Turning back to Aaron felt very different. In all of my life since childhood, I’d had very little reason to believe in myself. First as a boy who never seemed to be able to fulfil his potential enough to make friends or satisfy his parents, then more recently as a boy in a dress who everyone saw and accepted as a girl, but couldn’t accept himself enough to believe fully in everyone’s acceptance.

Now though, I was filled with a sense of hope and expectancy. I hadn’t seen my reflection, but from what I’d seen of my body, I was attractive enough to elicit a positive response from the young man before me. It crossed my mind that it was a feeling few enough girls are fortunate enough to experience, and I filled with a sense of gratitude towards the old witch for the hope I now had. Before she’d changed me, I’d enjoyed Aaron’s attention, but hadn’t been able to accept that I deserved it. Now, I could see through his eyes though, and in doing so, I saw in myself someone to be cherished. It filled me with a sense of self-worth the like of which I’d never realised was possible.

I hooked my arm through his and leaned into his shoulder, filled to sighing with contentment, and together we walked towards the village green.

---

The dance was the best I remember, and little surprise there. In years gone by, I had sat to one side and done all I could to be ignored. Some years Aaron and his friends found me and conjured up some new way to torment me, others I remained well enough obscured and watched everyone else enjoy the revels. This year was the first in which I truly joined in, and in which so many noticed me for the first time.

I danced until I was dizzy and breathless with no end of young men seeking my hand. No matter who I danced with though, my gaze always turned towards Aaron, and I always found his gaze returning mine. There was no jealousy in his eyes, and nothing untoward. He simply enjoyed the sight of me, and I took equal delight in his pleasure. I returned to him as often as I could, and he would always have a plate of food or a cool drink waiting for me.

Lucy was elected May Queen, which delighted her beyond measure, and even brought a smile to Father's usually taciturn face. The pies Mother and I had prepared disappeared with agreeable speed. There was no official competition to decide the most proficient baker in the village, but everyone knew the unofficial title belonged to the stall that emptied the fastest. Despite being the more filled, ours emptied first by quite a margin and, though I would never dare accuse Mother of gloating, even she could not deny the air of smug satisfaction she carried through the evening.

Aaron did not dance with me once during the afternoon through the constant stream of reels and jigs, but as soon as evening came and the music mellowed, He took my hand, and as the light faded around us, I danced with him and no other. He was strong and gentle, and I lost myself to his lead, feeling entirely safe and content in his arms.

We stayed together till the last dance, when all but the most passionate of revellers had long since gone to their beds, and then he walked me home. I placed my arm through the crook of his elbow, as I had earlier, and leaned into him, utterly at peace. We walked in silence through the deserted streets, a brilliant half-moon lighting our way. I could have wished for the road to have stretched on forever and the night never to have ended.

We were halfway to my house and shortening our pace with every step, when Aaron broke the silence.

“Earlier this afternoon, at the edge of the trees, that was the old witch lady who lives in the forest you were talking to, wasn’t it?”

I nodded my head and squeezed his arm.

“Father tells me I would be dead but for her. I wish I were. I wish she had never interfered.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because my mother would still have her right mind.”

I stopped, pulling him round to face me. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground between us, avoiding mine. After a long pause he continued in a quiet voice.

“My birthing was difficult, I'm told. The old lady was there, of course, as she has been for every birth in the village since anyone can remember. I know little enough about it, but, so Father says, there came a time after a whole day and night, that Mother was beyond exhaustion and the old woman told him that she couldn't save both of us.

“He won't tell me what happened after that, all I know is the consequence, and I hate her for it.

“She told me once that I owed her a debt for my life and that one day she would call on me for payment. She can wait till hell freezes for all I care, she won't get anything from me.”

Pain and regret had turned to anger in his tone, and Aaron was looking everywhere but at me. It was as though he sought her twisted figure somewhere in the shadows around us, so he could shout his defiance directly at her.

I took his face between my hands and turned him to look into my eyes. The anger melted away as he saw me, saw my concern, and he relaxed a little.

“I'm sorry,” I told him. “I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you — must still be.”

“All I know is I blame her for it, and I wouldn't have you spend any time with her. She's evil and I don't want to lose you to her too, not having so recently found you.”

“She's not as you think, Aaron...”

“She's cast you under her spell, Charlotte. There is no good in her, I tell you.”

“And what if I were to tell you, you wouldn't have me but for her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can't explain it, but what if were true?”

“Did she make you fall in love with me? Is that it? Would you have no feelings for me but for her?”

