“Don’t talk like that, Miss Rosa,” I say quietly, taking the cup of sherry from her unresisting hand. “Why don’t you get up and go for a walk in the garden? I will help you find some shoes, help you down the stairs. The air is so fresh and crisp out there. Winter is getting close. Shall we go, right now? Let me open the window at least.”
But she has already fallen asleep and is snoring softly, a bit of sherry-flavored saliva dribbling down her withered chin. I wipe it gently, wondering if she truly does not realize that she looks sixteen no longer, that, in fact, she looks like the very old, frail woman that she is. There are no mirrors in her dim lavender chamber to present her with the truth, and I myself would never tell her anything upsetting, for somehow, without noticing, I have come to feel sorry for Princess Rosa, I have come to care for her. When she spends a week without waking, I miss her tipsy chatter; and when I emerge from the woods a few mornings later to find the lawn hopelessly overgrown with brambles and her manor hidden by an overnight eruption of wild rosebushes, so dense that it is now impossible to reach the front door, I feel as though I have lost a friend—and a friend who has not paid me for the last fortnight of work, at that.
I touch my finger to the nearest bush, and instantly pull it away, and watch a drop of blood swell on my fingertip.
“Sweet dreams, Miss Rosa,” I say sadly, and turn back into the forest.
At the Log Cabin
The day lies empty before me. I do not want to return to Melissa’s house, not yet. They will be finishing their breakfast now; there will be the customary morning kiss from Tom as he rises from the table; their eight children will move in organized, smiling groups, helping with the chores. Seeing them all together makes me miss Angie and Ro so much I am sometimes unable to breathe. When I reach the broad forest road, on an impulse, I take a diverging path, away from the cottage.
Oaks and aspens are fully transparent now, leaves blanketing the ground, birds silent. Every step is a rustle. My solitude is a sadness, but it is also a gift. The woods are beginning to thin, and soon the path emerges from under the shade of the trees and winds along the top of a crest. Close by, I hear a rooster crow, then another. A panting dog bursts from the bushes and runs past me, head to the ground, chasing after some scent, and before I have time to wonder where it has come from, I see, in the ravine below, the slate-gray roofs of a village, spare rivulets of smoke rising from a few chimneys into the cold wintry skies. Mouthwatering smells of baked bread mix with the good, clean aromas of burning yew and birch, trailing after me even as the village falls behind, filling me with longing. I blow on my hands, chilled—and when I lift my head, I see before me, set back from the path, a neat little log cabin surrounded by spruce trees.
The shutters on the cabin’s solitary window are painted a cheerful orange, and a few chickens peck in the dust behind a low fence of the same bright shade. As I pause to watch, a stocky woman in late middle age, her gray hair cut as short as a man’s, strides briskly out of the door and scatters some seeds on the ground. I realize with a start that she is wearing a loose linen shirt tucked into a pair of britches, tucked, in turn, into weathered leather boots. “Here, chicky chicky,” she croons, then looks up abruptly, as though sensing my presence. Our eyes lock.
It is the witch.
“Well, here is a surprise,” she says, no surprise in her voice. “You are up early, Your Majesty. Come in, why don’t you, I’m about to have my coffee. Oh, and look, my hens have laid me a couple of gifts. How do you like your eggs?”
The inside of the cabin is light and pleasant, and somehow much roomier than the outside led me to imagine. Bunches of aromatic herbs hang around whitewashed walls; sturdy wooden chairs, stained sunshine yellow, circle a table piled high with books. A creature the size of a cat wobbles between the table legs, clicking its tough little claws against spotless floorboards. I stare at it. Its curling green snout is steaming around the narrowly slitted nostrils, and one of its leathery wings trails behind at an odd angle.
“Don’t mind Gilbert, he’s harmless,” the witch says over her shoulder as she busies herself with frying the eggs on a woodstove in the corner. “I’m just taking care of him temporarily for his mother. Once his wing is fully mended, he’ll be able to go back home.”
The eggs ready, she pushes the books aside, sets down plates and cups, gestures for me to sit. She is both like and unlike the witch of the crossroads: her movements are just as efficient, her tone just as matter-of-fact, and I recognize the compressed forcefulness of her manner—but I hardly recognize the woman herself, with her man’s hair, her man’s garb, her strong, calm face, her nose shaped more like a potato than a hook, and no traces of warts in existence. Only her eyes are the same, shrewd, piercing, all-knowing. She digs into her food with gusto. I take a cautious sip of whatever is in the cup before me; it is delicious.
“Fresh blueberry juice,” she says. “You can call me Gwendolyn.”
“But… I thought you lived in that cave.” I find my tongue at last. “And your hair is short. Also… these aren’t the right clothes for a woman.”
She glances at me sharply.
“The cave, the wig, and the rags are just for show, girl—a way of doing business. Resentful wives expect certain things. Drama, gloom, warts, and perdition. I prefer comfort and simplicity, myself. As for my clothes, conventions are for the weak.”
“And… and is Gilbert…”
“A baby dragon, yes. Eat your eggs, you are looking much too skinny. What brings you to my doorstep?”
“No, I… I was just taking a walk through the woods. I’ve been working for a lady in the manor down that way.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Rosa. A very silly woman. I tried to do her a favor once, when she was born, but it was misunderstood. Perhaps I shouldn’t have phrased it as a curse, but even I have to follow rules now and then. Still, I was hoping she’d see it as an opportunity.”
“The thirteenth fairy, that was you?” I ask in astonishment.
“Hardly a fairy,” she snorts, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “So, then. Do you need help with the divorce?”
My breath stills. “Can you? Can you help?”
“Not for free, mind you. I’m not in the charity business here.”
“Oh.” I look down at my untouched plate. “I don’t have anything, just the dress on my back. I was earning a little, but my job with Miss Rosa is over now, I think.”
“I imagine so. Such a waste.” She shrugs. “Well, girl, you didn’t exactly get your money’s worth with the spell, I suppose, and I still have your trinkets. Why don’t we consider them a retainer for my future services, and we’ll go over the contract later.”