Shadow and Stone

Dirt deep under her fingernails, Atropa was knelt by a freshly made flowerbed, nestling a lively rose bush into the waiting hole. A sweet gift from the landlady of The Ram and Roses. Pale pink blooms already whispered a stunning scent, honey with a hint of clove. Soon, new life would be breathed into the aged potting shed, weathered after decades of neglect. The once-jagged glass of the gothic windows filled the space with dancing patterns in vibrant colours, and a bucket of sage green was tucked under a small table, waiting to grace the door. Just imagine unwinding inside, escaping the hot summer sun. She felt a plump drop of water land on her hand - rain. Gathering her tools, she rushed inside the ancient cottage she called home.

Soots the crow, had already started the kettle. The high-pitched whistle cut through the tapping rain and a pleased caw came from the back of an old, battered armchair. Earl Grey and Rose, how appropriate.
Atropa perched at the comfort of her disorderly desk, pushing well-read grimoires out of the way for her teacup. Hand-drawn herbs and messy writing graced the many open book pages. A hodgepodge of melted candles was scattered around, their wax sprayed across the dark wood. With a sip from her teacup, she began her work.

The blacksmith's young son was plagued with nightmares, leaving him with dark circles like bottomless pits. All he could remember was fire and shadows flickering across the walls of the forge.
Her eyes never left the mortar and pestle as she reached for lavender, the staple for sleep disorders. The floral scent filled the room, creating a comforting familiarity. Next, the bottle of dried skull cap - just a sprinkle for anxiety. A single bud of Oneiric Rose, born from the tears of the goddess Mwyn. Pale blue, with a slight iridescence in the light. Atropa worried her lip, her shoulders tightening. Something dark was scratching at the back of her mind. If this didn't work? No, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.


Cian's shaggy head lifted from the gritstone floor, his single eye on the door. A low growl rumbled from his chest.
Thump-Thump - The wolfhound was up, barking.
Atropa shushed him as she made her way to the door. Clutching a haphazardly-wrapped package was a tall, robust woman. Dark flyaway strands framed her face, a smudge of soot gracing her cheek. Her face was like stone with a sternness that put grown men in their place. But little hints betrayed her worry - The twitch in the corner of her mouth, the slight furrow in her brow. Her piercing blue eyes stared into Atropa's face.
"Matilda, please come in." Atropa ushered the woman in, helping her with her cloak. "Tea?"
"If you're offering," Matilda replied.
Atropa got to work pouring the drink. Matilda always had a milky brew. They sat across from one another, sipping at their tea. Matilda sat rigidly, her shoulders square. Cian nuzzled at their guest's elbow, almost knocking the cup from her hand. A playful tut and a quick scratch.
While Atropa wished she could take joy from the scene before her, the awkwardness she always felt in this moment reared its head. Archaic rules needed to be followed. Sip your drink, and then wait for the payment to be presented. An ancient custom designed to remind the common folk of who they are dealing with. Ridiculous; these people were her friends, her neighbours, her community.

Matilda placed her cup down with a clatter, bringing Atropa from her thoughts, and placed the package on the table with a dull thud.
"Three bronze horseshoes, each with three holes."
Atropa nodded. Attempting a comforting smile, it curled into a grimace. She leaned forward, gently placing the tightly bound sachet into Matilda's calloused palms. A deep breath filled her chest.
"There's enough for three nights. Give it Edgar just before bed. If the nightmares, um, persist, we..." It took everything for Atropa's voice not to shake.
Matilda squeezed the sachet tightly and gave a firm nod.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said, moving to the door. As she wrapped her cloak around her, she looked over her shoulder. "Thank you"
Atropa's lips tugged lightly at the corners, a dreadful knot in the pit of her stomach. "No problem"
Matilda gave one last nod and ventured out into the steady thrum of rain.


