It was just an ordinary cottage. Not made of gingerbread or standing on giant chicken's legs or anything. Just an ordinary, if a little run down, cottage. Moss on the roof, ivy on the walls. Tiny windows with thick, bulbous panes of glass. The privy stood separate from the main building at the opposite end of a small garden, most of which was given over to herbs and vegetables. A goat stood patiently at the end of its tether, staring at me with its freakish eyes.

I've never been able to stare down a goat; the eyes are just too weird.

The front door beckoned and, now that it was so close, I started to wonder if this really was such a great idea. I mean what if she turned me into a toad or something? Or worse, what if she said no?

I didn’t have a lot of choice though. I’d tried everything else, and I mean everything. Even where the apprenticeships were filled, I’d asked to try out, thinking that maybe, if I had the aptitude, I’d be taken on as an assistant’s assistant, or at the very least be recommended for a position in a nearby village.

On average I’d lasted less than a day at everything I’d tried. The shortest had been at the flour mill where I’d stared sneezing from the dust the moment I stepped through the door, and I’d not been able to hear anything over the noise so that the miller had needed to lead me outside to tell me to go home. After that I’d tried with the blacksmith and had lasted half the morning before collapsing from heat and exhaustion. With the woodcutter, I’d barely possessed the strength to lift the axe he gave me, and when I started swinging it, he quickly snatched it out of my hands before — as he put it — I lost someone an arm or a leg.

Even Father had given up on me, and he’d tried for a long two weeks to teach me the basics of his trade. He’s a thatcher, which you’d have thought I might have managed at some level, but I didn't have the strength to lift the large bundles of thatch, and I was a danger to myself and others — so he said — with the long and sharp blades he used to cut the reeds.

It’s not that I was utterly useless. I've been told I have patience and a delicate touch. I used to thread needles for Mother and do any of a number of similar tasks, but everything I excelled at was considered woman’s work and not suitable for a young man like myself.

I was good with animals too, and knew my plant lore well enough, having spent so much of my childhood running free in the forest — our house sits on the edge of the village right next to the tree line. That had given Father his last idea when he tried to apprentice me to a trapper. They’re not well looked upon, which tells me how desperate my father had become, and the living they make is harder won than most. I barely lasted an hour with him. I knew my animals well enough — how to track them, where they might be found — but I considered them my friends, and adamantly refused to set traps for them.

I was a laughing stock in the village, but then that’s something I'm used to in any case. All my life I’d been the butt of someone’s joke, and it seemed at times that the only reason the other children in the village tolerated my presence was because I made a convenient target for their crude and under-developed humour.

All of which was what had brought me here. I still remembered the first day I’d seen her in the forest and had followed her back to her cottage. She’d terrified me then and she terrified me now. Over the years I’d seen her do astonishing things when she’d not been aware of me looking on, and I’d built up an idea of what her life was like. I had no illusions that it was an easy life, but it did seem like a good and worthwhile one. Hard work but worthwhile — something that had meaning. It’d been some years previous that I’d first decided I wanted to do what she did but it was one of those ‘woman’s work’ things and I wasn't even sure I’d be allowed to try. That was why I’d tried everything else I could think of before coming here, and now I was here, I just didn't know.

There was no knocker. I raised a hand to tap on the faded paintwork and the door creaked slowly open.

“Well?”

As syllables went, this one went quite some way. It wasn't just a question, but a demand, and it didn't just demand to know what I wanted but how I had the audacity to come here in the first place. My burgeoning uncertainty suddenly went through an enormous growth spurt which left me tripping over my own words.

“Come on, boy,” she said impatiently. “I've better things to do than stand here listening to you stutter.”

I fought for control. Something in the old woman’s dismissive manner gave me the anger to regain it. What to say though? You’d have thought I’d work thing like this out before walking up to the door.

“She doesn't like small talk,” Karen, the potter's apprentice, had told me. “Ask her straight out, no shilly-shallying.”

Karen was one of a very few people in the village my own age who’d speak to me with a civil tongue if I asked her a question. In the absence of better, I counted her as a friend, though I'm not sure she felt the same about me.

