The Third Witch

Part I

The doorbell tinkled overhead and the colors of the dress shop exploded in Tabatha’s eyes. A biting December gust hissed in on her heels, cutting through the folds of her long skirts. Muttered curses for the weather came from Melanie behind her, drawing the twinge of a smirk to Tabatha’s lips. The cold had never bothered her. Melanie fussed about it all winter long. 

Fragile rays of winter sunlight tumbled through the front window, blazing out across shiny scarlets, verdant emeralds, and rippling indigos, in cuts ranging from polite to downright scandalous. White frocks sprouted from many collars and lace crept like lichen from hem to hem. Halfway back, a little regiment of skeletal corsets stood in silent lines. 

Tabatha shuddered at those outlines and moved her right hand to rest on her bulging belly. It would feel strange to live without her bump. She could hardly remember where she rested her hands before the pregnancy. Soon now…

“Lady Tabatha,” Elaine, the seamstress, exclaimed, sliding through a curtain in the back wall with a seasoned smile. $150 in maternity fitting had just walked through her door, so she thought. She wore a muted pink dress with a frock up to her chin, a mirror to Tabatha’s own lilac dress. “Oh and sister Melanie, as well!” The smile faltered as Tabatha’s sister stepped into the shop and gave the door a little slam shut. “Both Edgecomb sisters in one day, what a treat!” Mel bobbed a tiny mock curtsy at the shopkeeper and gave her the Devil’s own grin. The feather in Mel’s hat wobbled precariously through the dip, as did her ample bosom. Tabatha bit back a little laugh. Neither of them corrected Elaine for the familiar use of their maiden name.

“Indeed, Miss Elaine,” she said, “my sister requires–”

“Nothing!” Melanie cut in. “I have all I need in the blood of my veins and the thrumming of my heart. My dear husband however…”

“Heard about the new corsets, did he?” Elaine asked, she gave a knowing wink and rested a hand on the protruding iron rump of a showcase. Melanie rolled her eyes. Then slapped her own rear with one hand and pointed an accusatory finger at Elaine.

“You know,” she said, “when I was 12, just after our Mother passed away, I realized that she’d given me these ample husband-winning-hips while my sister got those stunning eyes. I thought myself a clear victor.”

Tabatha rolled her brilliant blue eyes. She could almost feel the specks of hazel in her irises drift around, her sister brought them up so often. 

“But no! Despite having been wed and bed, my dear husband still asks, nay demands,  that I adorn myself to his tastes! Now I must be fit for an iron saddle and bridle! Turning a fine mare in the peak of her health into a troubled ass, that’s our work today! I tell, our Mother never stood for such nonsense!” 

“Melanie, please,” Tabatha cut in with a soft touch on her sister’s arm. Elaine had frozen with her shopkeeper’s grin plastered to her face. “You’re scaring Ms. Elaine. Let’s just find a comfortable fit to accentuate your natural endowments and be on our way.”

“Oh fine, be glib,” Melanie huffed. “You can afford to, what with that little miracle growing in you and your husband finally leaving you in peace.” 

“It’s not such a terrible fate,” Tabatha said, now guiding her sister toward the back of the store. “A family.”

“Psh! I have everything I want, and more, in myself!” Melanie protested, passing from the brightness of the storefront to the relative dusk of the corsets. “And fate seems to agree with me, despite all of Timothy’s fine attentions.”

“Come now,” Elaine said, taking a smart step forward and gently hooking Melanie’s elbow, “tell me of Timothy and I’ll tell you of a dozen worse men and worse fates than yours. In fact…”

Their voices muted as Elaine led Melanie over to one of the better polished ironworks. Elaine would gossip and Melanie would feign disinterest, monologuing on the injustices of womanhood. 

Tabatha let her smile play on her lips and her baby gave a little kick. She knew that Melanie still held deep affections for her Timothy, despite all her disparagement of the great familial suicide of the female soul. The corset was ridiculous, granted, but even kind men could be ridiculous at times. Tabatha’s own husband, Ernest, oscillated so quickly between warmth and cold distance that she struggled to maintain a hold of her own emotions through the storm. She worried that her mother wouldn’t have been terribly impressed with Tabatha’s… gilded position. However, her babe would have a loving home, and the breadth of Ernest’s estate ensured safety and contentment for both daughters. Her dead mother’s spite and disappointment could hardly provide that.

