Girls with certain abilities. Yours are just as special as any of theirs,” Cordelia insists as she tries to steady her hands, tries to naturally fumble for the coffee pot again. She’s not used to this. Her own kitchen feels like a strange place. Nothing seems familiar, and the added pressure of a new witch watching her just makes her fumble a little more. She tries to shrug off the feeling that she’s being judged.
Misty doesn’t comment again, not after Cordelia finishes, but Cordelia does hear the sound of coffee being poured. Mugs clink, liquid pools, and before she knows it, a warm mug is being gently pressed into her hand.
“Here. Don’t know how you take it, figured you might like yours black.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Cordelia tries not to make too much of the gesture. It’s coffee, she should be perfectly capable of pouring herself a cup of coffee, she shouldn't need anyone’s help. She’s the headmistress, for heaven's sake. Who was supposed to take care of the girls if she couldn’t even make herself coffee in the morning?
“It’s no trouble. I was makin’ myself a cup anyways,” Misty drawls again, and Cordelia relaxes a little at that.
A silence passes between them as Cordelia takes a grateful sip of the warm liquid, feeling her nerves diminish as the heat fills her belly. She’d take this in strides.
It would get easier.
“Do you think,” Misty begins, her voice pulling Cordelia from her thoughts. “Later, do you think you could show me around the house a bit? Zoe said to make myself at home, but my momma raised me polite, well most of the time, and I hate feelin’ like i’m intrudin’ on a strange space,” Misty finishes. Cordelia can hear the slight twinge of insecurity in her tone. It reminds her of her own, the one she reserves for Fiona. It hits too close to home.
“Of course. Let me finish this coffee, and we’ll get started.”
Water splashes on Cordelia’s blouse for the third time in the last hour, and she bites her lip to hold back a few choice words.
It’s not like there’s an instructor there with her, showing her how to be blind, she thinks bitterly as she reaches for the towel discarded on a table in the greenhouse, patting her shirt with it as gingerly as she can. She can’t tell if it’s stained- can only feel the fabric clinging to her stomach.
She sighs, and her shoulders droop as she leans against the table and tries to collect herself.
It’s harder than Cordelia had expected it would be. She can’t even water her fucking plants.
“Cordelia, dear, breathe.”
It’s Myrtle’s voice- of course Myrtle has come, seeking her out, and Cordelia wants to be frustrated, but she can’t. Myrtle is the only thing close to a mother that she’s had, and right now all she really needs is the comforting warmth that family can provide.
“I can’t,” she chokes, trying to fight off the floodgates from opening. When she feels frail arms around her, she sinks into them, feeling some of the tension lift from her shoulders.
“You’ll learn, Delia. You’ll blossom into this new gift like a beautiful flower, and you’ll grow stronger than ever before,” Myrtle insists, rubbing circles on her back.
“It’s not a gift,” Cordelia mutters in spite, shutting her eyes, not that it made a difference, and letting her head rest completely on Myrtle’s shoulder. “I’m weaker than ever before. I don’t know how I’m supposed to take care of this coven in the state I’m in. Those girls would be better off without me, now.”
“You know that isn’t true, my sweet girl,” Myrtle soothes, her hands running through Cordelia’s golden locks. “This is a challenge, and you’re a Goode, despite what name your marriage to that dreadful man has given you. You’ll rise above it all.”
Cordelia wants to believe her. She just doesn’t know if she can.
Misty’s settled in. In fact, she’s grown comfortable enough around the house that one day, Cordelia ventures out to the greenhouse and finds a familiar voice humming in the humid room.
“Misty?” The headmistress calls, her forehead slightly crinkling. She’d shown Misty the greenhouse, of course, but hadn’t mentioned much about it otherwise. The younger girl had been excited, having grown her own garden back in the swamp where she came from, but she hadn’t mentioned it again since.
“Oh, Miss Cordelia!”