“I want to be a witch,” I said. Short. Sweet. To the point.

She blinked.

“You’re a man,” she replied, as though that settled the matter, and made to close the door. I was ready for her though, and managed to put a foot forward to stop her.

“I know,” I said, “but nonetheless, I want to be a witch.”

She gave me a glare designed to intimidate. It might have worked, but I was so far past scared, it just got lost in the general turmoil of my mind.

“Generally speaking,” she said in a low even tone, “them as sticks their feet in my door ends up losing 'em.”

I withdrew the foot gingerly, but held her gaze.

“I'm sorry,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but I am serious about my request.”

“Witching's a woman's profession, and you ain't no woman.”

My ears started to burn.

No, not like that. I mean I'm sure she could have done something like that if she’d put her mind to it, but she wasn't the sort to set people's ears on fire. Not even for rudeness.

“I've heard of men learning witching, ma'am.” It was a scary prospect contradicting a witch. However safe my ears might be from immolation, there was always the possibility of having them reshaped, along with the rest of me — or so I’d heard. There was a lot of speculation in the village as to who the goat had once been, and in its various forms, it was a story used to frighten young children who wouldn't go to bed. I half expect my next words to be ‘baa’.

“Warlocks!” She spat the word out like the expletive it so nearly was. “I won’t deny a man can learn the craft if he can find someone foolish enough to teach him, but he hasn't the heart for it, nor the mind.

“I've known a few in my time and every one became so taken with his own self-importance he turned his gift to his own selfish ends and became a danger to all he met. I'll have nothing to do with warlocks young man, except to help destroy them.”

She could have slammed the door on me then. She made as though to close it, but there was a slight pause in her actions.

“She likes to test people,” Lydia, the barmaid had told me as she poured a pint of ale for a customer. “Don't allow yourself to be easily put off.” Lydia was another person my age who’d talk to me, but then she was paid to do so. Then again, she’d answer my questions readily enough even though I wasn't yet considered old enough to partake of her wares.

I swallowed. I could see an opening, but how much did I really want this? I'd already tried everything else though, and the reason I couldn't do any of the things I knew I was good at was that I was a man. Still, it’s a hard thing for a man to ask such a thing. I'm not sure if it was chaos or clarity of thought that formed the words in my head, or if it was courage or foolishness that caused me to utter them.

“So make me a woman then.”

She squinted at me through screwed up features, her face hideous in its distortion.

“You sure that's what you want?” No surprise, no incredulity, no ridicule, just a flat, matter of fact question.

I swallowed again. My throat was dry and it took me a moment to rediscover my voice.

“If that's what it's going to take.”

I closed my eyes and waited for whatever horrible sensation would accompany the loss of my manhood.

Nothing happened.

I opened an eye. She was looking at me and waiting, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“It's not so much being a woman on the outside that matters,” she said. “What matters is that you have to be one in here,” she prodded my chest with a bony finger, “and in here.” Her second target was the middle of my forehead.

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't, you’re a man.” She turned away from the door leaving it open for me to follow, if I chose.

I chose.

I remembered to close it behind me.

I turned to find her rummaging in an old chest. She stood up and hobbled towards me, a bundle of clothes in her hands.

She held the bundle up against my shoulders and let it unfold.

It was a dress. Not particularly attractive but obviously a dress. Faded with age and frequent washing, it was hard to see anything of the original pattern or colour, but the material was sound and clean. It fell to about my knees and was obviously a younger girl’s style. It didn't occur to me till much later to wonder why she had such a garment, being as she favoured longer dresses that reached to the ankle, and never of any colour other than her signature faded black.

“It'll do,” she said. “You'd best change upstairs.”

“I don't understand.”

“You say that a lot, don't you?”

“But you said it didn't matter what I looked like on the outside.”

“I know what I said, which is more 'n I can say for you. You need to learn to listen to what people say to you, not what you think they're saying. Now do you want what you asked for or not?”

“Yes of course, but...”