The forge was basked in an orange glow, casting shadows onto the weathered face of the blacksmith. Hammer banging almost rhythmically against a great anvil. Atropa waited patiently at the door, Cian by her feet. Steam curled around the broad figure, hissing violently, as hot metal was plunged into icy water. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he clasped his eldest son on the shoulder, leaving him to finish the job. A smile, but his lips were heavy, and dark rings haunted his eyes.
"Witch," he greeted with affection, shaking her hand with a surprisingly gentle grip. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course, Rhys." She placed her other hand on his.
Cian nudged at Rhys's leg with a low grumble, demanding attention. The glimmer of a genuine smile flickered across his face as he roughly scratched the wolfhound's neck.
He gestured to the main house, leading her in. The warm home was a comforting array of functional chaos; the smoke of the forge mixed pleasantly with the aroma of fresh herby bread. A labyrinth of discarded children's toys littered the flagstone, they ducked under hanging herbs and baskets, weaving their way through. A pitiful whimper came from the top of the stairs. Atropa's head snapped to the noise, concern filling her face. Stood at the top, curled in on itself, was a little figure hidden in a sheepskin.
"Hello, Edgar," Atropa said with a comforting smile. "I heard you're poorly,"
He clutched the sheepskin tighter around him with a weak nod.
"Upstairs?" Rhys asked. His jaw was tight, projecting strength.
"Yeah.... yeah" The first was barely louder than a whisper; the second was said more firmly, an attempt to embody the expected authority. With a boot barely on the first step, everything shifted. Arm hairs stood straight, stomach twisting into impossible knots. The faintest ringing shrill in her ear as an unnatural, sharp coldness choked the air. She watched Rhys ascend, seeming to not notice the harsh chill. This was wrong...

The cold permeated the small bedroom. Cian licked at Edgar's chin, bringing a weary smile. A hand came to rest gently on the hound, fingers brushing sluggishly through the rough fur.
His father had to stoop to avoid the hanging firefly jars. Atropa smiled. The handmade quilt, composed of unique patches, was crumpled haphazardly on the bed. A well-loved dandelion plaid rabbit gazed out on the street from its perch on the windowsill, embraced in hints of lavender. The peeling spines of picture books were piled beside the bed. With gentle hands, she collected a pile of parchment from the floor. A charcoal fox stared back at her, well tried to; one eye was higher than the other. The collection displayed a keen eye for village life. The village fountain was encircled by bluebells, oddly proportioned people going about their day, his father and brother working in the forge. Atropa's face dropped at the next drawing. Formless shadows, smoke-like, with ember eyes. Cold sweat droplets began to form along her brow. Familiarity bristled in the back of her mind. She knows them, but how?
Many shadows exist in this world. Three Sisters Mine has feminine-shaped guardians; their vigilant presence alleviating the miners' stress. The bakery's shadow observes the day-to-day rhythm, never influencing the world around it. These are not like those. These are malignant.

She grabbed a pouch from her belt, the material rough between her fingers. She poured the contents onto a chest - ash from her own hearth. Made with mugwort, hawthorn, moonsilver fern, and a few bones from a hare. Placing a small stick in the centre of the ash, she took a deep breath and focused. The stick stood to attention and began to move. She barely blinked as it danced beautiful patterns in the ash. A small spiral turns into a wavy line before becoming another delicate spiral. Suddenly, she saw what she needed. That particular spiral. Grabbing a book from her bag, she rifled through it. Landing on a page, she saw the shadow.

"Edgar," she spoke softly, "have you been playing somewhere...unusual?"
He wouldn't meet her gaze.
"You're not in trouble lad," His father leaned forward, his hand coming up to rest on Edgar's head. "She only wants to help,"
Trembling, he hid deeper in his sheepskin. A mumble emerged as he clenched the sheep skin tighter. Atropa hesitated. She didn't want to upset him. Silence weighed heavily in the room. She wracked her brain for how to approach this. Edger himself broke the silence.
"Hwa Tor, I was playing at Hwa Tor," his voice broke.
"Edgar," Rhys's voice was pained, lips tight in a frown, brows pulled together. Atropa lifted her hand, silencing him.
"Thank you, Edger; that was a scary thing to tell me," she said giving him a warm smile. Her eyes went to Rhys. "I know what to do. Some prep needs to happen, but the next step is clear."
With a worried glance, he nodded his head at the door. She nodded back, a newfound confidence in her eyes. That cursed circle. No child should be playing in that forsaken place.

