Their father had remarried and taken for himself a new wife only half a year after their mother had died. This new one was as pretty as the first one had been – not too pretty though or the village below would have whispered. She was the same age that his wife had been, as if he had replaced her with a fresher version renewed with life, with all the colour that had left her over the years.
The son had scowled and stomped; he is merely a child; he just lost his mother. The daughter stood and watched. Smile, child, shake her hand. She placed her hands in her pockets and was sent to call for dinner. The missus had better have a firm hand with this one. Her mother was too soft. The staff of the house kept their musings to behind shut doors, but it showed in their eyes – which echoed in their master’s. The girl watched the woman during the meal. The woman smoothed down her napkin and avoided glancing at the girl.
A few months later and the father had had enough. His new mistress avoided sitting in the same room as his daughter, and if the girl smiled at her — too much teeth — she all but fainted. He sent his children to the travelling market in the next village and slid his son a coin to slip to a trader before disappearing in the crowd, the girl left by the stall. The son nodded and took his sister’s hand as they stepped through the gates and into the wood. A ring now circled his thumb and the girl noticed the family crest within the engravings.
The path led them further and further into the depths of the wood. Shadows grew. Creatures lurked. It soon became a track. The son tightened his hold on the girl’s hand. She smiled. He didn’t notice when the track split and she took the lead. A woodcutter passed by.
Beware the witches, he warned.
The son turned pale and picked up a stick. The girl laughed and carried on.
Soon they came across an old hut. It was the same as the houses in the villages nearby except for the trinkets adorning the walls, visible through the cracked shutters, hanging above the doorway. An assortment of ribbons and cloths, some broaches, some buckles. They caught in the breeze and silently danced as it passed. As the girl came to a stop by the gate, the witch opened the door. She smiled and invited them in. No, we must be along our way, but the son couldn’t tug his hand free from the girl’s as she walked down the garden path. They came to a stop just inside the door.
The witch’s bright eye met the girl’s confident one and she showed her where she could put the boy. He screamed of course, but he had dropped the stick as they had come down the path. He is quickly shut away in the cupboard – conveniently empty – and the turn of the key stops his cries.
Years pass as the girl lives with the witch. She is almost a woman. She learns how to find food in the forest and where is best to hunt at night. How to sneak through the village and watch the stonings unseen the next day.
Sometimes children wander too far. They end up outside the witch’s door. They won’t make it home for their dinner but my! That stitch work would look lovely here, next to these buttons, above the fireplace. Yes. That will do quite nicely don’t you think, my girl?
The responding smile only grew as the decorated cloth was hung. However later that night the boy – now lanky and malnourished – watched through the keyhole without a key. He saw the smile fall as the hungry glint in her eye grew. It would not be long before she was ready for the key. Her own collection would begin.
It was two months later. The witch handed the chain from around her neck to the girl, and she clutched tightly at the key until it left raw, pink indents in her palm. The boy shivered and blinked at the sudden light and draught when the cupboard door opened. He made an attempt to stand but his legs gave way as she dragged hm out to the back of the house. Around the edge of the garden the trees crowded thickly. The sun was weak. Light barely reached the ground but it was enough for the girl to see the boy’s rapid breaths, the shake of his hands as he prayed his last, the witch’s point to the axe.
After, the girl held up the boy’s ring. It shone even in the falling darkness, embellished with new scarlet jewels. The witch nodded. She frowned. The ring was brighter than even the most colourful of decorations she had collected. She must find some more.
But wait. Don’t you want your chain back? The witch stepped into the garden, twisting the old ring on her finger. It was dark. She missed the gleam in the girl’s eyes. She didn’t see the fast movement. The chain was back around her neck.
The girl held it tight until the convulses and jerks stopped.
Back in the hut the girl found some string. She tied the rings onto two strands and hung them from the tree over the gate. She sat in the rocking chair by the fire and polished the blood from her boots. She waited.
A soft wind flowed through the valley. It brushed past the hanging rings – a gentle, warning chime – and brought a recently wed couple to the gate. She smiled and invited them inside.
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