Tabatha rubbed her stomach with a smile. It would be a girl. She knew it. As her mother had known. She knew it would have her mother’s eyes, her own eyes. Her spine would be her own, though, and Melanie could help her firm it. 

“And what should your name be, little one?” she whispered down to her belly. She hummed for a few moments, letting the colors glide beneath her hands as she floated through the store. She felt a little motion in her belly.

“Virginia, perhaps?” A little kick caused her a twinge of discomfort. “Not Virginia, very well. Perhaps a color? Violet?” Another small kick. “Marigold?”

The vicious jab nearly doubled her over. She grimaced at first, but grinned as she straightened. “Well, you’re no push over.”

A black dress hemmed in brilliant purples caught her eye. It had the sharpest lines of any in the store. It spoke of self-possession and severity, adorned by mischief. It drew a name to her lips.

“Morticia.” Tabatha whispered down with a stroke of her belly. Nothing. Stillness. Then… a gentle sensation of motion. It had an almost pensive feel to it, if you could believe that kind of thing. The name rolled across Tabatha’s tongue a few times, then nestled in at the front of her mind. “Morticia. Yes. Welcome, Morticia, the world is ready for you.”

A new pain erupted below the folds of her long skirt. One she had not felt before. One she expected.

“Oh,” she said, trying to make it more than a mewl. “Melanie?”

The next contraction prized a shriek from her lungs. 

In a flash, Melanie appeared at her side and they lumbered to the door, stumbling on their four legs like a newborn fawn in a rocky field. Elaine rushed ahead to fetch and warn the midwife.

*** 

Tabatha nearly broke Melanie’s hand during the birth. The pain was incredible. Unlike anything she’d ever experienced or expected. Drenched in her own sweat and blood, screaming, praying, cursing, Tabatha never once thought her sister might leave her side and she never did. Nor did she so much as wince at her sister's fierce grip. When Morticia did finally emerge, she arrived shrieking, but quieted quickly into watchful silence. Tabatha caught the sudden moment of longing in her sister’s gaze. It disappeared almost at once and Melanie turned to her sister, radiating joy.

“A girl!” she shrieked. “And look! Look at her eyes! You’re clairvoyant after all, Tabby!”

Tabatha smiled and took her bundled child. The eyes were perfect. Her mother’s eyes.

“I will stay with you always,” she whispered. “And stand by you.”

“We will,” Melanie chirped, enthusiastic.

Tabatha smiled at her, then promptly fell unconscious.

***

11 rather uneventful months later

Morticia grew fast and strong. She rarely cried and attended the world around her with ceaseless observation. To Tabatha, it seemed the child had arrived in a world of mystery, with every intention of rooting out the meaning and mechanics behind every miracle. 

It took months for Tabatha to recover from the birth. Just now, as winter crept in again, she felt strong again. A fire roared in the hearth, but Tabatha rocked in a chair by the window she’d cracked open. Morticia slept on her chest. A snowflake trembled down to land in the babe’s dark hair. Tabatha took in air to blow it off, but hesitated. She waited. The snowflake melted, icy water dissipating into Morticia’s wispy black hair. The child didn’t wake, didn’t even stir. Tabatha smiled and gave her a squeeze.

She heard the slam of the front door downstairs and the stomping of boots as Ernest shook off the snow. Careful of her sleeping child, Tabatha snaked a hand out and shut the window. Ernest appeared moments later. 

“There’s my darling wife,” he said. “Bit of a chill in here? Did you have the window open again?”

“Of course not dear,” Tabatha said softly. “Morticia might catch cold.”

“Mmm, our boy won’t mind half so much, I think,” Ernest grumbled, ambling to the sideboard and pouring a tall glass of brownish liquor. He smelled a bit of smoke and bourbon already. He wasn’t an outright scoundrel, but certainly no stranger to the gentleman’s club on a cold winter’s afternoon. Tabatha could forgive him that.

“Well, she’s tougher than we give her credit for, I think. She’ll make a fine heir to our line.”

