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"You seem concerned, Ms. Spellman."
Even in the face of what amounts to astonishingly blasé indifference, Hilda will gamely uphold her sweetly accommodating nature (You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, her mother used to announce reproachfully, typically in the midst of rebuking a young Zelda for being overly standoffish or aloof, but Hilda was always sure of her sister's tremendous heart and underlying tenderness). That said, this not being the first time she's made Mary Wardwell's rather unpleasant acquaintance, it appears to Hilda that the other woman is simply rude, not to mention remarkably passive-aggressive and cold as the Greendale air at the peak of midwinter. Although the ink is barely dry on her promotion to principal, Wardwell's already exhibiting a dire need to treat the Baxter High community with considerably more tact.
"I am concerned, Ms. Wardwell, yes," Hilda answers more meekly than she'd intended; despite engaging in extensive mental rehearsals prior to their conversation, she's finding it hard to get the words out. "Something is… different about Sabrina."
"Well, of course it is." Wardwell seems positively tickled by the prospect that a woman of Hilda's age and station could be fretting over such a trifling matter. "She had her Dark Baptism; that changes a girl."
The manner in which Wardwell regards her leaves Hilda with the distinct suspicion that the other woman somehow knows exactly what she went through in the wake of her own Dark Baptism, how her body reacted to the newfound sense of satanic purpose coursing through her veins by flooding itself with arousal for weeks on end - a decidedly awkward turn of events that led to innumerable sweaty nights during which sleep felt entirely incumbent upon making herself climax while her sister lay quietly in their shared bedroom, pretending not to notice or care. However, Hilda reminds herself, her sense that Wardwell can see right through her likely stems from little more than paranoia. After all, how could a rank-and-file witch hailing from out of state have even the slightest awareness of something that had happened more than a century ago, to which only the two sisters were privy?
"Um, yes, but I… hm," Hilda sputters, tripping over the words in her haste to push forward with the conversation and move past her discomfort in the process. She's dismayed to find that she can't quite seem to stop herself from squirming under the weight of Wardwell's disturbingly piercing gaze. "I suppose my worry is that these changes coming over Sabrina are a prelude to further, darker changes."
This is the first time she's actually voiced her concern aloud, and hearing it enter the ether prompts her fear for her niece to spike anew. She feels stricken by the force of it, squeezed like a vice, but although her anguish must be tangible, the principal appears wholly unmoved.
"What, precisely, would you like me to do about it?" Wardwell inquires none too kindly. There's an air to the question that implies she's being kept from much more pressing engagements, and she's apparently blissfully unaware of Hilda's outright refusal to succumb to intimidation when anything remotely related to her niece's well-being is on the line.
"Well, I…" Hilda somehow summons the will to stop wringing her hands. "I understand that you excused her from her classes at Baxter High, so I was just wondering if you might suggest she come back, I mean, at least part-time."
Wardwell's eyes languidly meander across the impressive array of detritus covering her desk, sweeping over books and papers and myriad tchotchkes before eventually coming to rest upon a clunky-looking magnifying glass with a carved wooden handle. She stares at it intently for a few seconds, then blinks.
"See, I think it would perhaps temper the changes Sabrina's going through," Hilda continues doggedly despite her less than captive audience, "and I believe her mortal friends would keep her - and objects around her - grounded."
Wardwell glances up as if she's surprised Hilda's still there and counters airily, "If she wants to attend the academy full-time, that is her Satan-given right, and there's nothing either of us can do to stop her." Her tone is calm and factual and not unlike the one she might use to patiently explain an unfortunate reality to a child who simply doesn't understand the way things work just yet. Needless to say, Hilda feels thoroughly patronized. "Now, if there's nothing further, Ms. Spellman..."
"There is," Hilda retorts vehemently, and it's unclear which of them is more startled by her sudden temerity.
"Is something else the matter?" Wardwell asks with a barely concealed sigh. When she raises her eyebrows in mock sincerity, a potent mix of rage and embarrassment announces its fiery presence on Hilda's cheeks.