“Then you'll do as I say. When I say.”

There was a warning glint in her eye, enough to close my mouth on my questions. I took the bundle of clothes she thrust at me and headed upstairs.

---

The dress looked ridiculous on me.

It was sleeveless and fell to just below my knees. My hairy arms and legs weren't particularly well muscled, but they looked positively rugged where they emerged from my new clothing. The bodice was tight too. Tight enough to strain the seams and give me difficulty breathing. I'd tightened the laces as far as they would go, but there was still a gap which showed considerably more of my chest than would be seemly for a young girl — or a girl of any age for that matter.

I walked carefully down the stairs and presented myself for inspection.

I'll give her her due, she didn't laugh. She hummed and hahed a bit as she approached, then tutted as she walked around me.

“Well that won't do.”

I would have breathed a sigh of relief if I’d been able to take enough of a breath without risking tearing something.

“No,” she continued, “you'd better change back out of it and bring it down again.”

Somewhat confused, but mainly relieved, I climbed the stairs again and changed back into my clothes. I shook the dress out and folded it as best I could before taking it downstairs.

“Sit here,” she told me, indicating a stool by the fire.

I went to put the dress back in the chest first but she stopped me.

“What do you think you're doing? I said come over here.”

I did as I was told.

Taking a pair of small scissors, she carefully cut through the seams down one side of the dress. Then, with a pre-threaded needle, she started to sew it back up again, leaving as little spare material as she dared.

“I hope you're paying attention, because you're going to be doing the other side.”

I’ll admit I hadn't been watching, but I did after that. True to her word, once she'd finished one side and bitten off the thread, she handed me the dress and the scissors.

Working carefully, I cut through the opposite seam, then taking and threading the offered needle , I started to re-join the two pieces of material.

For all the help I’d given Mother over the years, I'd never actually sewn before. I had watched my mother and sister doing it at times, and of course I'd taken special care watching this strange old woman working just now. The trick seemed to be to take your time and aim to be as neat as possible. Accuracy over speed. It took me a while, but she looked over my work when it was done and nodded her approval. I let out a breath. Another test passed, whatever its intent.

“Now go and try it on again,” she told me, making her slow way back to the chest. “You'll need this too,” she handed me a white cotton blouse,” and these.” A pair of woollen stockings. “And these.” A pair of cotton bloomers. “Don't worry; they've all been properly laundered.

“Oh, and try putting the dress on the right way round this time. The laces do up at the back.”

Of course they did. I’d seen enough women wearing dresses to know that. I’d not been able to reach the laces to pull them tight that way round though, not without tearing things. It was still embarrassing. I was used to people laughing at me at the least excuse, so it was somewhat unexpected when the old woman’s face remained impassive and humourless. In consequence, and somewhat to my relief, my faced refused to bloom its usual brilliant red.

I returned to her bedroom and put on the whole kit and caboodle. The stockings felt strange against my legs and they itched horribly. The blouse and bloomers were comfortable at least, but I felt ridiculous wearing them. They both had loose sleeves and tight cuffs — assuming that's the right term to use when referring to the bloomers. The looseness felt strange and looked stranger, but with the dress over everything it suddenly looked right. At least almost right.

The dress fitted now. It was tight, but no more than intended. The bodice was tight against my torso, but the material didn't distort and there was no undue strain on any of the seams, even with the blouse under it. The long sleeves of the blouse covered my hairy arms, and the stockings did likewise with my legs, I looked almost normal. I still had a young man's short hair and soft, downy stubble on my chin, but otherwise I might have passed for a girl.

Back downstairs I received nods of approval and an invitation to sit on the stool once more, which I did.

“If you don't want to be ironing your dress every day, I'd suggest you don't just plonk yourself down like that,” the old lady said as she walked over to the mantelpiece with her back to me.

I shot up, confused, then seeing how the dress had folded and creased, I sat again, scooping it under me as I'd seen so many of the village girls doing.

“And keep your legs together.” She retrieved a brush from above the fireplace and turned to face me. “It’s unseemly to do otherwise.”