“A fine heir to your line, perhaps,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then shot her a look, expectant. A tired question expecting a new answer. An icy feeling crept through Tabatha’s veins. She forced out the same answer she’d been using for 10 months. 

“Soon, dear.” She forced a smile, as well. “I’ll be well soon.” 

Ernest’s smile back looked like a fresh order from the wood engraver, rigid and pained. He held there for a moment, brows drawn down. His mouth jerked open to form half a word. He froze. Then deflated and took a sip of his drink. 

“Of course, dearest,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

That age old pride. The preservation and continuation of the familial line. Maintaining good stock. The room felt stifling all of a sudden. Tabatha rose in a rush and Ernest stood quickly to match her, surprised. They stared at one another for a moment. She could see the scale in his eyes, fear and frustration, balanced on the knife's edge. He wouldn’t wound her, not if he could avoid it, but he needed a son. Pride demanded it.

Amelia, their Matron of the house, appeared in the doorway in her dark gray working skirts. 

“Quite a chill in here,” she murmured. “Is Ms. Morticia ready for her bed?”

“Yes…” Tabatha said, looking away from Ernest. “Yes, I had the window cracked earlier. Just a bit of fresh air. We’re both ready for bed, I believe.” Amelia gave a disapproving cluck and swept forward to take Morticia from Tabatha. 

Tabatha glanced at Ernest on the way, saw the mix of hurt and anger and longing and responsibility floating there on the surface of his nascent belligerence. Yes, time for her to be abed, indeed. She followed Amelia upstairs and went to her while the Matron put Ms. Morticia down for the night. 

*** 

Tabatha awoke with a start. A storm raged. Winter winds howled as they whipped past the large house. Shutters clacked and banged all along the stone walls. Something felt…. wrong. Not just the storm. Tabatha felt a directionless sense of dread, it knotted her stomach around her spine as sweat popped on her brow. 

The new mother rose in silence and found her slippers in the dark before padding to her door. She opened it quietly, despite the rage of the storm, then tiptoed past Ernest’s door to reach the nursery. She stumbled a little in her groggy half-sleep, but prized the nursery door open with care. The wind whistled in a nearby crook of the exterior walls and grew louder as the door opened, then softened as she shut it behind her. Morticia’s bassinet stood in the far corner, away from the bitter cold of the windows. Tabatha went to stand over her, putting a hand on the rocking chair beside the bassinet. A gust of wind slammed a shutter, startling Tabatha, but the babe didn’t stir. Eyes closed, form still, Tabatha watched her tiny chest rise and fall. Tabatha smiled and resisted the urge to snuggle her. Safe. She was safe. 

Tabatha turned to the windows, watching the snowflakes beat themselves against the panes, listening. The whistling wind came again and Tabatha heard now that it sounded louder and closer than it should. There. A tiny drift of snow on the window sill. A window had been cracked open, just an inch. Frowning, Tabatha went forward and shut it. She glared out at the swirling torrents of snow and ice, searching for any sign of danger. Shadows shifted in the gloom, but nothing presented itself. Brow still furrowed, Tabatha went to the rocker by the bassinet and sat down. Morticia slept on, heedless to the storm and her mother’s worry.

As the storm wore itself down, Tabatha drifted to sleep by her babe.

***

The door’s creak woke Tabatha. As she blinked her eyes open, Ernest poked his head and shoulders into the nursery. He gave her a kind grin, almost apologetic. She caught the forest green of his favorite cloak already on his shoulders.

“Good morning, dearest,” he said. She blinked at him.

“I’m off to meet the sheriff at the port. Perhaps we could go for a ride this afternoon.

“Ernest,” she said, “someone opened a window last night. In here. During the storm.”

He looked at her, face carefully blank, for several seconds. Tabatha rubbed her face.

“You’re sure it–”

“It wasn’t me.” 

“Of course, of course,” he said. “The wind perhaps? Perhaps Amelia didn’t secure them?”

She stared at him for a long moment. The look held an almost unfair amount of ice for his casual disregard. He squirmed in a satisfying way. 

“I’ll have a word with her,” Tabatha said finally. Then waved him on. “Send her up on your way out.”

Amelia appeared moments later, her face blanched, eyes too wide. Ernest must have given her too strong a word already.