“In a way there is truth in that. I hated you for so long because of how unkind you were to me, but she helped me to see past that.”

“She told you about my mother didn't she, and now you feel sorry for me. This isn't love you feel, but pity. I should have known. Nothing she touches is of worth; it all turns to ash.”

“Aaron! None of that's true.”

“And she has bewitched you to boot. Well I want none of your pity, Charlotte Thatcher. If you can show me no love, then at least do me the kindness of showing me honesty.”

“Aaron, you're twisting things around.”

“Am I?” He pulled out of my embrace. “Or is it you that's twisting things? I thought you cared for me, but for so long as I see you taking the part of that old crone, I'll know you to be no better than her.

“Thank you for accompanying me to the dance today, Miss Charlotte.” His manner turned cold and sardonic. “But I'll thank you to stay away from me and mine henceforth.”

He turned on his heels and strode off into the dark.

A numbness crept over me, and was shortly overtaken by an unfamiliar flood of emotions. I had experienced pain through most of my tortured childhood. Physical pain was the easiest. Emotional had always been the hardest to bear — the pain of betrayal and loss. This was the same, only far more intense. I couldn't help myself, I ran for home, overcome by an anguish that washed over me like a torrent following a summer storm.

---

I woke to a grey dawn, and found its absence of colour matching my own mood. There was no Aaron waiting to greet me, but then I hadn't expected him. I completed my chores with mechanical listlessness and joined my family for breakfast.

Mother had been waiting up when I returned the previous night, and, on seeing my expression, had pulled me into a soft and comforting embrace where I had released all my hurt in a flood of tears that might have threatened to drown us both, had they not eventually reached an end.

I had been utterly spent after crying, and Mother had helped me to bed without uttering a single word.

She'd evidently spoken to Father and Lucy, because all three sat in subdued silence as we ate our way through our bowls of porridge.

What a wonderful thing oatmeal can be. A grey and flavourless cereal for a grey day and a grey mood. I managed a few spoons full then lay it to one side.

“May I be excused?” I asked. “I know there are things to be done, Mother, but please may I spend the morning in the forest? I'll do my share and more when I return.”

Mother nodded towards Father, who cleared his throat.

“I should think... that will be alright.”

I could see they were burning with questions, but I knew if I tried to answer them then and there, I would break down again. I rose from my seat, thanked them and walked out of the house.

---

The forest was quiet. Just as the brilliance of a spring day will bring the animals and birds out to sing and chatter at one another, so an unexpected overcast can subdue them. It was as well. While I usually appreciated their company, I was glad of the solitude. Even the cold was a friend, causing me to wrap my shawl more tightly around me, so it felt as though it were comforting me with its embrace.

Smoke rose from the chimney as I approached the cottage. The door was ajar and I eased it further open to find the old woman sitting in her usual spot. Upon my arrival, the kettle started steaming and she rose to pour it into the tea pot. Two cups waited on table.

I wanted to run to her, to throw my arms around her and sob all my anguish into her bosom. I'm not sure what held me back, but I took a deep breath and remained standing by the door.

“Good,” she said, settling the kettle on its hook beside the fire. “It is well you should endure this in your own strength.”

“You knew what would happen?” An inkling that maybe Aaron hadn't been so far wrong about her nagged at the back of my mind.

“Not exactly. Not so soon, and not in the way it did.”

“Then how did you know I was coming?”

She waved upwards. “The weather.”

I looked out at the grey clouds, distorted by the misshapen panes.

“That's me?”

“Does it surprise you so? Didn't it occur to you how fine the weather has been since you and Aaron have been spending time together?”

“But that must mean I'm a...”

“Witch? Not by a long stretch, my girl. You have it within you, as do we all, but this is just an overflowing of your feelings.

“Come and sit. You have questions and the tea's getting cold.”

I did as I was told — yes, when I was told too — and took over pouring the tea.

“I hardly know where to begin.”

“Yes you do. You want to know what happened to your friend.”

I paused in pouring and leaned back a moment, looking across at her.

“Alright, yes I do.”

“Good. It's as well you should know to speak your mind. No-one else will do it for you.

“The night your friend Aaron was born, I was called late to the house. I don't know if Jack Carpenter was too proud or too distrustful, but he didn't send for me until it was obvious, even to him, that something was awry.

“I was near when he came looking, and came as soon as he asked.”

“You mean you knew something was wrong? Why didn't you go and help anyway.”

“I'll not go where I'm not wanted. I have little enough power when I'm not given it.