A witch couldn't leave a house without receiving hospitality. Pouring tea, Matilda joined them at the kitchen table. Atropa took the steaming cup, like a comforting warmth. She inhaled the lavender scent, and her shoulders, for a moment, softened.
"Hwa Tor!" Rhys hissed, "The boy knows better."
"Whats done is done," Matilda gave her husband a stare that could make a wyrm cower.
Atropa sat awkwardly across from the tempestuous couple, unsure where to look. Lost in her tea, she considered how best to enter the conversation. She coughed. The bickering spouses' attention turned to her.
"I agree with Matilda; helping Edgar is all that matters now." She nodded, almost to reassure herself. Another sachet was placed gently on the table. "This one is stronger, just for tonight; any more and he'll have a very poorly tummy, and no one needs that."
"Thank you," Matilda said collecting the sachet. "When can you get this done?"
"Tomorrow night, I'll head to Hwa Tor at dusk," she paused, her lips sticking together. She took a sip of tea, the floral notes easing her nerves. "Then... then Edgar will be better."
"Can you stop this... shadow thing hurting anyone else?" Atropa almost had to strain to hear Rhy's voice.
"Temporarily, maybe. I can definitely block the shadow for a time, but..." deep breath, "I'll probably need outside advice to permanently dispose of it."
The couple nodded their heads sympathetically. Everyone had heard stories of the more ancient witches. Ungracefully downing the rest of her tea, she readied to leave.
"I'll drop in the next morning. Check on things," With that, she and Cian left into the spring afternoon, thoughts of what she must do spinning in her head.


Spring blossoms caught in Atropa's hair as she pressed against the dark green door. Papers flurried across the room as the breeze pushed in. She leaned back against the door, releasing a deep sigh. A gentle lick at her hand drew her attention. Cian's worried puppy dog eye looked at her.
"I need to sort something out," she knelt beside him, hands fussing behind his ear. His tail blurred with the speed of his wag. "Then we'll have tea. Can't sort this out on an empty stomach."
Woof
With a wag of his tail, the hound bounced into the kitchen.
The smile dropped from her face as she watched him go, turning to the task at hand. Returning to the sanctuary of her desk, she reached for her barn owl quill. She stared at the blank parchment before her, leaning on her fist, lightly tapping the quill. Words span in her mind, escaping her grasp. What would she say? Another deep sigh. She knew the sooner it was done, the sooner it was over. Dipping the quill into alder ink, she began to write.
It wasn't that she didn't love her great aunt. With her shrieking cackle, ragged tawny robes, and the fresh fragrance of mugwort always clinging to her. She sparked the love of magic within Atropa. She could smell the great cauldron now, bubbles rumbling to the surface before popping and releasing the melody of smells. But her great-aunt had another side - an ancient, primal side. The woman had once made a high-ranking knight of the king's guard soil himself. She had laughed with her aunt, at the man's hubris to think he could speak like that to one who far surpassed him in power and renown.
Dear Auntie Urda .....

Finally done! Holding the parchment over the fire to absorb the woody smell. Atropa held the envelope in the air. The forest green seal reflecting in the light. Soots swooped in, grabbing it in his beak. He landed on the window sill, rustling his wings, head cocked to the side as he stared at her. With a wave of her hand, the window flew open, and off the crow flew, knowing exactly where to go. Soots was fast. Unnaturally so. She would have a reply by midday tomorrow. She could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. She would know how to stop this shadow. Permanently.

The old chair creaked heavily. A dull throbbing filled her head. Her arms were so heavy that she could barely lift them. It wasn't often she had problems this big. A sleep potion, breaking a minor curse, or a magical blessing. This was her first major issue. Well, her first alone. Great Aunt Urda had dealt with powerful curses that covered kingdoms, brought rain to stop droughts, and defeated high-ranking demons. However, her relationships with people left much to be desired. She had no need. You didn't have to concern yourself with niceties when you were as ancient and powerful as she was. Being her apprentice created high expectations of Atropa.


What does this mean? Good news? Maybe bad? She lifted her hand, rubbing the rough sleep from her eyes. She'd just poured her morning tea when Soots had started pecking at the window. She hadn't expected a reply until midday. But it arrived with hints of the pink sunrise still clinging to the sky. Why was it so early? She stared the letter down. A seal, dark like old blood, stared back. Did she not give enough information, requiring more questions? She sat for a few moments longer, heart pounding in her chest. Her auntie would never mock her. No question was unnecessary, no matter how silly Atropa felt. She remembers the affectionate chuckle Auntie gave when asked if toadstools and mushrooms were the same thing. She had patted Atropa on the head and explained without judgment. She had seen another apprentice ask her teacher the same question. She was called a stupid girl and told to look it up herself. Even other witches would cower in the presence of Auntie Urda. Her reputation was that great. But not with Atropa. Then she was warm and encouraging... in her own way.