“Now, now, Amelia,” Tabatha said, “I know you’d never intentio–” 

The Matron ignored her mistress and swept past to lean down into the bassinet. Morticia came up in her hands with a cry of surprised protest. Amelia held the toddler at arms length, like she might a large rat caught in the pantry.

“Amelia!” Tabatha demanded, standing. “What in the name of the Lord–” 

Morticia’s eyes snapped open and Amelia hissed. She thrust the child at Tabatha, who snatched her child to her breast with a glare for the matron. 

“AMELIA, really! What has gotten into you?!”

“I heard it from Elaine this morning… the winds and storm… an exchange… the witches seeking the third… I never thought it’d…”

“WHAT, DAMN YOU?!” Tabatha’s stomach had knotted itself to her spine once more. She knew where this led. She could feel it. She just didn’t want to believe it.

“LOOK AT HER EYES, MUM!”

Tabatha glared past her baby at the woman. Morticia felt right, here in her arms. Her form, her weight, her hair, and her subtle warmth. Her little hand even fell just so on Tabatha’s arm.

Nonetheless, Tabatha pulled the babe from her breast and raised her up. The child opened its eyes, almost guiltily. They were still blue, but solid orbs of translucent blue. They sang ice and snow. They had an ageless depth. The flecks of hazel were gone. All wrong. Tabatha shuddered, then slowly lowered the child back into the bassinet.

“What happened?” she demanded softly. 

Amelia had subsided into a fit of prayers. She shook her head softly, not daring to look up. 

“Amelia, please.” Tabatha reached out and touched the older woman’s arm, making her jump.

“Please, mum, we… we have to let it be. What’ll the sheriff do if he knows we’ve been dealing with witches?”

“Witches?! Amelia, what–”

“We can learn to love her. We can. And the lord, forgive me for saying so, but he’ll never notice!”

“What the devil are you talking about?!”

“Well,” Amelia toyed with her skirts for a moment, then took a breath and pressed on. “I had it from Elaine this morning at the shop. Went around to pick up Mrs. Melanie’s order like you asked and Elaine went ON and ON about that horrible storm and witches on the wind and ‘a changeling’s been made in that evil wind and a babe switched in the dark’ and I come straight home to check and LOOK at her EYES!”

Amelia finished in a fierce whisper then shut her eyes tight, subsiding once more into muttered prayers. 

Tabatha looked down into the bassinet once more and the child looked back. Morticia’s face, yes, but the eyes… Tabath’s bile rose and then her blood rose behind it. Someone, something, had taken her child. After a moment, the child grinned, like the joke had run dry, but it didn’t care. Tabatha shuddered again, then steeled herself. She turned to give Amelia a little shake. The Matron’s eyes snapped open, pools of terror.

“Bundle it up and wait here for me,” Tabatha told her. “And don’t let Ernest…” What? He wouldn’t be back before nightfall and even then he’d never think to check on the child. Amelia had enough presence to nod her understanding. 

Tabatha swept out of the room, dressed herself, and stormed off to Elaine’s.

PART II

Tree branches moaned in the winter wind. Tabatha’s skirts were in a state of ruin, muddied, drenched, and torn from traipsing through the snow-covered fields. She’d dropped her cloak somewhere along the way, but that didn’t matter. Sweat drenched her garments. She felt the wind teasing the damp lanks of her hair into a mad-woman’s halo. The cold didn’t bother Tabatha tonight any more than it ever had. Not like her sister. Little Melanie hated the cold. Hated the winter. 

She adjusted the bundle on her chest, trying to pretend that this would all end well. They’d taken her child. Hers. The beautiful, perfect Morticia, who wore her mother’s sapphire eyes. They’d left her this… thing. It looked like her babe, smelled like her babe, even mewled like her babe. But they’d gotten the eyes wrong. She shifted the babe on her chest again, cooing softly, though it didn’t stir. Cooing softly to soothe herself perhaps.