Misty’s voice is bright and cheery, resembling the younger witch’s personality all too well. Over the two weeks Misty has stayed at the academy, Cordelia’s learned quite a few things about the necromancer. She was a blunt person, that southern accent never doing enough to hide how she felt about anyone or anything, and she had a heart of gold. Her honesty always surprised Cordelia, especially when it was about the other girls of the coven. (So far, Misty and Madison weren’t getting along all that well. )
“I hope you don’t mind,” the girl drawls, and Cordelia can hear her voice getting closer, footsteps approaching. “I just couldn’t help myself. It’s so beautiful outside today, and I was missin’ my garden an awful lot, and your greenhouse, it was just singin’ to me. I get real bored without tendin’ to my plants, and I haven’t been down there in a while.”
“You’re absolutely welcome to whatever you’d like in here, Misty,” Cordelia reassures her without a second thought. How foolish of her not to invite Misty in sooner. Of course the witch had a flaming green thumb, her powers allowed her to resurrect the dead.
“Thank you, Miss Cordelia,” Misty murmurs again, and Cordelia feels a hand glide down her arm, squeezing her hand quickly. She smiles, squeezing Misty’s back.
“Your plants, they’re real pretty. Healthy, too,” Misty continues, and Cordelia can hear her busying herself around the greenhouse. “You take good care of ‘em.”
“I try to,” Cordelia replies, letting her hand trail along the table until she found her bearings and leaned against the wood for support. “It’s a little more difficult, now. Pruning them, gathering what I need for my potions, it all requires precision that I’m afraid I just don’t have yet without my sight.”
Some of the other girls in the house liked to steer clear of the topic of her blindness, like it was a dirty word. Like it was more comfortable for everyone else to pretend it didn’t exist. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a dirty word, and Cordelia wasn’t ashamed she’d lost her vision, she was just upset she couldn’t enjoy life the way she used to. Having to listen to her girls dance around the subject and treat her like she was fragile didn’t help. However, Misty had never given her the same response the other girls had, and she appreciated it more than Misty probably knew.
“Well, you can use my eyes anytime you’d like,” Misty offers, and Cordelia laughs at the implication. “I’d still prefer to keep ‘em in my head, of course. And I don’t have a real delicate touch, growin’ up where I did and all, but I’d be happy to help. Zoe speaks real high of your potions out here. I’d like to learn ‘em.”
“You cared for your own garden. I’m sure you’ll know exactly what to do,” Cordelia reassures her. “However, it takes a lot of tedious work. I don’t expect-”
“None of that expectin’ business,'' Misty interrupts, her light, airy tone instantly putting Cordelia at ease. “I want to help. This is probably the only kind of magic I like doin’.”
“I suppose as headmistress I shouldn’t try to discourage you from practicing magic,” Cordelia laughs, giving into the younger girl’s friendly persistence. “I’d be happy for you to join me out here, Misty. We can start now, if you’d like that.”
“I would.”
Cordelia can hear the smile in her voice- she just can’t see it. She wonders, briefly, what Misty looks like, when she smiles.
The thought passes as soon as Misty’s voice breaks her free from it; inquiring about the abilities of one of her more exotic succulents in the corner. It’s one of the ones she’d planned on propagating and using in a potion, one of the ones she’d been unable to do herself.
Cordelia smiles, breathing in the earthy air of her greenhouse.
It’s nice to be back where she belongs.
It’s not all fun and games. It takes Cordelia a few more days to realize Misty’s struggling just as much as she is.
It’s a cool summer night, the sun is just setting and Cordelia has missed being able to see the colors spreading across the sky. She’s sitting on the porch swing with Misty, listening to the young witch excitedly talk about the swirls of pink across the dusky horizon, and she feels her heart sink a little at the memory of all the sunsets she’d seen before she lost her sight. She wonders if she’ll ever see a sunset again.
“Miss Cordelia, you would’ve loved the sky back at my swamp,” Misty continues to gush, and Cordelia can feel the swing bounce underneath them a bit from the other girl’s excitement. “I was right out on the river, I would just sit out there, on the dock, and watch the sunset across the water and the sky. Felt like I was in my own little world down there. It was real nice.”
“That sounds beautiful, Misty,” Cordelia replies, trying to force a smile. She wonders what she looks like in Misty’s eyes. She wonders how scarred the skin around her eyes is, if it makes it difficult for the younger witch to look at her. Do any of them look at her anymore?
“What’s wrong?”
The innocent question pulls her from her thoughts and for a moment Cordelia curses her own self-pity. It’s a beautiful night, Misty is clearly enjoying herself, and all Cordelia can focus on is her own problems.