“Anyway Sally Carpenter was in a bad way. Already ten hours into labour and little enough to show for it. She was tired and worn down from the pain of it all.

“I felt around and it seemed the baby was turned inside her, and by then it was all but trying to come out sideways. I did what I could to ease things, but it took time, and with each passing moment she weakened further.

“There was never a time when I could have saved them both, and only after some long hours of trying everything I knew, all I managed was to reach a point where one could be saved or the other. I turned to Jack and told him he could have his son or he could have his wife but it was too late for him to have them both.

“He wouldn't choose. He tore at his hair and ran from the room.”

I passed her cup over to her, the chink as I placed it on the table sounding loud in the silence.

She sighed and shook her head. “Witching is a hard path to choose, child. We come to it from a desire to make things right that seem wrong to us. We see the world as it could be, and it seems wrong that it should be less than that, so we seek ways to make it better. It would be nice to think that sometimes there would be thanks for what we do, but most folk are wary of magic, and that's as it should be. If we all learned the craft and used it for no matter what, the world would be a dark place indeed.

“That same wariness makes them distrustful of us as well. Always ready to believe the worst, like your friend Aaron. But there's a harder side still to the craft. Sometimes you have to make the decisions no-one else will make. Decisions where there is no right, but where not making a decision at all would be worse.

“So it was with Sally and her son. If I had left them to it, neither would have survived. Jack couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't choose, so I had to. I chose the boy.

“More than that, I chose both of them. I was younger and far more conceited than I am now, and I was convinced I had the strength to save them both. In fighting so hard for Sally, I made it so that she survived, though it was no kindness she did. If I had left her to die, Jack would have mourned a while and in time he'd have found another to love. Instead he lives with a wild animal that wears the face of his beloved, and he cares for her as penitence for his arrogance and cowardice.”

“Does he deserve to be called those things?”

“He would say so. Arrogance that he insisted he had no need of me until it was too late. Cowardice in running from the choice. People make their own hell, and they can only be drawn from it if they are prepared to accept the love of others.”

“So why did you save her?”

“I thought I could. I was arrogant in those days. But witching is finesse more than strength, it's about finding a balance between two things and using one to push against the other. It's about preparing the change so that it leans in your favour before you push. Yesterday you asked why I didn't change you into a woman when you first asked.”

“Yes, you said it was because I wasn’t ready.”

“When you first came to me, you had too much of a man's influence in you.”

I’d remembered most of this from the other day, but I remained silent and waited. Perhaps she’d say something more on the matter. I sipped at my tea and a short while later was rewarded.

“What makes a man?” she asked. “What makes a woman?”

“I don't know. I suppose men are strong and independent, silent and solitary, remote and firm, disciplined, while women are soft and gentle, kind and considerate, looking to console, looking to understand, looking to support one another.”

“Is that so? Wouldn't you call me strong and independent? What was that second one? Silent and solitary? Do you think me a man? And yourself? When you came to me, you were angry and bitter, but you told me yesterday that you used to think about people's suffering before, when you were a boy.

“These things you describe, we call them masculine or feminine, perhaps because we see them most often or most strongly exhibited in men or women, but they're traits we all have. Everyone has soft spots or hard ones regardless of whether they be man or woman, and there's nothing wrong in that.

“Where we start to go wrong is in having once labelled these traits of personality as either male or female, we then think it right to instil those traits into our children. A father will teach his son to be silent and strong, remote and independent and all that, because he believes that is the way a man should be. A mother will take her daughter, no matter how much of a rebellious tomboy she might be, and seek to put her in a pretty dress and have her spend time with other ladies, learning to be delicate and refined.

“We are not all made that way though, and what would be so wrong with a man who is sensitive and caring, or a woman who knows to stand and fight for what she believes?

“There is something in human nature that sees it as wrong though, and the struggle to make boys more manly and girls more womanly serves little good. Those who embrace the change would have done so anyway. Those who don't are twisted out of shape and pushed into becoming something other than the fulfilment of who they naturally are, and that way lies misery.”

“When you came to me, you had suffered a long time at the hands of your peers and of your Father, all of whom saw you as an affront to themselves, because you were a boy becoming a man, and you showed more womanly traits than manly ones. You lived years with your Father's disappointment and, as many boys have done before you, you tried to become what he wanted you to be. That meant when I first met you, there was a part of you that insisted you had to be a man, whatever the truth.