The wind took on a new pitch. It swept through the oaks of the old forest, now. Moonlight tickled the sparse branches of the young forest, as the gust rustled past them before finally whirling out into the fields of men. It hit a snowbank just before her and swept up a great cloud of powder. When it settled, two women stood before her. Faces as aged and gnarled as the trees behind them. Eyes sharp and glinting in the moonlight. One tall and one short. The taller one held a bundle to her chest, just like Tabatha’s. The sight curdled Tabatha’s heart. Instinct had her clutch the bundle at her chest tighter for a moment. She remembered the eyes and revulsion relaxed her grip again. 

The young mother’s gaze trailed down to the womens’ feet. They stood atop the loose packed powder. Witches. They didn’t have wands or broomsticks or heavy, hooded cloaks, but Tabatha felt their otherness in the moonlight. They stood two feet above her, perched impossibly on the fresh snowfall. 

Elaine. The shopkeeper. The incorrigible gossip. The social lubricant. She made sure to dribble all the wrong tales into all the wrong ears. She’d told Tabatha where and when to meet the witches, and Tabatha knew that she’d tell the same tales to the town’s sheriff. Out of habit, not malice. Still. When he arrived… Tabatha didn’t have much time.

Tabatha opened her mouth to shout at the women and make her demand, but the tall one spoke first.

“You look like seven shades of–”

“The uglier side of Hell, girl.” 

They cackled in unison, but they spoke in turns, tossing the sentences back and forth between them. 

“Suits you,” the tall one said with a toothy grin. Tabatha blinked, taken aback. Then the tall witch adjusted the bundle and grinned wider. Rage surged.

“I’ve come for Morticia!” Tabatha shouted, she glared at the bundle in the witches arm then back to her eyes. “Give me my daughter and take back… yours.”

Both women raised their eyebrows, then exchanged a quick grin. 

“We can’t return to you–”

“what was never yours, child.” The shorter one spat to the side to punctuate this statement.

“Is that or is that not my child?” Tabatha demanded.

“Twas never yours,”

“Nor ours,”

“Her life’s her own,”

“as well her powers be.” The witches both glanced over her head, back toward the town. 

“Your time wanes,” the tall one said.

“as hers waxes.”

Tabatha whipped her head around. Miles of snow covered fields stretched back to the squat stone buildings and steep roofs of the town. A few candlelit windows flickered in the dark.  A gust of wind slapped at her head, wrapping sweat heavy hair around her eyes, but it didn’t make her shiver. Her spine quaked, however, when she saw the silhouettes of two horses. They pushed a hard canter, sending puffs of snow up before them. Whipping back around, she clutched the babe tight to her chest.

“I don’t know what powers you’re talking about,” she said. “She’s just a child. An infant. Give her back. Please.” 

“Oh it’s please, now,”

“Is it? Still not so pleasing to the ear.”

Tabatha took two steps forward and held out the abomination. “Take this one back. An even exchange.”

The tall witch quirked an eyebrow at her. 

“We two must be three,” said the tall witch.

“Three covens, three valleys.”

“Three and three, shall we ever be.”

“That one has no power of its own.”

“Not like you, not like this one.”

“No, you can’t have her, for–”

“Her power is ours,” 

“And ours are hers, unless…” the short witch trailed off. Tabatha’s gaze snapped to the short one, but the old woman only tilted her head and stared back. The wind whistled through the trees. Despite the cold, neither of the small bundles cried.

“Unless, what?!” Tabatha demanded. 

“Unless you would join us, instead,” they said together. 

The wind shifted and Tabatha caught the pounding of hoofbeats behind her. She swore, turned to look at them. Two torches. Two men. A flash of green, her husband Ernest’s favorite riding cloak. The other man would be the sheriff, Lionel. 

“Eternal damnation on all gossips,” she swore again, turning back to face the witches. The tall one had turned the bundle around, sitting her little rump on a bony forearm. Morticia didn’t cry and didn’t flinch. Wind whirled, swirling snow in front of the witches. As it fell, they disappeared. Tabatha screamed in rage and nearly dropped changeling. She clutched it tight as the men approached. 

“Tabatha!” Ernest cried out, leaping from his horse before it could stop. He ran to her. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here? And who are–” He stopped, looking at the snow bank where the witches had been, then back to Tabatha. She looked past him to the sheriff. Who stared at the snowbank. Where two women had just disappeared on the breeze.

“Where–” Ernest began.