“Nothing,” Cordelia lies, trying to push aside herself for a moment to focus on the present. “I was just trying to imagine the sky tonight.”
It’s not entirely a lie, but it still makes her feel guilty when Misty shifts closer to her on the swing, like she’s finally getting serious.
“Well, it’s gettin’ darker out, but there’s still some pink streaks,” Misty explains, and Cordelia does close her eyes, now, trying to imagine the picture Misty is painting with her words. “It’s kind of that dark blue-grey all over the sky now, but you know those trees on the edge of the fence, above those there’s still a few slivers of pink. That real hot pink, you know, not the faded kind. Back home, when the sky looked like this, my momma used to tell me, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.”
“I haven’t heard that before,” Cordelia says, tilting her head as she ponders the phrase.
“She had a lotta strange sayin’s like that one. All it meant was that a pretty sunset meant a nice day ahead tomorrow. Never bought much into it myself, but she was damn near never wrong.”
“She sounds like a nice woman,” Cordelia offers, and suddenly feels like it’s the wrong thing to have said when the swing stops rocking.
‘She was."
In that moment, Cordelia realizes she doesn’t know anything about Misty’s family, and a million questions flood her head. She knows Misty was burned at the stake and that her family made a few announcements asking for the city’s help searching for their daughter. A part of her wondered why Misty had never mentioned going back to her family, telling them she was alive, that she was safe. Maybe it wasn’t something Misty wanted to go back to.
“I loved her an awful lot,” Misty says, next, like she’s reading Cordelia’s mind, and she ends the sentence with a choked up sob.
“Oh, Misty.”
Thoughts about her own blindness are gone as Cordelia’s natural instincts take over and she scoots closer to the young witch on the wooden swing, turning slightly and wrapping her arms around the girl’s shoulders. She’s just doing what feels natural; doesn’t think about it much, doesn’t realize that she’s never hugged Misty before and wonders if she’s the kind of person who likes that.
But her instinct seems to pay off, because Misty practically melts into her arms. A mess of blonde curls is launched into her arms, and Cordelia turns her head accordingly, nestling her head in Misty’s neck as the younger girl rests hers on Cordelia’s shoulder. Misty’s body is trembling lightly, like she’s trying to fight off tears. Cordelia knows the feeling all too well.
It’s the wrong time to be thinking about such things, but Cordelia wonders what Misty looks like now more than ever as she holds the young witch and gently rubs her back, rocking her back and forth in a soothing embrace. All she could see with her gift of Sight was blurry images of a young, pale witch in a nightgown being burned alive. Now she knows Misty’s got long, curly hair, knows Misty’s thin but strong. She can feel the muscles of her back, can feel her broad shoulders that her cheek is currently resting on.
“Thank you,” Misty whispers into her neck, in a voice much quieter than the one she normally uses. “Nobody’s ever, I mean…. just, thank you.”
Cordelia doesn’t pry. Right now, she doesn’t feel like she’s meant to, yet. What Misty needs right now is a friend, and Cordelia vows to be that.
She holds Misty tighter against her and shuts her eyes, breathing in the fragrance of lavender and eucalyptus. Whether she’ll admit it to herself or not, it’s been a while since she’s held someone who wasn’t her Aunt Myrtle or her ex husband. It’s nice. It feels good to be needed. Cordelia feels a sense of purpose.
For the first time since she lost her sight, Cordelia forgets how upset she is about it and just lets herself breathe.
They find a routine.
Misty’s an early riser, much like Cordelia always has been herself. The presence of another in the kitchen when she’s making coffee no longer bothers Cordelia, or scares her. In fact, she appreciates the help, though she’ll never say it. It still sounds too shameful to admit that she needs the help in the first place.
Often times, when Cordelia makes her way downstairs right at the brink of dawn, Misty is already downstairs, clinking around cups and plates and humming to herself. Cordelia’s grown to enjoy the sound of her humming. She wonders what Misty would sound like if she sang.
“Mornin’, Miss Cordelia,” is what Misty says every time Cordelia rounds the corner to enter the kitchen, right on cue. Seconds later, a hot cup of coffee is always pressed into her hands.