I did as she said despite the discomfort it caused my man-bits.

She limped slowly towards me and moved to take up a position behind my back.

“Sit still,” she said, and started brushing. There didn't seem much point at first. My hair’s always been unruly and no amount of brushing has ever made it look better. After a while, though, I began to feel an increase in weight, then the odd sensation of long tresses settling on my shoulders and neck. My hands flew to my head, to find my hair now hanging halfway down my back.

“How did you...? Ow!”

She had grabbed a handful of hair from the top of my head and given it a sharp tug.

“What was that for?”

She didn't reply, but simply gave my chin a gentle stroke.

“It'll do,” she said, walking back towards the mantelpiece and placing the brush back where it had come from. “Enough for a start in any case. The sun's nearly down though and there's no sense wasting good tallow, so I'm off to bed. You can see yourself home. Come back and see me again when you think you're ready.”

“What!” I cried. “You don't expect me to go home looking like this do you?”

“Of course I do. You asked me to make you a woman, and as I said, this is a start.”

“I asked you to teach me to be a witch.”

“And I said I wouldn't teach witchcraft to a man. You then asked me to make you a woman and that’s what I'm doing.”

“But I'm not a woman. I'm a… a… boy in a dress.”

“I did say that the important part of being a woman is what's inside, not what's outside.”

“So what’s the point of these clothes? Aren't they on the outside?”

She sighed. “The clothes don’t make you a woman, but they might help you start to become one.”

“So, what? Letting everyone in the village see me looking like this and laughing their heads off at my expense, that's going to turn me into a woman is it?”

“Whether they laugh at you remains to be seen, but essentially yes, the way they see you is what’s important.” She turned towards the stairs. “There's a pair of boots that should fit you by the door. I shall see you when you're ready for the next stage.”

With that she was gone. I stood alone in her small living room and looked around me, bewildered.

“I should be getting along,” she called down the stairs. “The woods aren't a safe place for a girl after dark.”

I'd left my trousers and shirt in her bedroom, along with my socks and boots and the rest of my things. I could have gone upstairs and reclaimed them, but that would have meant a confrontation and possibly an end to my last chance. I wasn't quite sure what I was getting myself into, but the hard part with the old woman was getting her to agree to anything. Once she’d agreed, she followed through — that was in her reputation. Maybe, just maybe, if I followed through as well, she’d relent and make a witch of me.

I buckled on the boots she'd left for me. They were a snug fit, but comfortable. I’d never seen her feet, but I couldn't imagine mine were as small as hers, so where had these boots come from? They had enough of a heel and elegance of design to show them obviously intended for a woman’s feet. How had she known?

I took time to bank the fire and placed the fire guard in front of it then, closing the door, I headed for home.

Outside, the light was fading fast. By the time I reached the village, the gathering darkness would hide me from cruel eyes at least. Between the weight of my now long hair, the swirl of my skirts and the odd, slightly off-balance feel from the heels on my boots, I couldn't escape the strangeness of my changed appearance. I felt awkward and was sure I looked ridiculous.

It was full dark by the time I reached the village. I'd dawdled a little on the road, fearful of the jeers I felt sure I'd receive, and had only hurried the last half mile, after I’d heard the sound of something large moving in the undergrowth. It might have been nothing more than a badger or a fox, as startled by my presence as I was by its, but it could as easily have been a boar or a wolf. As I picked up my pace, I found myself wondering if I were more worried about being gored or savaged, or being discovered in these clothes.

The streets were dark and empty when I emerged from the trees, the only sign of light and life coming from the inn on the far side of the village. My family were all in their beds when I stepped through the door, the dull glow from the embers in the oven the only light to see by. I undressed in the dark and hung my borrowed clothes carefully over the end of my bed, exchanging them for my nightshirt. With every step closer to home my misgivings about the wisdom of this current course of action had grown, as had my fears of facing the world dressed as a woman. I’d all but convinced myself that it would be foolish to continue, and had formulated a plan. Tomorrow I would wear my Sunday clothes and return the dress to the old woman without subjecting myself to the ridicule I was certain awaited me. I hadn't yet decided how I could explain the long hair, but perhaps I could find a pair of Mother’s scissors and cut it short before anyone noticed. I closed my eyes and drifted into a dream-troubled sleep.