“You said yourself that you only asked to be made a woman so that I would teach you witchcraft, but there was something inside you that knew there was more of an answer for you in going that way, or you would never have asked. No manly man would ask to be made a woman — it would be too much against his nature.

“Despite this, if I had tried to change you then and there, you would have resisted. When I put you in a dress, you felt ridiculous, despite the fact that you looked quite well in it. It is a part of what your father instilled in you, that to be a woman is to be less than a man.”

“I felt ridiculous because I was ridiculous. A man in a dress looks stupid.”

“Why say so? A woman might dress in the work clothes of a man. She would be chastised for seeking to be other than her nature — because all too many people believe that our nature is written into our physical form — but no-one would think her ridiculous. Why, when a woman chooses to reveal her more manly attributes in the way she dresses, does she appear less ridiculous than when a man tries to show his more womanly ones in the same way?”

“Because men grow to be rough and rugged in their physical form, and to decorate such a course thing in delicate lace looks stupid.”

“Why? It looks different, just as slender, soft skinned arms look different in a man's course shirt. Why anything more or less than different? And why wrong?

“To my mind there isn't an answer. Not one that satisfies. We seek to make our children more like ourselves, but for selfish reasons. We do so that we may feel more comfortable in their presence. We do so that they might conform to a shape we believe to be right. Would it not be more loving, more caring, to allow them to grow into what they might be, and seek to adapt ourselves to accept what they become?

“Whatever may be the answer, philosophy asks big questions and brings us to a point where everyone's answer differs in some degree. There is no changing people's minds except that they are ready to have them changed.

“Before you would accept becoming a woman, you had to live as one for a while. You had to be seen as one, and you had to experience what it meant to be treated as one. By family, by friends, by lovers. In embracing that, your true nature, which is more that of a woman than a man, and always has been, came to the fore.

“When I saw you last night, you were ready. You radiated your desire — or perhaps your need — to be fully a woman, and then it was just a matter of pushing gently in just the right place.”

She sipped at her drink and put the cup down. “This tea is cold,” she said and sat back into silence.

I filled the kettle and put it on to boil, then set about washing out the pot and cups ready for a fresh brew. I'd never suspected the old woman could be so talkative. I wasn't about to question it; I was just too glad to be receiving answers from her at last.

It took a few minutes to prepare everything, and by then I had the next question lined up.

“So as a man, and with the influence of my father trying to make me more of one, I would have used witchcraft for my own ends.”

Okay, not so much a question as a statement. I poured her cup, then mine, and added little milk to both. She took a sip before responding, unprepared to leave this one to cool before having opportunity to enjoy it.

“There's something to that. When a man is confronted with an obstacle, he’ll usually flex his muscles and bring all his strength to bear in order to push it out of the way and remake things the way he wants them. A woman will learn early on that most obstacles are too hard to push directly, but can still be moved if eased in the direction they want to go. The solution then comes from subtly changing the direction a problem wishes to go until it more closely matches your own, then encouraging it to go in that direction.

“With the craft, there is a limit to strength, as much in men as in women. Passing the limit has harsh consequences, and may be a reason why there have never been many warlocks — at least not for long.

“Two things come of this. If you had used the craft as a man, you would have pushed against everything you felt was wrong, and in time you would have come across something that pushed back with greater strength, and that would have been an end to you. The other is that by pushing against anything and everything, you would have changed the world to fit what you felt was right, rather than changing it to be better for everyone.

“You're still rough around the edges, but as you are, you're likely to use such power as you have more wisely — more circumspectly.”

“Does that mean you'll teach me witchcraft now?”

“Oh, didn't you realise? I already have.”

“What! When?”

“There's is no great challenge to it, Charlotte. I've told you already to seek the balance, to seek to make things lean the way you want before you push, to choose what you push against, and never to push too hard. To all magic there is a price, so I would also say use it as sparingly as possible, though I doubt you'll listen to that.”

“But how...”

“... you make the push is something you'll have to discover for yourself. Again, I've already said everyone has the power lying latent inside them, and most leave it well alone. If you want to use it, all you have to do is need it enough and you’ll find a way.

“Your influence on the weather is an unconscious pouring out of your emotions. Somehow in hiding from the harshness you’ve known, you’ve discovered a place inside yourself that is close to the balance point for the elements, and as your feelings lean one way or another, they influence the world. You may find you that’s something you’ll always have with you and you may never control it, but it’s an indication of what you could do if you set your mind to it and find the balance in other situations.”

“But that's...”

