Priscilla's nerves were already on edge as she descended the stairs in her gown and traveling shoes, her satin skirts whispering against the polished wood. Buster, her ever-loyal guinea pig, greeted her with a curious wheek as she peeked into his cage. “No, no more snacks, and you’re not coming tonight, Buster. Not with all the chaos I’m expecting,” she murmured, though his beady-eyed stare made her momentarily second-guess herself. After a quick pat on his fluffy head, she turned her attention to the stack of dance crib and dance description sheets laid out on the table.
The evening’s program was intimidating. The dances, particularly The Silver Stag’s Escape, were far more complex than she had anticipated. She tried to commit the sequences to memory, but her focus faltered. Reviewing the written instructions helped more than deciphering the abstract Pilling diagrams. Despite years of attempting to master them, the visual shorthand only deepened her unease in moments like this. "How did anyone ever manage to learn these by in the old days?" she muttered, her fingers brushing the page with a mix of admiration and exasperation.
The program, combined with the fact that it was Friday the 13th, felt like an ominous sign. Superstition wasn’t usually her thing, but a combination of alien rumors, impending world war, forecasting of a new bird flu pandemic, and unlucky dates had her seeking every ounce of good fortune. Determined to hedge her bets, Priscilla wrapped a wool shawl around her shoulders and ventured into the frosty back garden in search of white heather—a traditional charm against ill fortune. The December chill, however, had claimed every sprig, leaving her flowerbeds stark and bare.
Frustrated but undeterred, she returned to the house and grabbed her salt cellar of Celtic sea salt. "If it can provide me with a healthy dose of trace minerals, and ward off spirits, it can handle Friday the 13th," she said with a resolute nod, sprinkling a pinch into each of her ghillies and reflexively tossing a bit over her left shoulder to confound the devil. The salt sifted down through the soft leather and dusted the insoles like a crystalline talisman against impending doom.
As she prepared to leave, Priscilla reached for the door, only to yelp as a sharp static shock zapped her fingertips against the cold metal knob. "Well, that’s just great," she muttered, shaking her hand as if to shake off the charge. Her petticoat clung stubbornly to her legs, a stubborn accessory to the abundance of static electricity in the winter air. Her efforts to smooth it down were futile, and she resigned herself to the idea of walking into the ceilidh with fabric awkwardly and uncomfortably clinging to her stockings.
While grabbing her keys, she mused over tales she'd read of bygone remedies for electrical troubles. In the 18th and 19th centuries, travelers in stormy weather had carried umbrellas fitted with grounding chains to avoid being struck by lightning. And then there were those peculiar garments—skirts or coats with metallic threads or wires woven in, meant to channel static into the ground. “Imagine showing up to a dance in one of those. ‘Priscilla Pendragon, Static-Proof Dancer,’” she joked to herself.
She finally made it to her car and slid into the driver’s seat, carefully maneuvering to avoid crushing her gown. “If I get pulled over in this outfit, I’ll just tell them it’s a Bridgerton-themed crisis,” she muttered, smoothing her petticoat with an air of mock dignity. She considered placing her salt-sprinkled ghillies on the dashboard as a quirky good-luck charm but thought better of it—explaining mysterious white granules to an officer of the law might complicate matters further. Adjusting the rearview mirror, she caught sight of her reflection: staticky curls, flushed cheeks, and a flicker of steely resolve.
“All right, Priscilla,” she said, inhaling deeply. “You’ve got salt in your ghillies, a full dance card, and a date with destiny. Let’s show Friday the 13th who’s in charge.”
Yet as she drove off into the frosty night, a knot of unease tightened in her stomach. The thought of contending with her frenemies at the ceilidh loomed larger than the intricate dance steps, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the salt in her shoes would be enough to protect her from their barbed smiles and veiled jabs.
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