Snatching the letter, she ripped the wax seal open. Her gaze absorbed the letter intensely, her entire body locked into a rigid stillness.
Bang
Her forehead connected with the table. Soots nipped at her hair, concerned.
So simple. Insultingly so. The insistence on sending books just rubbed salt in the wound.
She finally lifted her head from the table. Soots nudged the teacup towards her with a soft caw.

The rest of the day was spent deep in tomes and preparing the necessary articles. Spirits lined the pages, disclosing their purpose and powers. She almost passed the page she needed, hands moving faster than her head. Harvesting, grinding, and twisting blooms together. Every movement purposeful. Repeating every step, every word, over and over, engraving it into her brain. Everything had to go right. Everything had to be perfect.
She curled up in the window nook, sipping wild apple and cinnamon tea, hopeful it would calm her nerves. Visions of Edgar hiding in his sheepskin, his dark eyes peeking out. He didn't deserve this. He was just a child doing what children do.
While she knew how to banish the shadow, nothing hinted at its origin. Not even folklore about why the circle was tainted. It wasn't even as powerful as she and the villagers had believed. This type of shadow haunts places where the veil is thin and corrupted, using that thinness to reach out and cause deaths to strengthen itself. A strange snag in the fabric of reality.


The red glow of the sky brought warmth to the usually desolate moorland. Stems and shoots sprouted, waiting for the boost of summer that would allow them to flower. A wash of peace came over Atropa as she carefully stepped along the winding paths between the heather. Soots led the way, hopping from rock to rock. Down a dip, she saw it - a circle of squat stones. An abrupt silence replaced the bedtime melody of the birds, a deafening silence that felt like wool in her ears. With the light of dusk, everything looked so grey, like the shadow was draining the colour and life from the landscape.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, allowing herself to exist in the moment. Soots rested on her shoulder, eyes trained on unseen movement. Her brow wrinkled. The abnormal cold began to stroke her skin.
Good, she thought. I have its attention. Edgar would be safe tonight.
A faint smirk twitched her lips.

She approached the stone positioned in the north, faced left, and began to circle. One down, goosebumps began to form. She pulled her shawl tighter. A second loop. Her breath was visible now, the steam curling upward. One final loop. The cold pierced down to the bone.
She turned to a large, flat stone in the centre. The lichen-mottled surface hid forgotten carvings. A curious artefact found only in the Groni Dales. Atropa thanked the ancient witches who constructed them. Kneeling before the stone, she reached for the first item. From a leather pouch, she poured the contents with practised precision. The sharp, sour scent of the Valerian root filled her nostrils, making her face contort. Soots lifted the wreath of Lunaris from her hat. Iridescent petals dull with the darkened sky. With flowers circling the sigil, she reached into her belt pouch. Retrieving a soft ball of sheep wool that filled the centre of the wreath perfectly.
Now, let's make this banishment permanent.
Her stomach twisted. Embarrassment at how simple the answer was. She had never done one this big before. With a shaky hand, she reached for her Seax knife. Swirling patterns formed the steel blade. Smooth antler handle in hand, she placed the blade against her palm. She stilled, staring at the way it sat against her skin. She had never had to bleed this much. A few drops at most or animal blood when applicable.
How could she be so nervous? With just a simple cut, she would have the power to banish this cursed shadow. She had to stop it. To help Edgar and anyone else it might hurt. What kind of witch is she if she can't fix this problem? With a deep breath, she slowly began to move the blade. The cut didn't hurt at first; her nervous system in shock. Then, like grabbing a nettle, the stinging began. She did not stop. With a hiss, she moved the blade across her entire palm. The metallic smell consumed her senses. So strong, that her tongue was engulfed. As the blood touched the air, she felt the gentlest wisps touch her.