"I'm concerned about my niece," Hilda reiterates, matching the other woman's tone. As a plume of irritation unfurls itself within her, her words tumble out in a rush of courage: "And to be honest, Principal Wardwell, I'm disappointed you aren't managing the situation with a firmer hand."
Wardwell purses her lips in a soundless query. She no longer looks amused.
"I understand you want to respect Sabrina's agency," Hilda persists, "but perhaps you should've thought of that before barging into our home uninvited - or, for that matter, agreeing to assist my niece with an exorcism against her legal guardians' wishes."
A simmering froth of rage rises inside Hilda like bile, yet the object of her vitriol merely regards her rather pityingly and remains utterly impassive.
"Well," Wardwell breathes, stretching her thin, cruel mouth into a tight little smile. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
Hilda seizes her handbag and stands abruptly, feeling more furiously out of control than she has in decades. "I can see we're not going to accomplish anything here," she snaps, "so I apologize for wasting both your time and mine."
The delicate crows' feet framing Wardwell's sharp eyes crinkle slightly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."
There's a tender quality to her voice that's not only disarming but mollifying, and its effect is sufficiently swift and impactful to make Hilda suspect some deft spellwork has somehow woven itself into the proceedings.
"...What do you mean?" she asks dubiously. Due to the unfortunate fact that staring directly at the other woman causes a white-hot lancet of lust to pierce her cunt like a dagger, she focuses instead on the shiny new PRINCIPAL WARDWELL nameplate that gleams atop the desk in front of her and tries not to think about her nightmarish experience with the previous principal the night Batibat ran amok in the mortuary. On the topic of Hawthorne, she wonders where exactly he's got to - and, more to the point, how Wardwell rose to become his de facto replacement without so much as a letter sent home, never mind an allegedly obligatory vote by the school board.
Wardwell bares her teeth and quips, "Time spent gazing upon your countenance is hardly time wasted."
At first, Hilda thinks she must have misheard - a hypothesis that's bolstered by Wardwell's expression remaining haughty and disinterested without softening in the slightest. "Erm…" she begins, hoping her growing sense of unease isn't obvious in her voice. "You what?"
"Pity your comely figure is so thoroughly obscured by that coat," Wardwell tuts. "Although it is a lovely blue."
"I… Thank you," Hilda says weakly as Wardwell rises, slinks around to the other side of the desk, and proceeds to drape herself elegantly against it.
Affixing Hilda with a ferocious grin, Wardwell fondles a sprig of blonde curls with a talon-tipped finger and declares archly, "I'll hazard a guess that that overbearing sister of yours doesn't let you out of the house too often."
Hilda feels a blush bloom on her face and reminds herself that Wardwell has no reasonable way of knowing how tightly or loosely Zelda monitors her comings and goings, if at all, nor that today's visit to Baxter High is occurring behind her sister's back.
"As a matter of fact, I went to the farmer's market over the weekend, got some nice fruits and veggies, some lovely jam…" (Hilda rambles when she's nervous; it's a holdover from the days prior to Ambrose and Sabrina, the days no one else was around to ameliorate Zelda's crushing disengagement in the wake of one of Hilda's minor or entirely non-existent sororal infractions, which left the latter no other choice but to fill the silence with inane chatter or risk going mad.) "We were quite fortunate this year with the snowfall or lack thereof, not that the bulk of what people sell at the market doesn't come from greenhouses regardless, especially in this part of the world -"
"Hilda," Wardwell interrupts. (At this juncture, she seems to have dispensed with any and all illusions of pleasantry, and the professionally deferent Ms. Spellman honorific appears to be no exception.) "Enough."
Hilda quiets instantly, and Wardwell smirks as if she's delivered the punch line to an inside joke that only she understands. Extending a garishly manicured hand, she tips Hilda's chin unceremoniously upward and closes the gap between their mouths.