“Witches,” the Sheriff said, spitting to the side as he dismounted. “Tabatha Moresly you hereby stand accused of witchcraft.”

“Lionel, please!” Ernest blurted. “A trick of the moonlight! Don’t be daft.” His voice had lilted too high. He looked back at his wife, eyes too wide, and searched for an answer on her face. She gave him little to go on.

The sheriff stared at her. Neither afraid nor accusing, just accepting the necessity of an unclean task. She felt like a lame horse waiting for the knife.

He gave a sad shake of the head, but he left an eye on her.  “I need no further proof than this. You convene with the witches.” he took a step forward, one hand at his hip, on the hilt of his saber. Ernest stepped between them, his hand out, fingertips resting on the sheriff’s sword hand. 

“What do you intend?” he demanded. Tabatha felt a surge of affection for him, like she’d not felt in years. Maybe ever. The sheriff darted a glance at Ernest’s face before returning to Tabatha. She stared back. Cold. 

“Tonight, the dungeon with a guard,” he said. “Tomorrow, a trial at first light. She will burn at the stake in innocence before God or prove her guilt.”

Tabatha felt nothing. No fear. No anger. She knew she should have, but nothing came. She watched Ernest’s shoulders bunch up, then relax. He’d accepted it. He turned to Tabatha and held his hands out for the babe. All emotion carved from his face.

“The child stays here,” the sheriff said. 

Now a shot of ice lanced through Tabatha’s chest. Not her blood, not her babe, but still a child. Ernest let his arms fall slowly. His face twitched toward anger, outrage, for a moment, but then fell back into statelessness.

“Preposterous!” she shouted, panic rising. “On what charge!”

“I believe it to be a changeling,” he said, straightforward. “Devilry from the witches. Did you trade your own child for some occult powers? Or did you cut a deal to have this child at all?”

Tabatha glared at him over the baby’s head. She had done no such thing, but the debate would gain her nothing. The wind howled, she thought she caught a few cackles from the treeline, but she couldn’t be sure. She glanced at her husband, Lord and protector of his great house. He studied a point just over her head.

“Ernest,” she said, assertively. He ignored her. “Ernest, please…” Her voice cracked. His gaze fell to the snow at his feet. She shivered.

The sheriff looked at Ernest, then shrugged.

“I won’t have its blood on my blade,” he said, “but I can’t allow it back into the town. Witches made it, they can have it back.”

Ernest nodded.

She strode forward, shouldering Ernest aside to push the baby into the sheriff’s face. “Look at her! Lionel! Look! It’s an infant. Just a child. You fool!”

The sheriff glanced at the snowbank, then back to Tabatha. Gently, he took the child from her arms, holding it out as if it screeched at him. The babe had woken up and stared back at him with pale blue eyes. Perfect and harmless, swaddled in her bundle. 

The sheriff grunted and hurled the infant away from him, towards the woods. Tabatha screeched and leapt after it, but the sheriff hooked her elbow. The swaddling cloth trailed across the moonlight as the bundle sailed up. 

It landed with a soft sound in the piled snow. Tabatha fought and screamed as the sheriff tied her wrists behind her back. He ripped some fabric from her dress and made to gag her, but she hissed and bit at him. He jerked a hand from her snapping teeth with a grunt, then gave her a sharp slap. She reeled toward the ground but stood again immediately. He hit her once more, then again. She doubled over and spat some bloody phlegm. He shoved the muddy rag in her mouth and tightened it.

She glared at him. His face hadn’t changed. A man doing an unsavory duty. Not enjoying it. Not hating her. Keeping his town safe. Tabatha looked to Ernest. He stood rooted where she’d left him, he gazed at her with an open mouth. She looked at the hole in the snow where the infant, the changeling, had disappeared beneath. He looked down. At his feet. Not to the snowbank. Not to where her child, their child, as far as he knew, could lay broken, frozen, and bleeding. Now the pain came, crumpling her from within.

Without looking at her again, Ernest mounted his horse and rode back to the town. 