---

The cock crowed, calling me back from a nightmare in which shadowy figures taunted me and chased me through a thicket, draped with hanging moss and spiders webs. I woke to a face-full of hair and a blurry confusion between yesterday's memories and last night's dreams.

I sat up and looked blearily about me in the pre-dawn gloom — our cockerel has always been a little enthusiastic — and caught sight of the dress and blouse neatly folded over the end of my bed.

Right. The dress. This was such a big mistake. There was no way I was going to go about wearing that in public. I made for the wardrobe and pulled it open.

I blinked stupidly at its contents for half a minute, closed the door, opened it again, closed it.

Familiar noises came from the kitchen as Mother set about preparing breakfast. I made my groggy way across the cold stone floor to join her.

“Mother, where are my Sunday clothes?” I asked muzzily.

“Hello sweetheart, you're looking lovely today. They're in your wardrobe as usual. Why do you ask?”

“No, um... What?” I couldn't remember the last time mother had called me sweetheart and what was that thing about looking lovely?

“You're not thinking about Aaron the carpenter's son again are you? I told you, he won't be any more impressed by you if you go parading about in your best dress. You'll just upset your friends by trying to be better than them, and probably make a mess of your good clothes doing your chores in them besides.

“Speaking of which, hadn't you better get on and feed the animals? Your father won't be pleased if he wakes only to find you swanning about in your nightdress.”

Nightdress? I looked down at my nightshirt. Instead of the expected row of buttons, the neck was open with gathers and embroidered flowers decorating it. It looked very much like my sister’s, only larger.

“Go on, Charlotte. Go and get dressed and get the chickens fed. Move it, girl, chop-chop. And don't let me find you in your best dress when I next see you.”

“Chickens? But I thought... Hang on. Charlotte?”

“That is your name isn't it, young lady?”

Young lady! What had the old witch done. I pulled the nightdress tight to my body and looked down. Flat chest, not so flat further down. My immediate fears vanished. Besides, my arms and legs were still as hairy as ever. What was it with Mother?

“I thought Lucy fed the animals,” I asked distractedly.

“And I thought we'd decided this. She doesn't much like working with the animals, and you, if I remember, were more than happy to take on the feeding in exchange for her doing your share of the cleaning.

“Of course if I'm wrong...”

“No, no, it’s alright. I'll get on with it straight away.” I knew from past experience that if I kept pushing, I’d end up with something I wanted less than what I already had.

I dashed back through to my room banging the door behind me in my haste. It seemed the length of my hair wasn't the only thing the old witch had changed. I had a new status in this topsy-turvy, upside down world, and if I had to choose between cleaning the house and feeding the animals, I'd take the animals any day. I'd seen how hard Mother worked keeping the house clean.

“Wasallanoizzze?” a sleepy voice asked from a small mound in the far corner of the room.

“Lucy?”

“Mmmmmnh?”

It seemed I was sharing a room with my sister now as well. Our parents hadn't thought it proper for a brother and sister of a certain age to share, so I was used to having a bedroom all to myself while Lucy's cot was in with Mother and Father. How many more things were going to be different?

“Nothing,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”

I'm not sure she was awake enough to know what was going on, but she settled again. I retrieved the borrowed dress and extras from the end of my bed and climbed quickly into them.

I stroked my chin absently on my way out to the animal shed. Like all the young men, I'd been trying, with little success, to grow a beard. What small amount of downy stubble I had would need to come off if was to go around wearing a... My chin was smooth and hairless.

A drinking trough stood outside the shed. With just enough light to see by, I looked down at my reflection in the still water. It was still me, but framed by my longer hair and with the rounded collar and puffed sleeves of the blouse, I looked somehow more girlish. I tried to think what might have happened to my chin fuzz. I remembered the old woman stroking my chin, just after she'd tugged on my hair. No way! That was complete nonsense. No way would I believe she'd pulled my chin hairs in by tugging the hairs on top. But what other explanation could there be?

