Beautiful Legacy

Once upon a time, a young woman named Tiffany Swann worked as a hairstylist in a small town just south of Detroit. She was by all appearances entirely unextraordinary. But Tiffany Swann was unique among her peers in two ways.

The first, and most surprising, was that Tiffany had magic. It ran in her family, and it had only brought them ruin. She belonged to a long line of men and women who believed themselves spectacular for this one trait alone; thus, they never worked to become anything at all. She had tried to learn the art from her parents and aunts and uncles, but they were always too impatient or too drunk to pass on any semblance of wisdom to her.

Lucky for Tiffany, she was unique in a second way. She was shrewd beyond measure, ambitious and intent on making more of herself than those who came before her. As a child, she read fantasy novels hoping for inspiration. As she got older, however, she began to read people. She began to understand that true power, the only sort that mattered in this world, came from beauty and station. Sure, she could summon thunder with her mind alone. But she was plain, and poor, and not particularly funny, so what did that matter?

One day, she was working in the salon when a long-time client came in flush with excitement.

“There’s a man staying at the Dogwood,” the client gushed. “Got stuck here on his way from Chicago. An art dealer, with the fanciest car I’ve ever seen and the face to match.”

As Tiffany painted the client’s hair blonder than she thought was tasteful, her mind began to wander, desperate for things that would never be hers. She’d walk by the Dogwood, the nicest inn in town, and the fancy art dealer would see her through the window. He’d be so taken with her at first sight that he would sweep her away from the perpetually gray town she called home. Tiffany did a much worse job than usual on her client’s hair, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care about the lousy tip as she went home that evening to the too-small, too-bland house she shared with three dull roommates.

The idea that her life would remain this way forever was so unbearable to Tiffany that she felt her magic rise up inside her, more powerfully than it had in years. Confined to her bedroom, it felt as if the whole space was on the verge of combustion. A spell came to her, simple yet perverse, and she shuddered with possibility. The spell would allow her an even trade, one type of power for another. Overcome with longing, Tiffany did the spell, the last one she would ever be able to cast. When it was done, she looked in the mirror. She was lovely beyond compare, but no more magic ran in her blood.

The next day, she put on the finest outfit she could manage and walked past the Dogwood Inn. The handsome man in the expensive suit was on his way out, coffee in hand. They collided on the street, and half his drink splashed on the only nice blouse she owned. It was worth it, though, when he looked up and beheld her.

His name was Coleson Jones, a man of ambition to match hers and a family as wealthy as hers was poor. As an art dealer, he was quite partial to lovely things. Tiffany was no different. Within the year, they were married. Tiffany moved into his penthouse in Chicago, leaving all traces of her roots behind.

They had a single daughter, whom they named Quincy after John Quincy Adams. Quincy’s first word was moonbeam, which Coleson found delightful. It turned Tiffany’s blood to ice. In her family, children always had first words associated with magical natural forces. The first sign of Tiffany’s own magic had been her first word, ember.

As Quincy grew older, Tiffany watched her closely for more signs. By the time she turned five, it was clear that none existed. Most days, Tiffany was relieved. But here and there, she had moments of disappointment. As she watched her daughter grow, certain memories became clearer: animating creatures made of snow in the winter; making her aunt’s garden bloom with flowers in the shape of constellations in the spring. Little Quincy would never know such joy.

About a week after her sixth birthday, Quincy wandered out of her bedroom complaining to Tiffany and Coleson of sleeplessness. The pair of them were drinking quietly in the living room, Coleson reading a book about computers and Tiffany watching television.

“You can’t sleep?” Coleson said in a sweet tone. It was one of the only things Tiffany loved about him other than his money, the gentle way in which he spoke to their daughter.

Quincy shook her head. “What are you reading about?” she asked with her little voice.

“Oh, just grown-up things.”

“Oh,” Quincy said, looking dejected. Coleson noticed and closed his book for a moment.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Quince?” he asked. Quincy beamed under the glow of his attention, and the sight made something in Tiffany’s chest tighten.

“A magician,” she answered, a bright smile on her face. Tiffany’s heart skipped a beat.

It completely stopped in the next moment though, when Coleson reached out and slapped Quincy hard across the face, so hard her head slammed into the corner of their reflective glass coffee table. The glass shattered, and blood began to pour everywhere. Coleson cursed.

“Call Marian,” he instructed his wife. “See if he’ll make a house call.”

Quincy was crying, and her father sighed. “I’m sorry, Quince. But there’s no room in this house for fantasies.”

Tiffany ran to the phone and called Dr. Scott Marian, an old college chum of Coleson’s, who came over at once to stitch Quincy up.

When the doctor was done, Tiffany asked the question that had been weighing on her all night. “Is there going to be a scar?”

“There shouldn’t be,” said Marian. “If there is, it should fade with time.”

Tiffany could’ve collapsed with relief. If Quincy could never have fantasy, at the very least she could have beauty. It was the same trade that Tiffany herself had made, and she’d never regretted it, not even for a second.