“...not very useful? No, I imagine it's not, but it's all I was told, and it's all any of us are told. You'll make it work if it matters enough to you.”

“And what of what you did?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you changed me at first, all you did was put me in a dress and brush my hair out long. You did do that didn't you?”

“Yes and tugged your whiskers back in.”

“But what of Mother and Father, and Lucy and Aaron? What of Karen and Lydia? Was that magic or something more ordinary?”

“Well, if you'd been listening, you'd have heard me say that you use magic as little as you can.”

“So it wasn't magic. Aaron knew I was a boy all along.”

“Oh no, Aaron owed me his life. I balanced out the debt by helping him to see more clearly the you inside and to ignore what was apparent on the outside. He had no notion of what you were physically, only that he was enchanted by the beautiful person you are on the inside.”

“Enchanted for real then. And Mother and Father and Lucy?”

“Lucy's young enough not to be affected by grown up ways. She accepts the good that comes to her without questioning it. She woke up one morning to find she had a sister, and she was content enough to accept it.

“Your mother always saw the inner you. Always knew it was there. I may have helped her a little to see it on the surface for a while, though you didn't make it easy. Your father was out of the way most of the time. He was harder, because he wasn't willing to see, but I only had to push him a few times.”

“And my friends?”

“Both good souls who regretted what they'd done to you in years gone by. They were willing collaborators, but you made it easy for them. They thought they might have to teach you to be a woman from the very first principles, but it turned out you knew more than any of us suspected.”

“And the village?”

“The villagers kept their distance for the days in which you were becoming. It was easier to keep them away than to help them see. By the time you went to the dance, you were already changed on the outside to match your inner self.”

“But won't they question how I was once a boy and am now a girl?”

“They may for a while, but you'll be surprised how much most people consider other people's problems to be none of their concern.”

“So what happens now?”

“Heavens girl, will the questions never end? I know I said I'd answer you, but haven't I already done enough?

“Now you get on with your life, only as a girl, as you asked me to make you, as would have brought you contentment a long time ago.”

“And the witching...”

“...will come or it won't, as may be. It depends on how much you find things matter to you. I wouldn't hurry it if I were you. It has its own cost, loneliness being perhaps the greatest part.”

I stood, feeling that I had near outstayed my welcome. I gathered the tea things and took them through to the kitchen and washed them.

“You didn't need to do that,” she said shortly.

“I know,” I said putting some more logs on the fire and stoking it into flame. “It seemed the thing to do is all. Thank you, ma'am, for the tea, and all the more for the answers.”

“It's Miranda,” she said.

“I'm sorry?”

“My name.” She climbed stiffly to her feet. “Miranda is my name. I'll thank you not to wear it out, but I'd be pleased for you to use it rather than calling me ma'am.”

“Thank you, er, Mi... er, Miranda.” It felt awkward in my mouth, as though it didn't belong. I scolded myself for foolishness. Of course it belonged.

“Good,” she said. “It's as well you should know your own mind. Doubt is an enemy in our line of work, and we can little afford it.” She opened the door and ushered me through. “Come again, any time you feel it right.”

“I shall,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Leave your questions behind next time, if you would. I'm more tired now that I have been in many years.”

I smiled, and she smiled in return.

“And mind you don't tell anyone about this,” she said indicating her face. “I've spent too many years cultivating an image among the villagers for you to go telling them anything different.”

Her face turned sour, but she winked as she closed the door on me.

---

The day brightened as I headed home. My heartache over Aaron remained, but it was much reduced after talking to Miranda.

A squirrel appeared on a nearby tree, bringing a smile to my lips. “Hello,” I called to him, and it bounded down the tree trunk and approached me over the ground. “I have nothing for you, I'm afraid.” I crouched down closer to his height, and looked back into his dark eyes. “Next time, I'll try and bring something,” I told him. “You must be hungry after the winter.” He twitched a tufty ear and dashed off into the undergrowth.

The birds were singing, and the trees whispering, and by the time I reached the forest's edge, I was humming gently to myself. I'd let my mind loose to drift about as I'd followed the path home, and, as often happens when I do that, ideas had come to me. I had half a plan in mind for how I might deal with my problems of both the craft and Aaron. I had no idea how it might turn out, or if it might even work at all, but half of something was better than nothing, so I decided to act on it.