Misty seems to understand that Cordelia doesn’t have the natural energy the younger witch does. Although they’re both morning people, Misty’s practically bursting at the seams with energy before even touching her coffee. Cordelia doesn’t even think she needs the coffee, but Misty still makes it every morning anyways, sharing her first cup with the headmistress and waking up together in the quiet of the morning.
As she sips her coffee, Cordelia lets herself relax into the chair, listening to the sound of Misty humming from the other end of the kitchen. It’s a familiar tune, a song Cordelia had never listened to before, but had grown to enjoy hearing from Misty’s lips many times in the early morning.
She finds herself quietly humming along, before she even realizes it, and Misty laughs.
“You like Stevie as much as I do?”
This draws a laugh from Cordelia as well- because really, she didn’t think anyone could like Stevie Nicks as much as Misty Day. But, it seems the younger girl is rubbing off on her already.
“To tell you the truth, Misty, I haven’t heard much of her music. You just happen to hum this one quite a bit. It’s catchy.”
“Well, you’re missin’ out. This one’s Rhiannon. One of my favorites. Always felt so free, listenin’ to it back home at the swamp. You ever listen to a song and feel like it’s singin’ to you so much that all you can do is play it over and over again?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Cordelia answers honestly, letting her mug rest on the wooden table for the time being. “I didn’t listen to music much growing up. I always had my nose in a book, and that was distracting enough.”
“What about now, that you can’t read like you used to?”
It’s blunt, but Cordelia doesn’t mind. Misty’s always blunt and Cordelia appreciates that about her. She knows the younger girl well enough by now to know she doesn’t mean it maliciously, she’s just curious. Still, it reminds her of what she’s missing out on, now that she’s lost her sight.
“I suppose I have more time to listen,” Cordelia finally says, trying to calm the bitterness that threatens to find its way into her tone. Misty’s just being nice, just making conversation.
“Well, what did you used to like to read?”
The question lifts Cordelia’s spirit momentarily. “When Fiona brought me here, the only books they had in the library downstairs were the older editions of many classic novels. I used to shut myself off, down in that library, and read with a flashlight for hours on end. Jane Austen’s always been one of my favorite authors. Pride and Prejudice was the first thing I read when I was here.”
“I remember them tryin’ to get us to read that, back in grade school,” Misty comments, and Cordelia hears the sound of a chair being pulled out next to her. A bare foot brushes her own as Misty sits down, adjusting herself to sit cross-legged in the chair. Cordelia can feel the younger girl’s knee poking at her own thigh as she sits properly in her own chair. “I never liked readin’ much. I was real bad at it, at first, and the other kids made fun of me for it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I went home and learned. My momma taught me more than my teacher did. We had a real small school down there, too many kids for the poor teacher all by herself.”
Misty had mentioned her mother again, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Cordelia found herself curious again, about Misty’s mother, about her family, about her previous life. She just didn’t know how to press the question further without seeming insensitive. Funny, that Misty was one of the most upfront, honest people she knew, and she was worried about disrupting her the most.
“May I ask you a personal question, Misty?”
“Course you can. We’re friends, aren’t we?” The younger girl laughs, and a pleasantly warm feeling fades through Cordelia’s body. Friends. Her girls didn’t often call her that, they had other choice words for her at times, but Misty seemed to acknowledge her as something entirely different than just a headmistress.
“Does your family know you’re alive now?”
The room goes quiet. Cordelia can only hear the slight creaking of wood as Misty sits restlessly in the chair besides hers. She feels the knee Misty has pressed against her thigh stiffen.
She wonders if she should’ve kept the question to herself.
“They don’t,” Misty replies, and it’s in a much quieter tone than she normally uses. “Didn’t think it would do them much good to know, bein’ that they were part of the church that burned me alive.”
Cordelia swallows hard. She can still see it when she touches Misty, sometimes- she can see it in an oh-so-blurry vision, a young girl’s arms being strung up on an old construction crane with tree branches underneath, soaked in gasoline. It’s a crude way to go. She wonders if Misty knows she can hear her crying out her last words.
“Your own family did that to you?”
“Well, they weren’t there that night. But it was all their friends, all the people who’d practically been raisin’ me alongside them. I don’t think they would’a stopped ‘em if they were there.”
“I take it they didn’t know about your magic, then.”