--
The taste of Wardwell's lips is curiously tinged with sulfur and brimstone, and while it's by no means acrid enough to be unpleasant, it lingers with the unmistakably metallic tang of hellfire. As if to prevent Hilda from properly assessing this latest piece of what's proving to be a decidedly complex puzzle, the principal's hot tongue summarily swipes into her mouth, causing her to completely cease any coherent cogitation. Indeed, she's only startled out of her reverie by the realization that she has somehow once again come to be seated in the chair across from the desk - this time with Wardwell on top of her. Before she knows it, her hips are being snugly straddled by the other woman's surprisingly strong thighs as Wardwell's slender legs taper down to the floor, anchoring at the thinnest points of two spindly heels.
"You'll let Sabrina do what she wants," Wardwell murmurs against Hilda's lips, her body underscoring the sentiment with a positively agonizing undulation. After pressing her fiery mouth to the gorgeously rounded edge of the younger witch's jaw, she traces a series of burning kisses down the slope of Hilda's neck. "Sabrina's old enough now; there's no need to interfere with her journey along the Path of Night."
Hilda feels so suddenly and unabashedly on board with this course of action that she's hit with an acute shame about her earlier opposition to it, despite a vague but persistent awareness that her new stance is in fact deeply incorrect. Something tells her that what Wardwell's doing here is coercion at best, yet when the other woman's lips begin to trail slowly down her breastbone, she can't quite bring herself to protest.
Presently, Wardwell glances up at her with a cool intrigue. "You haven't done this before, have you?"
If she weren't so deep in Wardwell's thrall, Hilda would undoubtedly be unnerved by the question; as it stands, her main concern involves reuniting her body with the warmth of the other woman's mouth.
"With the exception of…" Wardwell looks thoughtful for a moment, and her penetrating gaze glimmers with darkly tinged amusement. "Ah, I see."
--
What happens next occurs in a suspended, dreamlike state that seems wholly separate from the regular fabric of space and time, which Hilda suspects is due partly to Wardwell's witchcraft and partly to her own disbelief that any of this is actually unfolding at all. One thing's for sure: Wardwell's rougher than she's used to, reaching deep inside her with the predatory prowess of a practiced partner. Whimpering under the newly crowned principal's skilled ministrations, Hilda braces for her impending climax as she would a wave about to crest, then whines in bereft bewilderment when Wardwell inexplicably withdraws.
"So, you'll leave Sabrina to her own devices?" Wardwell purrs, her eyes alight and glittering. If Hilda didn't know better, she'd say that there are flames licking against the interior of the other woman's pupils, that their once-icy cerulean has been overtaken by a raging inferno, and she feels her heartbeat pounding yes between her thighs.
"I'm…" she manages, doing her damnedest to ignore the propitious curl of Wardwell's fingers inside her. Although it takes everything she has to resist the pleasure that lingers with tantalizing imminence, there's nothing more important to her than her niece's welfare - not even the prospect of what's promising to be the most satisfying orgasm of her life. She coaxes the words from her throat, each syllable sticking to the roof of her mouth like peanut butter. "I can't."
Wardwell quirks within her like a question mark. "You… can't?" she echoes skeptically.
Hilda feels stronger now, more capable; if she's said it once, she can certainly say it again. "I can't," she repeats. "I won't desert Sabrina like that. It'd be a dereliction of duty."
An incredulous silence hangs in the air until Wardwell eventually huffs in disbelief and evacuates from Hilda's cunt as abruptly as she'd breached it. "You're sure?" she persists.
This time, Hilda doesn't hesitate for a second. "Yes," she asserts authoritatively, her voice firm and confident, and the flames in Wardwell's pupils extinguish themselves about as quickly as they'd ignited, leaving behind an eerie calm.
"Fine," Wardwell snaps, and Hilda gets the sense that she's somehow in trouble here, that she'd been sent to the principal's office in disgrace rather than marching in of her own volition. "You should leave now."
As Wardwell watches unblinkingly, Hilda draws upon every meagre ounce of strength left in her body and strides to the doorway on wobbly legs. Not a moment too soon, she closes the door behind her with all the force she can muster, then presses her back against the cool wood and slides slowly to the floor.