Late afternoon, Aaron usually met up with some of his old cronies to kick a pig's bladder about the field. Now the weather was warming, there would be days when challenges with neighbouring villages would be made and accepted, and days in which the foot ball would be played in our streets or those of a nearby settlement. I'd never understood the fascination of the game, which seemed to be little more than an excuse for a friendly fight among the men folk, but they needed to blow of some steam after the winter. Father had wanted me to join in the team, and it had been one of those frequent sources of disappointment to him that I showed no interest. Now I could stay with the women-folk and join their mild disapproval of the nonsense men got up to in such matters, and I could do so without feeling guilty.

In any case, while Aaron practised whatever skills he needed to survive the idiocy, I thought to pay a visit to his parents. I had no idea what I might find, but if I needed incentive to open up the abilities inside me, then there was nothing more I wished for than to see Aaron's mother returned to health. I wanted it for his sake and the sake of his parents’ happiness rather as a means of resolving my own heartache, but if Aaron should feel enough of a sense of gratitude that he decide to make up with me, then all the better.

I would have to wait a while though, as the sun was only just reaching its zenith, and I had promised Mother I would make up for my morning's freedom.

“You seem much improved,” Mother greeted me as I came through the door.

“I am, Mother. I needed this morning, so thank you.”

“Well, any fool could see that. Besides, you didn't miss much. Some of the boys found their way into the beer last night and were a little the worse for it this morning. It's been something of an entertainment watching them try and pull down he stalls, muddle headed as they are, but it hasn't been very productive.”

“It sounds as though you've had a fun morning.”

She gave me a withering look. I'd never understood such things before, but now it reminded me I’d given her cause to worry, and she'd spent the morning fretting about me.

“I'm sorry, Mother. Aaron and I broke up last night.”

“I gathered as much from the way he was moping about this morning. It looked as though he'd drunk too much too, though I know better from having kept an eye on him last night.”

“Mother!”

“Be as outraged as you like. A mother worries about her children, and you’re still too young to know how unpleasant men can be, especially when in their cups. Even though I wasn’t expecting such poor behaviour from Aaron, that was still insufficient reason to trust him. You'll understand well enough when you have a daughter of your own.”

That knocked the wind from my sails. I could now look forward to childbirth and motherhood. The thought of it threatened to panic me, but Mother carried on talking pulling me back from the edge of the unexpected precipice.

“What I'd like to know is what caused the upset.”

“What? Sorry, oh yes. It was the old woman in the forest.”

“Whatever did you have to disagree on over her?”

“It seems she was present at Aaron's birth.”

“She was present at yours, and mine for that matter. What's... Oh I see.”

“He blames her for the way his mother turned out.”

“And because you've been going to see her…”

“She came to the edge of the forest just before we left for the dance. Mother do you notice anything different about me? Did something change yesterday afternoon?”

“Now you mention it, there is something. I thought it was to do with you and Aaron being together for the first time, but...”

“It's because she's all girl now,” Lucy said coming into the kitchen from our room. “Inside and out.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

I don't know what it was, but something warned me not to push this all the way. I shook my head slightly at Lucy, and she fortunately picked up on it.

“It's a game we we've been playing. Charlie's been pretending to be a boy, but now she's as she should be.”

There was so much truth in what she said, my mind wilted in admiration.

“I don't think I'll be playing that game anymore Lucy-Loo,” I stooped down to pick her up. She seemed heavier somehow, or maybe I was just weaker. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. I like you this way much better.”

Mother looked back and forth between us in exasperated incomprehension, and threw up her hands. “Well whatever it was, I'm glad it's done. Now there some pies I saved from the crowd yesterday we can have for lunch, then we'll have to go down and help clear up the green.

So that's what we did. My appetite had returned in force after the mornings self-imposed short rations, and I polished mine off swiftly enough to earn a scolding from Mother. Charles wouldn't have incurred such wrath, but then boys aren't meant to be delicate and dainty, are they? I'd actually been told off before now for eating like a squirrel.

I thought of my tufty-eared friend in the forest and made a mental note to take a handful of nuts from the shed when I fed the animals the following morning.

Clearing up the mess was women's work. The men with their muscles had the shorter job of taking down the stalls they'd erected. It took them half an hour, once the drink had cleared their systems, and then they got to sit around and watch as we then spent two and hours more picking up every last piece of debris.

Charles had escaped both chores in the past. For one I had been too weak to help with the stalls, for the other, a young man among the women hadn't been welcomed. I understood why now. Women shared a bond with each other that is different from the one they share with men. Working together, we could chat and share secrets, and it made the afternoon fly by. Had there been a man among us, or even an older boy as I had been, it would have changed the nature of what we would have felt free to talk about. I found I didn't resent the division of labour, in fact I would say most of us enjoyed the tedious task of picking up rubbish far more than the men had enjoyed their dismantling job earlier.