Misty shrugs, and Cordelia feels her knee start shifting again. She takes her hand from where it’s clasped primly on the table and places it on Misty’s knee gently, letting her fingers rub soothing circles into the smooth skin. They’re friends, now.
“Nah, they didn’t. My brother did, maybe. But mom an’ dad, I didn’t tell ‘em. You know, that church, I loved it so much growin’ up. Always made me feel so welcome, and it’s where I met every friend I ever had. I just couldn’t help myself out there, I had to bring that bird back to life,” Misty explains, and Cordelia nods, because she’s trying to see what Misty’s seeing, now.
She can see the silhouette of curls in the sun, a long, yellow dress, hovering over a dead bird in the grass. She can see the bird’s wings begin to flutter, can see the magic pouring out of Misty as she resurrects the creature.
She can see the shadows of bystanders, flocking towards her.
“They didn’t like that much. Thought I was some sort of AntiChrist devil-worshipper,” Misty explained, and Cordelia can hear her voice crack. “You know, cause all the signs in the Bible, of the end times. All they could see was the demons raisin’ up the dead to try and prove they’re Christ himself. But all I wanted to do was just bring that poor innocent creature back to life.”
Cordelia waits, not wanting to interrupt. Misty hasn’t opened up like this before, not to her. She wonders if she has to anyone else. This is too much to bottle up.
“I don’t hate ‘em, Miss Cordelia,” Misty finishes, her voice holding the weight of a thousand words. “It was just awful, feelin’ my skin burn off my body like that,” she croaks, and next thing Cordelia knows, there’s a hand encompassing the one she’d placed reassuringly on Misty’s thigh, and a head of soft curls has laid on her shoulder.
This is the second time they’ve really hugged, not that Cordelia is counting. It’s just that she’s never been a very touchy person, not even with Hank. Misty, however, seems very tactile, seems to welcome any touch, no matter how small.
So Cordelia leans into it, lets her fingers curl around Misty’s hand, lets her shoulder support Misty’s head and rests her own head on top of it. She sits, quietly, with Misty like that, not wanting to push her any farther, not wanting to worsen the situation. Already, Cordelia feels guilty for bringing the topic up. It wasn’t her place, after all. It wasn’t anyone’s, really.
They sit like that as the early morning sun begins to flicker in through the dusty windows. As the time passes, Cordelia allows herself to feel angry, feels that familiar bitterness rise in her chest, but it’s not directed to her sight. The scalding feeling latches onto the thoughts of Misty’s own family knowing her fate, wraps itself around the fact that they knew and didn’t stop it, and boils.
Misty relaxes into her further, tucked into her side, and Cordelia watches the vision flash through her eyes again at the touch.
Sometimes, the gift of Sight feels more like a burden.
“What’s your favorite flower, Miss Cordelia?”
They’re working in the greenhouse together late one night, and Misty’s been buzzing around, full of questions. Very few of them were related to the actual spell they were supposed to be focusing on, but Cordelia found that she didn’t seem to mind one bit. She enjoyed the company. It gave her some sense of normalcy in the midst of the haze she’d been in for the past month.
“Hmm. Asking the tough questions now, are we?” She laughs, and hears Misty giggle in appreciation. The sound is pretty; her southern accent still manages to come out even without words. Cordelia finds the laughter contagious.
“It’s hard to narrow down,” Cordelia finally says, patiently grinding down the herbs Misty has helped her gather in an old wooden bowl. “A flower used in arrangements?”
“Sure. Whatever you think is the prettiest,” Misty replies, continuing to fuss around the seedlings that Cordelia had also requested they pot today.
“There’s nothing more classic than a rose,” Cordelia decides as she carefully slides the ground herbs in the bottom of the bowl into a small container, joining the others she’d ground in the last hour. “Simple, but I do find them beautiful.”
“And?”
“Well, what makes you think there’s an ‘and’?”
“Just seems like you’re holdin’ your tongue,” Misty shrugs, and Cordelia’s lips curl up in a smile.
“I suppose I prefer sunflowers to roses,” Cordelia admits as she reaches for another sprig of rosemary. “I always enjoyed them when they grew in the backyard garden in the summer. But Hank always brought me roses. It’s traditional.”