Once white fluffy wool was now sodden in a bright vermillion tone. Grasping her staff, grimacing as it pressed against the wound, adrenaline pumping through her, she pulled from her diaphragm and called to the moors.
"Hear me, Weard of wuold, Hear my call, spirit of heather and hill."
Silence. Nothing had changed.
It's fine. Spirits rarely appear on the first attempt.
"Hear me, Weard of wuold, Hear my call, spirit of heather and hill."
A thick mist descended, surrounding them but not passing over the threshold of the stones. Atropa lit up, relief washing over her. He was coming.
"Hear me, Weard of wuold, Hear my call, spirit of heather and hill."
An unsettling, rattling noise echoed around her. A figure appeared in the mist: a ram. It moved towards her, the rattling getting louder and louder. As it emerged, silence returned with sharpness. Out of the mist, one could see this was no ordinary ram. It was the size of a bull. Mist danced around its massive hooves. Instead of wool, he was coated in heather, unblooming like the current moor. Four horns twisted like rhododendron branches. One was broken and jagged. Her hazel eyes met his, and glowing purple eyes stared back. An alien intelligence glinting. Atropa smiled and raised her hand to his head. While others would find him unsettling or terrifying, she thought he was a handsome spirit. She placed her hand on his head, touching not fur but a defleshed skull of millstone grit. The same rock as the standing stones. Widderfen. The Moor guardian.

The joyful moment came to a crash. The stars went out. The waxing glow of the moon was gone, leaving everything pitch black. She didn't panic. With a slow, purposeful blink, a thin membrane slid over her eye. The tendrils tried to wrap around her limbs, lacking the strength to grab. Soots cawed in shock, nestling in her neck.
Widderfen's rattling began again. He lowered his head, ready to ram. Her heart was beating in her head, fingers stiff. This was it. She could banish the shadow and stop it from hurting everyone. Her breath was quickening.
This was child's play for great auntie. A wave of dizziness washed over her. It needs to become child's play for me.
Taking a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth, she straightened her back and embraced her resolve.
"Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf," it began as a whisper, slowly building in volume and strength. The tendrils surrounding her flailed. The Guardian's rattle became rhythmic, harmonising with the witch's chanting.
"Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf,"
A tendril took hold but it was not strong enough to move her. A heaviness descended on her limbs. Her knees buckled. Digging the base of her staff into the ground, she pushed herself up. Widderfen's head nudged her elbow, allowing her to lean on him. Wonder filled her eyes as she looked at his coat. The heather was cycling. One moment was full summer bloom, then into dormant winter brown, then blooming again. Magic came from him in pulses, feeling like a light breeze.
"Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf,"
Her eyelids twitched, wanting to drop. She forced them open. The writhing tendrils were a flurry, constantly moving and twisting around her. One caught her stomach as it raced past her. Wincing, she wrapped her arm around the ram's horns. Her throat burned, her diaphragm contorting as she gasped for air.
Just three more
A tendril as solid and real as stone slowly started to wrap around her neck. A cold sweat dripped down her face. Her vision blurred at the corners. She felt like something was trying to claw its way out of her chest. As she tried to speak, all that came out was a wheezing noise.
She could feel the tendril becoming tighter and tighter around her neck.
No! She screamed in her head. I'm almost there.
A vague figure was forming before her, producing a pungent, unpleasant stench. It had no shape, no face, yet she felt mocked by it. Grabbing onto the tendril clutching her neck, she heard a voice whispering like a cold wind.
"What an adorable little witch, trying to banish me." The voice slid through her head. "I was expecting a small meal to tide me over for a bit longer, but a witch, why, that will give me a very nice boost."
Her mind was racing so fast that she could barely grasp her thoughts as they flew by. Tears formed in her eyes.
This was it. She managed to catch. I failed. I fucking failed.
Visions of Edgar under his sheepskin flashed. She scrunched her eyes.
Then it jumped to her at his age, watching with wonder at the twisted form of her Great Auntie Urda rip a monstrous demon from existence. Elegant, practised and authoritative. The power of a formidable witch.