I looked up to see Aaron sitting among the men outside the inn, a pint of beer in his hand. His face stiffened when he saw me looking at him, and I wondered how he could be so obstinate. He may have learnt of my foray into the forest in the morning and guessed where I'd been, but was that really enough of a reason to be upset with me? I decided I wasn't going to feel guilty about doing something which had no wrong to it. He was the one who didn't understand, and hopefully he would learn his mistake in time.

---

I saw him leave with Jeremy Pie and a few others a while later, just as we were finishing. I heard Jeremy's grandfather shout after him, saw the grimace on Jeremy's face at words he could hear and I couldn’t. A thought came to me.

“Mother? Would it be alright if I helped Pop's Pie home just now?”

Mother looked at me a little surprised. “That's a kind thought, Charlotte. By all means. We're all but done here as it is.”

I ran up to the old man and introduced myself.

“I know who you are,” he grumbled. “I've lived in this village longer 'n you've lived at all. Well, what do you want?”

“I wondered if I might help you home.”

“I have no need for help, thank you all the same,” He struggled to his feet. It was touch and go whether he made it for a while, but it would have been a mistake to help just then. “That ungrateful boy of mine should be coming along, but I can get by without him.”

“Then perhaps be kind enough to accompany me. I was hoping to visit the Carpenters, and I believe they live near you.”

“We're neighbours, it's true. Well if you insist on being a bother, I suppose I can tolerate your company a while.”

I took his arm on the side I knew troubled him most and stood firm enough to let him lean on me when he needed. He stumbled once or twice, which had me apologising to cover for him, and him muttering about how clumsy I was. I didn't expect any thanks from him. He'd been a cussed old git for more years than I could remember, and I didn't expect him to change just because a pretty young woman — and yes I acknowledged that I was pretty now — came along to help him home.

We reached his house and I eased him into his chair.

“Thank you for seeing me this far, Mr Pie. I wondered if I might help you off with your boots, just by way of gratitude.”

“Well, if it'll make you feel better,” he sighed as though in exasperation, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind so much.”

So I knelt down and eased his laces as open as I could, then slipped the boots off slowly, one after the other.

“Jeremy usually gets me a mustard bath,” he said. “Bowl’s under the sink in the kitchen. Powder’s there too.”

I looked around. The fire was banked and glowing gently. I added wood to it and stoked it up so it burned more merrily, then I took the kettle out back to their pump to fill it. While the water was heating, I took the bowl and powder and asked how much to use.

“I don't know do I?” he said querulously. “Just put in a good shake and see how that does.”

I check the packet for instructions and, finding none, I did as he suggested. I added a small amount of cold water then waited for the kettle to show signs of steam, then I added hot till it was as much as I could stand.

“This may be a little hot,” I said and eased one foot over to the bowl.

“Aggghh,” he said as his foot came in contact. “No that's just right. Let it settle then.”

I did as I was bid and followed with the other foot.

“Can I make you some tea while I'm here? The kettle's near boiled.”

“That would be kind of you,” he said, his normally gristly demeanour crumbling beneath my ministrations and the relief the foot bath was giving him. “There's some burdock root in a jar near the teapot. If you can grind up about half an inch and add it to some hot water, that would be more than kind.”

I swung the kettle back over the flames and set about the rest of the preparations. I found a pestle and mortar on a high shelf I could barely reach, and I used it to grind the burdock root to a fibrous mat, which I dropped it into a chipped mug. The kettle was boiling by then, so I poured the hot water over the root and passed the concoction to the old man. He took a swig and made a face before leaning back into his chair. I found I could all but see the pain leaving his joints. Bright, sharp, jagged edged pain, dwindling but never quite dying.

“Is there any more I can do for you, Mr Pie?” I asked.

“No, dear. You've done more than enough thank you. My grandson could learn a thing or two from you.”

I nodded and smiled my appreciation of his words and turned to leave.

“You might come by again tomorrow if you've a mind to.” The words were quiet and slurred by the blissful lessening of his suffering.

“Yes sir.” I closed the door on him gently.

---

The Carpenters lived next door as Mr Pie had said. Jack Carpenter hadn't been at the work party as he was home tending to his wife. All the village knew his troubles and no-one expected him to stray far from home. I tapped on the door, and shortly afterwards a haggard face with deep, dark bags under the eyes looked out through the crack that opened up.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Hello, Mr Carpenter. I'm Charlotte Thatcher. I'm a friend of Aaron's...”