A door slammed somewhere making me start. I ducked into the shed before anyone saw me.

I'd helped Lucy out before now, when she'd been sick or when she'd ‘just absolutely had to go somewhere’, so I knew where the feed was and what to do. I'd even milked the goat on occasions so there was no dithering about figuring how to do that, apart from trying to decide what to do with my skirt while straddling the milking stool. Milking a goat I could handle — the eyes were at the other end.

It took little more than half an hour to let the chickens out and spread some corn for them, refresh the feed for the pigs and the goat, and coax a half pail of warm, white milk from the goat's udders. The sun had risen fully in that time and I stepped out into bright sunshine and almost dropped the milk as I caught sight of Aaron passing on the other side of the road.

“Good morning to you, Miss Charlotte.” He fingered his brow as though doffing a hat — quite the gentlemanly gesture, despite the absence of headgear.

I found myself curtsying involuntarily in response. “And what of it Master Aaron? Are you come to have fun at my expense as is your usual custom?”

“You do me wrong, Miss Charlotte. When have I ever laughed at any misfortune of yours?”

“When have you not? Between Jeremy Pie, Billy Fisher and your good self, I don't remember a day when one of you did not single me out for ridicule or as the target for some tasteless joke or another, and now you are come to gloat over my latest misfortune. Well laugh as much as you will, I'll not stand by and wait while you do so.”

“Please Charlotte, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, yes for sure I took my part in making fun of you when we were younger, but I was a foolish boy then, and I’d hope you might see past such actions. I don’t know what it is you think I might laugh at now, but I regret that you are so affected by my antics as a child, and if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive, then I shall have cause to regret them for the rest of my days.”

“Then best you acquaint yourself with such cause, for I am not of a mind to forgive. Good day to you sir.”

I flounced. I actually managed to flounce through the door into our cottage. I didn't quite slam it, because I knew my father would have something to say about such ill-bred deportment, but I closed it firmly enough to leave Aaron in no doubt as to my feelings towards him.

On the other side of the door, I leaned back and caught my breath. I never would have dared talk to him like that before, because I knew he would only respond by behaving worse to me in the days to follow. Today was different though. At first I'd thought he had come to laugh at me going about in a dress, and all the anger and resentment I'd ever felt against him and his cronies came to the fore. He hadn't defended himself though. Had he worn that superior smirk he always directed my way, I wouldn't have had the courage to speak out against him, but he had neither denied nor retaliated against my accusations, and I had over balanced in my emotions.

I peeked out through the small window beside the door. He was still standing there where I had left him, his face filled with such dismay and desolation I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. It actually took an effort of will to pull myself away from the window and carry on into the house.

“Let me take that, sweetheart.” My father’s strong hands took the pail of milk from mine, which was just as well since they had become weak and a little numb in surprise. The last time I had tended the animals, when Lucy was ill with the croup, his response, when I had come in with the milk, had been, 'About time.' When I was much younger he had shown me the same affection and love he bestowed upon my mother and sister, but it had been some years since I remembered a kind word from him.

“Thank you, Father,” I said, still too stunned to move.

“Well, will you join us, or are you too doe-eyed about that boy of yours?” There was something of a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke. Again so unexpected I couldn't fathom it.

“Charlotte and Aaron sitting in a tree,” my sister sang.

“Lucy!” Mother's voice was sharp enough to spare us the second line of the verse.

I recovered enough to sit at the table, sweeping my dress under me as if I'd been doing it all my life.

Mother ladled some of the goat’s milk into a pot of porridge heating on the stove and started stirring it. Lucy collected bowls and spoons from various shelves and drawers and placed them on the table where Father and I sat. He directed his full gaze on me.

“So, young lady, what do you think of this young man? Do you have feelings for him as your sister seems to think?”