“Who’s Hank?” Misty asks casually, and Cordelia realizes that in the few weeks she’s known Misty, she hasn’t thought to mention her soon-to-be ex husband once.
“He was my husband,” Cordelia reveals, unsure why she feels so ashamed to say those words. She doesn’t offer any additional information, and it’s quiet for a moment.
“Was?”
Cordelia can’t read the younger girl’s tone. It’s only a word, but she somehow feels like she’s judging her. Logically, Cordelia knows it’s ridiculous to assume, but after growing up with a mother like Fiona she’s learned to assume the worst.
“He slept with another woman,” Cordelia says shortly. She tries to hide the nagging anxiety that rises low in her stomach as the words leave her lips. A month ago, and it still feels so surreal.
Before she knows it, a comforting hand is placed on her shoulder. She can feel a presence behind her from where she’s sitting on the stool- Misty’s behind her, the ends of her curly hair just brushing Cordelia’s shoulder.
“I’m real sorry,” the younger girl offers, and her voice sounds sympathetic. Cordelia relaxes, but only a little.
“I shouldn’t have asked. Not my place, but I am awful sorry, Miss Cordelia,” Misty continues, her hand rubbing comforting circles on Cordelia’s shoulder as she talks. “That ain’t no way to treat a lady. His momma didn’t raise him right.”
Suddenly- Cordelia doesn’t know where it comes from- the urge to laugh bubbles up in her chest, and she doesn’t resist. She laughs, biting her lip and lolling her head forward. Misty’s voice just sounds so innocent, so caring and so kind. It makes the whole situation seem like something to laugh over. Briefly, she wonders if she sounds crazy, but she doesn’t quite think Misty would care.
“Misty, you can call me Cordelia. Like you said, we’re friends. It is your place,” Cordelia insists, wiping the corner of her eye with her sleeve as she quiets down. She means it, too. She doesn’t want Misty to feel like she has to be so formal around her- Misty’s quickly becoming a close friend and the last thing she wants the younger girl to see her as is a strict headmistress ordering her around the greenhouse.
Luckily enough, Misty doesn’t seem too put off by her outburst of laughter. Cordelia hears the other witch laugh as well, and the comforting hand on her shoulder squeezes.
“Well, I’m real glad to have someone like you as a friend,” Misty admits after the laughter dies down a bit, and her voice sounds nothing but genuine.
Doing simple tasks around the house has decidedly become much harder without her vision, Cordelia thinks, but she’s not as bitter about it as she originally was. She’s adjusting, slowly but surely. And she’s become more determined recently to try and get back to some kind of normalcy.
Misty’s helped, she thinks to herself, as she opens the dishwasher, fumbling across the upper rack to ensure it’s been emptied. She hasn’t treated her differently at all. Mainly because she didn’t know her before she’d lost her sight. Regardless, it’s nice.
The dish nearly slips out of Cordelia’s hand as she tries to place it in the rack, and she curses under her breath. Luck was on her side, but she doesn’t know for how long. It’s not like she has to do the dishes- they’ve got staff for that, and she tries to have the girls clean up after themselves as well, tries to raise them up right like that. But Cordelia enjoys helping out once in a while- it reminds her that she’s not her mother- and honestly, right now, she just wants to prove to herself that she can help out.
Focused, Cordelia smoothly takes a cup from the sink and places it in the upper racking. She tries not to overthink each action. Blind or not, she closes her eyes. It helps, sometimes. It makes it feel like it’s her choice to shut them, like she’s not blinking furiously, eyes darting around the room but seeing nothing.
It’s different in the greenhouse, with Misty. She doesn’t shut her eyes often. At times, she gets self-conscious about what her burned eyes must look like to the younger witch, but she’s learned not to let it bother her. Misty’s always very tactile, with absolutely no understanding of the term “personal space” and Cordelia doesn’t mind at all. The years in an isolated shack have made Misty crave human touch, and truth be told, Cordelia misses it as well. She’s glad they’ve managed to find it with each other.
As Cordelia picks up another dish, carefully, she lets her mind wander through thoughts of Misty again. She’s quickly become a close friend, and she’s never even seen her before. Often, Cordelia finds herself wondering what she looks like. Not that it matters. Misty’s her friend, and that would never change based on appearance, but still, Cordelia doesn’t know why she’s so curious to know. She knows she has long, wavy hair, knows she’s strong- Cordelia can feel the muscle built up from years of hard work on the other girl’s shoulders and back- and that’s about all she knows.