She was about to give in to the emptiness in her when a burst of magic washed over the space. Soots grabbed her hat to stop it from blowing away. The scent of the moor at midsummer wrapped around her like an old friend. An awful noise filled the air. A curdling screech echoed around them. Widderfen's chattering drowned it out, with a hint of birdsong and blistering winds beneath the surface.
The tendril around her neck loosened. With rasping breaths, her lungs filled with air. She glared at the shadow, her lips curling in rage.
"Sceadu Hworf, Sceadu Hworf..." Every word was like needles in her throat.
The shadow focused its tendrils on the two of them, desperate. It released a scream louder than a thunderclap. Pain ripped through her ear. Something wet trickled out.
One more.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself to her full height. Wobbling, she released her white-knuckled grasp on the guardian's horns. With shaky legs, she stepped forward, leaning on her staff.
"Sceadu Hworf"
An attempt at another screech came out like a feeble whimper. The tendrils moved with speed, trying to stop her, but they passed through her like a wind. The sigil glowed so brilliantly, that she had to throw her arm over her eyes.
Moments passed before it was safe for her to look again. It looked so... normal. Stars once again filled the night sky.
She wasn't done. Lifting her hand towards the centre, she gave it a flick. The components burst into a controlled flame.
Her knees met the soft grass. She touched her ear. Looking at her fingers, she saw bright red blood. It was going to be a struggle to get home. A nudge at her shoulder drew her attention. Widderfen. A tired smile graced her face. She rested her head against his, tears rolling down her face.
She could always rely on spirits.
Soots landed in front of her. A sprig of heather, roots still attached, was between his beak. She took it from him, pain bursting in her fingers, and brought it to her nose. A vision of the circle in midsummer, full of life and joy, filled her sight. Birds sang as butterflies filled the air. A mountain hare sat on a rock. Her body filled with gratitude, but not her own. Widderfen nuzzled back. Another image, her climbing on his back. She did as she was told. Laying almost flat, she smushed her face into the heather coat.
"Thank you, Widderfen," she whispered. "I couldn't have done it without you."
With a soft rattle, he reflected the sentiment back before washing her with a sense of calm. With the rocking motion of his body, she found herself drifting into a light sleep.


Atropa cracked an eye open. The dappled sunlight cast coloured light across her face. A nalbind blanket that smelled of campfires loosely lay where she was collapsed onto the old tapestry loveseat. Digging into her lower back was an awful bulge. This had been a mistake. With a groan, she stood up, popping and cracking. A cup of tea was definitely in order. She shuffled over to the hearth, every step a struggle. Once more soots had put the kettle on. Willow bark. Bitter, but the inflammatory properties were what her body needed. Pain shot through her hand as she grabbed the handle. She still had to clean and dress the wound. Tea first.
Adding some honey to the tea for sweetness, she held her wounded hand out to Cian. His tongue made large sweeps, cleaning the wound. A handy power of dog familiars. With his gentle attention, the pain dissolved like salt, becoming a dull and distant numbness. With a content sigh, some of the stiffness subsided, relaxing into his ministrations. A dog is one of the greatest familiars a witch can have. That's what Auntie Urda had told her. With a thank-you kiss to his fluffy head, the great hound gave a proud wag of his tail. Moving the honey wand over the hand. Falling amber drops glistened as she drizzled them over the wound. Once it was swathed in honey, she wrapped it in a fresh linen strip.


Giggles filled the smithy as a mess of children chased after Cian. Edgar, still under his sheepskin, watched them from his seat at his father's feet. A rosy hue already returning to his cheeks.
Atropa watched him, a smile gracing her face. Years as a witch's apprentice, reading grimoires by moonlight in the greenhouse, tea with spirits of the land. As moments of her childhood drifted through her mind, one stood out. So close to her situation and yet couldn't be further.
She had been hidden from it, deemed too young to understand. The child had died after an encounter with some potent magic. Their parents had sought out Auntie Urda, begging for her help. A great request demanded a great payment. She never did find out what that payment had been. "Not ready for these matters," her auntie had said.
Atropa had hidden in the attic, head just poking past the shuttered window. What she witnessed would stay with her forever. Smoke from burning herbs choked the air, fragrant and acrid at the same time. Childlike crying and twisted howls filled the night. Urda, presence dominating the woodland, ripped the child's soul from the maw of a large black dog. A guide for the dead. A scolding came the next morning. Nothing could be hidden from Auntie. It was dangerous. Her mind could have fractured from seeing what earthly beings should not see. The crone had lamented forgetting Atropa's innocent curiosity. Atropa was determined to achieve that level of ability.


Taking a biscuit from Matilda, a gust of wind carried blossom petals into her cup. Watching them float like little boats, swirling around the cup, Atropa smiled. The shadow was defeated, and Edgar was well again. Everything was exactly as it should be.