âAre you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?â
The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.
Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it shouldâve held no terrors.
The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. âNo,â she muttered. âIâm a swan.â
A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.
Then: âI think I can guess,â the old woman said slowly. âHusband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?â
âAnd you canât turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.â
âBut I reckon heâs hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you canât touch it.â
âAnd then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,â the old woman sighed. âAnd you think, âHey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.â
âBut even if that was true â which I havenât said if it is or if it isnât â Iâd say that I can only do it to make people miserable. Iâm an awful person. I canât do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I canât use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.â
Another pause. âIf I was a witch,â she added.
The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.
âCan you do it to make my husband miserable?â
The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.
âI can work with that,â said the witch.
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