She wonders what color Misty’s eyes are. She wonders if she’s got light hair, or dark. She wonders if she’s tan from all the time spent in the sun, or fair-skinned like Cordelia herself is. She wonders-
“She’s pretty.”
Cordelia drops the plate she’s holding.
“Damn it, Nan!” She curses, bending down to try and pick up the shards that have scattered across the floor. “You frightened me.”
The shorter witch makes her way into the kitchen, and Cordelia hears her fumbling with the broom. The headmistress leans back on her heels, letting out an exasperated sigh.
“Sorry. But you were thinking too loudly. I couldn’t read my book,” Nan explains as the bristles of the broom brush over the tiled floor. “Misty’s pretty. So you can stop wondering.”
“I- I wasn’t wondering,” Cordelia insists, and she’s sure that her cheeks are flushed. Why? Why does she feel like a little girl caught looking at inappropriate magazines by her parents?
“Yes you were. I could hear it. She has blonde hair and hazel eyes. She’s a few inches taller than you and she’s got strong features. She’s really pretty, and I think Madison gets jealous sometimes, because she’s pretty in a different way than Madison is,” Nan explains as she dumps the contents of the dustpan into the trash bin.
“It doesn’t- I wasn’t wondering if she’s pretty. I just couldn’t picture her, that’s all,” Cordelia defends herself, her mind already swimming with what Nan’s told her. What did she mean, pretty in a different way than Madison? Madison was the Hollywood model of perfection, Cordelia knew that, but her mean-spirited personality had shone through too much for Cordelia liking. Misty had a kind heart, and Cordelia suspected that already made her more beautiful than Madison ever was.
“I can hear you, Cordelia,” Nan reminds her, frustration seeping into her tone. “I just want to read. Stop thinking about her.”
And just like that, Nan is gone, and Cordelia feels the room has grown much warmer. She sits down at the table, trying to catch her breath. Why does it suddenly feel difficult? What is the lingering tightness in her chest?
Cordelia gets up and closes the dishwasher. She doesn’t feel like doing them anymore.
“Delia! Delia, you gotta hear about this!”
Cordelia’s sitting in her office, pondering how on earth she’s going to get through all of these applications without being able to read a single one of them, when Misty comes barreling through the door. She’s not sure when Misty started calling her Delia. Maybe right around when she stopped calling her Miss Cordelia.
“Maddi came home with this.”
An item is thrust into her hands, and suddenly she can smell that sweet, earthy scent that accompanies Misty wherever she goes. It distracts her so much that she forgets she’s holding something until she’s given an enthusiastic nudge from the younger girl.
“Delia, come on, we ain’t got all day!”
Laughing softly, Cordelia lets her fingers roam across the item, feeling the paper-thin edges and the smooth finish. She finds an edge of the package and dips a finger inside, nodding in recognition when she feels the edge of a vinyl record inside the cover.
“Madison went to a record store?”
“Oh, so everybody in this damn house knew and didn’t ever think to mention it to me, it bein right down in town and all?” Misty’s voice is meant to sound annoyed, but Cordelia can hear the humor behind it. She smiles in spite of herself.
“Do you have a record player, Misty?”
“I did when I was a kid, back at my old house. I never went back to get it though, after all that happened. Just had that CD player in the swamp,” Misty explains, and Cordelia’s sitting, but she swears she can feel Misty’s hair just brushing her shoulders, she’s so close. “I love them so much, Delia, it’s like you can feel the music scratchin’ in the air.”
“I believe I’ve got an old one here somewhere,” Cordelia offers, placing the record on the desk in front of her and standing from her chair, intent on beginning the search for her old record player. “You’re welcome to use it if you’d like.”
“Wait, really?”
Cordelia nods, beginning to turn around, but she’s stopped by strong arms that tug her backwards and wrap around her waist firmly, pulling their bodies together. Cordelia gasps at the touch and nearly stumbles, but Misty’s chest is against her back, holding her steady, before she can say a thing.
