Jan 21st, 1895 — Ife's Tea, Skyfall

"Ah," Ife said with a nod as the young woman she had been conversing with mentioned the upcoming potions competition. Potions were a necessary form of magic, of course, and there seemed to be an unspoken ideal in the English debutante community that they were a more proper form of magic for a young woman to indulge in as a hobby. Ife had no patience for this sort of thing. She had always preferred the flashier kind of magic. This would hardly come as a surprise to anyone who had seen her perform in the spellcraft exhibition last summer. It was only a pity that competition had been so brief; she would have liked an opportunity to embarrass some of the other women in a greater variety of enchantments before they were eliminated. At any rate, she could never condone any ideology that sought to limit women from their full magical potential on the grounds of making them more desirable to men. Women were desirable enough already, she thought. The men ought to be happy with whatever scraps of affection they were able to earn.

She caught the eye of a passing servant, who read her look correctly and swooped in to refill her teacup. It had only been half-full, but her bones were still chilled from the winter air in the garden and she refused to drink anything other than piping hot tea until she was thoroughly warmed. Had she not had the grand task of talking to all these young women this afternoon, she would have already been upstairs in an armchair, soaking her heels in a foot bath. "And do you intend to compete?"

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