“He's not here right now. You could try to call again just before sundown.”

“It wasn't him I came to see, sir. We're, er, we're in the middle of a disagreement at present, which is why I came now when I knew he’d be out. I wanted to talk to you and your, er, your wife.”

“You do know about my wife?”

“Yes sir. I... just wanted to visit... to, er, meet you both.”

Now that I was here, it sounded lame. I was about to apologise and leave when Mr Carpenter swung the door open and waved me in.

Most everything in the house was made of wood. It made sense for a carpenter, I suppose, but there was more to it than that. The windows were boarded up, no sign of glass in the panes, the ornaments were wood, none of them sharp, and none of them breakable. There was nothing of value in the room, and there were gouge marks in the walls and furniture. Sally Carpenter sat in an easy chair, tatty, stuffed pillows beneath and behind, and a rug thrown over her emaciated frame.

“Don't get too close. She's alright now, but strangers disturb her, and I wouldn't be able to guarantee your safety if she got riled.”

I sat down on a nearby sofa and looked across at Aaron's mother, or what was left of her at least. Her skin was sallow, her cheeks sunken, her eyes dull. Most of what remained was skin and bone. It seemed impossible to imagine she had the strength to move at all, let alone cause the damage evident around the room and the fingernail scratches down both of Mr Carpenter's arms.

“You satisfied?” His voice had taken on a note of disapproval, probably because of my undisguised fascination in his wife.

“Erm, no sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. I didn't know what to expect when I came here, only that I had to see. I was hoping for something, er, something more I suppose. From me that is, not you or Mrs Carpenter.”

“I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

“No, sir, neither am I. I wonder if you'd mind if I sat here a while, sir.”

“I'll fetch you a tumbler of water. I'm afraid we've little enough else. I'm spending more time looking after her these days, and I can't get much work done. Aaron helps a bit, but carpentry's not his thing. Overall we get by, but you didn't come here for a sob story, though, did you?”

“No. Some water would be appreciated, thank you, and if you think it's alright, I'd be glad to sit with her for a while, so you can do some work.”

Mr Carpenter came back with a wooden tumbler, two thirds filled with murky water. Sally's eyes watched the cup as I raised it to my lips and drank down half of it. It was silty, as though from a well in need of digging out, but other than that it was cool and pleasantly refreshing.

“Thank you,” I said and settled back to observing. Now that I'd taken my drink and was simply holding the cup, Sally's eyes had reverted to the blank emptiness I'd seen when I first arrived.

“Well,” Mr Carpenter said, “if you think you'll be alright for a while, there is some work I need to get done. I'll be just outside. Call for any reason. I mean any reason. If she acts any different from this, call for me. You will call, won't you?”

“Er, yes sir. I'll call. Just as you said.”

He went out through the back door, leaving me in darkness with his wife.

I couldn't imagine what it must have been like growing up in this house. Watching the slow degradation of the person I saw in front of me now. I wasn't sure what I had expected of the place, but certainly not this. Deep inside me, I felt the longing to make it right, to see Sally Carpenter restored to wholeness. It gnawed inside me like a maggot in an apple, but it made no difference. Pop Pie's pain I had seen, but I couldn't see beyond the surface here. All I saw was a shrivelled shell of a human being, all but empty of life.

She moved. A bony finger raised to point at her cracked lips, and she made quiet grunting noises. Outside, Mr Carpenter had just started sawing. I didn't want to disturb him so soon.

I pointed to the cup I was holding. “You want some water?”

She nodded slowly, indistinctly. I stood and approached, unsure if I should.

“Do you mind that it's the same cup I've used?” I asked. “Only I'm not sure I should leave you, and I don't know where your water comes from.”

She pointed at her lips and moaned again. I stepped forward and bent beside her, raising the cup so she could drink.

Like a snake she sprang. Her fingers were around my throat and the cup spinning across the floor before I could react.

“You want to take him from me.” She hissed. “You've come to steal him.”

“No,” I gasped, the bony fingers surprisingly strong around my neck. “Your... son...”

“My son. What of my son?”

The fingers pressed in and I tried with all my strength to prize them open. They wouldn't move.

“Can't... breath...” I gurgled.

“Of course you can't. I'm going to choke you where you stand. You shan't take him from me.”

Blackness threatened around the edges of my vision. I closed my eyes, and saw.

---