Misty’s practically shaking with excitement and it has Cordelia smiling from ear to ear. She didn’t expect Misty to be as tall as she is. Cordelia isn’t wearing her heels right now, and the difference between them seems more pronounced. Her head falls back on Misty’s shoulder, surrounded by blonde curls. Misty’s thin, but she’s strong, her sinewy arms cradling Cordelia carefully as she sways them back and forth.
“Misty,” she laughs, slightly embarrassed at the playful way Misty’s holding her. It feels nice, being held like that, it’s been so long since she has been held.
“You’re amazing, Delia,” Misty’s gushing now, her arms squeezing around Cordelia’s waist, her breath hot on Cordelia’s ear. She leans back, lifts the headmistress up just an inch off the ground, laughs as she tries to spin them around.
“Misty!” Cordelia gasps again, unable to stop herself from giggling as she clutches at the younger witch’s arms, trying to stabilize herself as she feels her feet leave the ground. The thought brushes across her mind, briefly, that she can’t see, that she should be scared. It leaves as quickly as it arrives, pushed out by the giddy feeling of the air moving around them, and Cordelia barely even gives it notice.
“That’s my record, Swampy,” Madison’s voice echoes across the office, and Cordelia feels her happiness come to a screeching halt. Misty doesn’t seem too troubled by the voice, slowing her movements and gently lowering Cordelia to the ground, her arms still lingering around the headmistress’s waist. Cordelia instantly steps away as soon as she feels the floorboards under her toes. She straightens her skirt, feeling her hands shake slightly. Fumbling with the edge of the desk to guide her, she steps around to the side of it, putting some distance between herself and the younger witch.
“I was just showin’ Delia. No need to be rude about it,” Misty fires back, and Cordelia hears the sound of the record being snatched off the top of the desk.
“Yeah, I can see that. I didn’t think you played favorites, Delia,” Madison shoots at Cordelia, and the way she says the nickname is dripping with sarcasm. Like she should be ashamed that Misty calls her that. It dawns on Cordelia suddenly, that Misty is the only one to call her that, save for her dearest friend Myrtle. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but the way Misty says it seems different somehow.
“Don’t argue, girls.” Her tone is clipped, and she’s fully aware that she’s addressing both Madison and Misty like students. “Misty’s right. There’s no need to be rude.”
“Of course you agree with her. Get a room,” Madison spits, and Cordelia can hear the clicking of her heels as she exits the room, most likely holding the record in her arms.
“She’s always got a stick up her ass,” Misty grumbles, and Cordelia swears she can feel the room get a little lighter since Madison left.
“Don’t let her bother you. She does this to everyone,” Cordelia reminds Misty, hoping to appease her. She doesn’t like hearing the other girl’s voice take on such a sad note.
“She’s a real bitch to everyone, but she’s plain nasty to me,” Misty complains, and Cordelia hears the sound of her office chair creaking as Misty settles into it. “Treats me like I’m trash cause of where I came from.”
“There is nothing wrong with where you came from, Misty,” Cordelia insists a little more firmly this time.
“I know that, but it still bothers me that girls like her look down on people like me,” Misty mutters. “I just wanted to show you the damn record, I wasn’t tryin’ to take it from her. It wasn’t even Stevie. She didn’t have to treat me like that.”
Cordelia’s heart aches in her chest, and the urge to soothe Misty in whatever way she can is nearly uncontrollable. The poor girl has had enough pain in her life, she thinks. She’ll do whatever she can to prevent more from striking.
“I think I know which record store she bought hers from,” Cordelia says suddenly, stepping away from the desk and reaching towards her chair, finding Misty’s shoulder and placing her hand there to steady herself and gain the younger girl’s attention. “Why don’t we go? I’m sure they have Stevie’s records.”
“You’d take me?”
Her voice sounds so hopeful, so innocent, and for some reason it makes Cordelia’s heart ache a little more. She swallows hard, hoping her face doesn’t reflect that rush of emotion she’s feeling now.
For some reason, in that moment, Cordelia knows she'll never be able to say no to Misty Day. It doesn't bother her. She's found a friend in a stranger, found purpose in a dark time of her life. She may not be able to see her, but Misty has already brightened up her world more than she'd ever imagined. She only hopes to return the favor as their time together passes.
“Of course.”