“Heartless bastard,” the sheriff muttered. He shook his head again. “Now, Mrs. Moresly, you can ride ladylike in front of me or I can throw you over the rear. Which would you–” 

She leapt forward and headbutted him, catching his nose with her forehead. She felt a satisfying crunch of bone. He swore loudly and staggered back, blowing blood down into the snow for a few moments. Then he stood up, grimacing at her. His hand twitched toward his blade, but fought down whatever violent urge had taken him. Instead, his hand swept up in an open armed slap that caught her across the temple, spinning her around and sending her to the snow. 

He picked her up and hoisted her over the back of his horse, then mounted up in front of her and they set off. Still dazed, she turned her head to stare back at the snow bank, bobbing as the horse's rump flexed. 

Moonlight glinted on the powder, shadowing the divot in the bank. Rage bubbled up for her now, rage in a thousand different flavors. A whirl of wind rose, pelting her face with ice and stinging her bruised cheek. As she winced, the wind whipped past the snowbank and a brilliant puff of powder shot up from the hole. The powder twisted and gleamed in the moonlight, then took shape. 

A raven, stark white feathers glinting in the moonlight, flapped its wings and gaining height. Tabatha stared, wide-eyed. 

The creature dove at them and the young mother caught the flash of pale blue in its eye. she could swear she caught a wink. Then it sailed over her head and she heard a loud splat and a curse from the sheriff.. The raven soared up and away again, with one loud caw.

To Tabatha the cawing sounded just as if the raven had shouted, “Arsehole.” 

*** 

Her cell had a barred window at head height which opened to a muddy alley behind the jail. She’d curled up on the stone floor where they’d thrown her, and not moved for hours. A tiny puddle of tears had frozen beneath her face. A tattered blanket lay in the corner. She ignored it. The cold seeping from the walls did not touch her, but her swollen cheek throbbed. 

When she closed her eyes, she saw the witches, disappearing from the snowy hill, she saw her Morticia bundled and held away. She saw the knowing grin on the tall witch’s face. Two that must be three. She saw Ernest ignoring her. She saw the bundle in the air, the raven on the wing, the snow on the wind. She saw fire.

tink tink tink

Something tapped on the bars of the window. Tabatha squeezed her eyes shut tighter. A final, small denial.

tink tink tink

She knew before she turned who and what it would be. She lifted her head and gave the window a baleful look. The pale blue eye of the white raven glared back.

It cawed loud and bobbed its head, nodding her over to the window. She shut her eyes again and curled back around her pain.

tink tink tink

tink tink tink

Tabatha groaned and dragged herself to her feet. She shuffled to the window and leaned against the wall, feeling the weight of her bones. A stubble-faced guard slept on a stool outside her cell, head tipped back, breath heavy. She turned her head and glared at the raven.

The raven cawed softly, then leaned in next to her ear. She felt a little puff of breath and heard the snip of its beak. The gag fell from her mouth. She pulled back and looked into its eye.

“Well, you look terrible.” The voice came from its chest, low but clear. A male voice, with a touch of mischief to it. A laugh just out of reach behind his words. She knew she should have felt shocked or awed, but pain and loss had burned through her. The shell they had left could feel very little. She turned and held her hands up to the window. A moment later, her hands came free. “I ate an apple as bruised as you once, upset my stomach for near on a week.”

“Why have you come changeling?” Tabatha replied in a monotone. “The witches would gloat over my living corpse? Do they watch through your eyes? Do they feed on my pain?”

“Ahhhh,” the raven said, “Self-pitying and morbid. A sourpuss. Auspicious opening.”

Tabatha felt nothing, said nothing.

“Well I come with hope,” he said, “an offer, for the sourpuss.” Tabatha rolled her head around to look at him.

“From the witches?”

“No, from the King of Scotland,” the raven said then gave one short caw. The guard snorted and his head twitched forward. Tabatha tensed, but his head lolled back and he slept on. “Yes, you, sourpuss.” 

Without a moment’s thought, Tabatha’s hand shot out and she caught the little bastard by his throat. It choked out a small caw and beat its wings against her arm. She squeezed, it choked. A wild burst of feathers, a tiny popping sound, and a mouse skittered up her arm to her neck. She slapped at it, but it leapt off and with another pop the raven glided down to land a few feet from the window. A ray of sunlight crept past toward the raven. It glared at her.

“Violent,” it said. “Just like your mother.”