I looked around the room. Mother and Lucy had paused in their actions to look my way. This was for real. Somehow, they all saw me as a young woman. I dropped my hands into my lap in an effort to assure myself that I was still in fact male. I was. How could they see me as otherwise? Even in a dress, surely I didn't look enough like a girl to have them think I was. But then there had been my wardrobe, filled with dresses and blouses rather than shirts and breeches, there was Lucy sharing my room.

Last evening it had seemed the old woman's magic was all sham and nonsense. I had even just about convinced myself the trick with my hair was some sleight of hand. But this was too big a thing. Aaron saw me as a girl. My own family saw me as a girl. My entire life had changed to one of a girl's. My clothes, my sleeping arrangements, the things expected of me, the manner in which my family behaved towards me.

Suddenly it was too much. My face felt numb and cold and the room started to spin.

“Charlotte?” I had never heard my father speak with such concern. Strong arms caught me as I fell, and the last thing I remember as the room faded to blackness was being carried towards my bed.

---

“Awake again, sleepy-head?” A cold, damp cloth mopped at my brow and I looked up into the kindly, concerned eyes of my mother.

I tried to sit up. I was under the covers and wearing my nightdress again.

“There's porridge still in the bowl if you're hungry. It'll only take a moment to heat.”

Mention of food set my stomach growling. I didn't have to say anything. Mother stood up and made for the kitchen.

“Mother, what's happening?”

“You fainted, dear. We're not sure what brought it on, but I wouldn't worry yourself about it. It's probably time for your monthly visitor.”

Monthly visitor? Yuk! That couldn't happen to me, could it?

“No Mother. It's just that... I'm a boy, aren't I?”

“Charlie,” Mother sat back down on my bed. Hearing her use my name brought a brief second’s respite from the madness, then she ruined it. “Charlie, what nonsense is this? A boy? Of course not. Where did this come from?”

“But, you just called me Charlie...”

“You always used to like it when I called you that. Of late you've preferred Charlotte, and I'll gladly call you that if you wish. I love you whatever you wish to be called.”

“Mother, where did I go yesterday afternoon?”

“As I recall, you went into the forest as usual. You did say something about visiting that old lady who lives there. You know, I do wish you wouldn't. It's wrong to speak ill of those who can't defend themselves, but there's some say she's a witch you know.”

“What if she is a witch, Mother? What if I am your son as you say, but after I visited her she changed things and now you and Father and everyone think I'm really a girl?”

“You do speak nonsense sometimes, sweetheart. I don't know where you get such notions.”

“Who undressed me Mother?”

“I did of course. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you know. I've done it enough times not to be shocked.”

“And you didn't notice anything unusual?”

“If you're talking about your chest, dear, it's nothing to worry about or to be ashamed of. I was a late developer too.”

“What about further down? You know, between my legs?”

“Well you’re wearing yesterday’s bloomers, unless I miss my guess, but apart from that…”

“Nothing you wouldn't expect to find on a girl?” I prompted her.

She stood up, shaking her head. It seemed she hadn't looked that closely.

“I'll go heat the porridge up, shall I? I was hoping you'd still be able to help me with Lucy's dress for the May Queen, but only if you're up to it of course.”

There didn't seem anything to gain in continuing to try and press my point. I smiled with more conviction than I felt.

“I'll be fine Mother. Would you mind if I went into the forest later?”

“We'll see. Let's get through the morning first, eh? Lydia and Karen are coming by after lunch. We'll see how you feel after you've been chatting to them for an hour or two.”

She closed the door on me and left me in peace. Lydia and Karen, eh? The two people who deigned to speak back to me were now my friends. Lydia was friendly enough in the inn, but she had a tendency to ignore me when I we met out in the village. I suppose being seen doing so would have done little enough for her reputation. Karen was more openly accepting of me, but both of them had been obnoxious to me as a child. Incidents, like the one when Karen spilt ink over my work, then told the teacher I'd made a mess, played out on the stage of my memory. I wasn't sure I owed either of them a great deal of friendship, but we'd see. Maybe there'd be a chance for payback like I'd managed with Aaron.

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