A tiny puzzle piece fell into place for Tabatha, a little certainty. The raven threw its head back and cawed once. 

The guard gave a startled grunt and stood up, armor clattering. He glared out at the raven, muttering, then noticed the sunlight in the alley and rubbed his face. He shot Tabatha a distrusting glare, then shuffled off. She heard a door creak open and shut down the hall, then heavy footsteps going upstairs.

“There’s a big pile of sticks in the town square,” the raven said, hopping back to the window, but staying out of her reach. “The witches want you or your daughter. They don’t much care which witch stays with them and which witch goes her own way.”

“Why us? Why not Melanie?”

“Eldest surviving daughters of the preceding witch,” the raven said. “Your mother, you, your daughter.”

Tabatha’s heart awoke. She felt it beat as if it were the very first time.

“Did they send you?”

The raven didn’t answer. Tabatha quirked an eyebrow at him, tugging at her bruised cheek.

“Hm. What will happen to Morticia?”

“Whatever you like, sourpuss,” the raven looked at her with the glint of a grin about its eyes. 

Tabatha took it in for only a moment.

“Fine,” she said. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

“Oh lovely!” the raven said, then hopped a few steps away from the cell. “Beautiful morning for a jailbreak.”

He stared at her. She stared back. They waited. Footsteps pounded overhead, moving toward the stairs.

“Well?” Tabatha said. 

“‘Well’ what?” the raven asked.

“Well, get me out of here,” Tabatha said. “Preferably before they burn me alive.”

The raven gave a rolling caw, it sounded like laughter.

“I’m not the witch,” he said. “You are! Figure it out.” Tabatha glared at him, both of her hands had wrapped around the frigid window bars, melting the frost.

The raven gave another rolling caw and hopped close to her. She growled.

“Oh fine! Fine. A few tips,” he said, hopping closer, but still out of reach. “Concentrate on the cold. Not the wind and snow out here, not yet. There’s cold inside you.”

“If you’re not a witch–” A door slammed overhead.

“Perhaps less chit chat and more witching,” the raven quipped, unconcerned. “Helps to close the eyes.”

Tabatha did so, clinging to the bars before her.

“Now. The cold. Inside.”

tabatha pictured her chest as an ice cave, with columns and teeth of ice dangling from overhead. The image came fast and ready to mind. It felt right, perfect.

“Now picture where you are, every detail,” the raven said, a little softer, creeping forward.

The cell. The stones. The iron bar. The ratty blanket. 

“Now see where you’re going,” he said, even softer.

The snowbank. The fields and town behind. The woods ahead. Th

“Now let the snow take you there.”

The door to the cells slammed open. The guard gave a strangled cry and ran to the cell door. He watched a cloud of snow drift to the floor of the cell. He choked out of a little cough of surprise and looked up to the window. 

A white raven with pale blue eyes, backlit by the blinding dawn, spread its wings wide and gave a trumpeting caw. Then it turned, took a step back, relieved itself between the bars of the window, and flapped away. 

The guard stared at the little white dribble of bird scat, dumbfounded and trying to formulate how he’d explain this to the sheriff.

***

Melanie awoke with a start. Dawn light streamed through the window. She’d had a dream, so real she could still feel the crisp touch where a snowflake had landed on her cheek. She rose from her bed, found her robe in the dusky light and padded out without waking Timothy.

She padded straight to the front door. The dream… she had to know. Melanie ripped the door open, the sunlight glared down on the fresh snow on the fields around their cottage, blinding her. She shielded her eyes and her eyes went to the basket on her front step.

Morticia. The babe lay swaddled and content, staring up at her with Tabatha’s eyes. Melanie cried out and reached down to lift the child from the crib. She felt cold to the touch and Melanie began to rub at her back. The baby nuzzled at Melanie’s neck and her heart melted. She looked all around, but saw only rolling banks of snow and the white capped roofs of the town in the distance. Not a living soul. She looked back down at the basket and saw the note.

I must go. Teach her strength, she will need it. 

Melanie began to cry, softly, bouncing the child on her chest as she did. She went back inside. 

A gust of wind swept past the door and Melanie kicked it shut behind her. A single snowflake drifted inside and landed on Melanie’s cheek, melting there and mingling with her tears.