Chapter Two
The days passed and grew into weeks. Gretel thought often of her papa, though doing so broke her heart. The enchantress’s required forfeiture meant that Papa had no recollection of her. He did not miss her as she missed him. He did not mourn her or grieve her. In his mind, she never existed.
No one would ever know how miserable she was. No one would ever come to rescue her. She was not afraid, though. She intended to rescue herself.
Gretel worked hard without complaint. She did all that was asked of her, knowing that maintaining her part of the bargain was essential to protecting her father.
But as she worked, she thought and plotted and reminded herself that she was clever and brave.
When the solution presented itself, she would be ready to take advantage.
Being the enchantress’s servant meant Gretel could not leave the forest. Doing so would invalidate their agreement. The enchantress always slept late, allowing Gretel the morning to see to her chores indoors, then escape to the outdoors once her mistress was awake.
She had responsibilities in the garden, something she had expected to enjoy.
But the garden was an unnerving place. The tall wall, built of stone columns taller than she was, formed a semicircle at the far end of the garden.
It was an imposing structure, made even more so by the constant trickle of water seeping from the rock and spilling into the soil.
The wall must have been built upon a spring of some kind.
The drip, drip, drip of water echoing around her as she saw to the weeding and tending of plants pricked at her nerves.
Gretel never remained in the garden any longer than she had to.
That left her but one temporary escape: the forest itself. The enchantress insisted that she fetch their water from the stream some distance away. Gathering it from the stones in the garden was expressly forbidden, something for which Gretel was grateful.
In the forest, she found some peace.
At the end of her first month of servitude, as the enchantress barked complaints and instructions, Gretel noted how very tired and haggard the woman looked, which was something of a feat unto itself.
For though her father had insisted he saw a woman of unparalleled beauty, Gretel saw nothing of the sort.
Her mistress, she would wager, was a monster of some kind.
Her skin was a sickly green and her eyes yellow.
Her hair was silver, but not in the pleasing way a person’s hair whitened as life marched on.
It nearly glowed, crackling with something very like the residue of a lightning strike.
Her hands more closely resembled claws than human hands.
Beyond her appearance, she inspired in Gretel an undeniable and almost irresistible urge to run, to hide. She hadn’t that luxury.
The enchantress looked less vital of late.
Her green coloring turned to a greenish gray.
Her lightning hair sat flat and dull. Her yellow eyes faded to the point of being almost colorless.
Perhaps she was ill. Gretel was not usually one to wish illness on another, but escape would be far more likely if she were not contending with one in possession of such powerful magic as she had seen the enchantress wield.
That night, Gretel, whom the enchantress banished each evening to the dank and dim basement, was sent below earlier than usual with instructions not to emerge until sunup. The enchantress would not be requiring anything of her until then.
She had never been granted a reprieve from her chores. Grateful, she took advantage, secluding herself below. She lit the single candle she had for chasing away the shadows, and she sat and pondered and planned.
Except she had no real plan. She hadn’t yet sorted out any means of ridding herself of her vow to the enchantress. To simply break that vow would cost Papa his life. Her only hope was magic, but she had none of her own.
The talisman the enchantress hung over the cottage door, the one that bound them both to their agreement, was the closest thing to obtainable magic Gretel could think of. Would breaking it break their vow as well? She would be free, but Papa would no longer be protected.
No. That would never do.
What she needed was a means of accessing the enchantress’s powers.
A magic spell of her own or a potion, something of that nature.
Did her mistress keep her magical knowledge entirely inside herself or had she a book of some kind in which she read and studied her art? If Gretel could find that book . . .
She stopped her pondering, certain she heard a deep, rumbling voice.
She listened more closely. Nothing but silence.
Odd, that. A moment later, the tiniest bits of words spoken by the enchantress floated through the floor.
That wasn’t entirely unusual; her mistress often spoke to herself while preparing her food.
The enchantress only ate food she made herself—an unusual approach, considering she made Gretel do everything else.
When no more sounds met her ears, Gretel returned to the subject foremost in her thoughts. If she could find a book explaining how she might undo the spell while still protecting her father, she would not hesitate to make the attempt. But where ought she to look?
Again, she thought she heard a deeper voice, but upon listening more closely only heard silence.
The same baffling sequence of events occurred repeatedly as the evening wore on.
Perhaps the enchantress’s voice changed as much as her appearance could.
Perhaps the thickness of the ceiling above Gretel’s head distorted the sound.
She did not manage to sort out the puzzle before weariness required she extinguish her candle and rest. She did, however, firmly resolve to spend her mornings, while the enchantress slept, in a determined effort to find a spell book.
Gretel did not mean to live out her life trapped as she was. Somehow, she would be free.
***
When the first rays of dawn streamed in through the gap around the door, Gretel lifted the trapdoor to the basement.
All was still and quiet above. She would see to her duties quickly and efficiently and, if she were truly fortunate, would have time enough to search for the enchantress’s spell book.
The table had been moved—not drastically, but enough to be noticed.
So had the bench that usually sat in front of the fireplace, and the enchantress’s throne-like chair.
She had never known her mistress to rearrange the room.
This did not look intentional, really, more the result of things being pushed out of the way and not returned to their rightful place.
Had the enchantress undertaken a ritual of some kind?
Perhaps she’d required more room to prepare a potion or spell.
Worry clutched Gretel’s heart at the possibility.
The last spell she had seen the enchantress cast had been the very one keeping Gretel with her, and it had followed a spell cast over her father, one intended to end his life.
The sooner Gretel discovered the location of a spell book or some other form of written instructions, the better. Her future was not the only one in need of securing. Any man the enchantress lured, as she had Gretel’s father, would be killed.
She swept and scrubbed the floor. She washed the windows.
The fireplace was swept and the furniture returned to its original locations.
All the while, she looked in cupboards, behind the sideboard, in the backs of shelves.
She found nothing resembling a collection of spells.
The house was not large; there were few places such a thing might have been hidden.
Her gaze moved slowly to the two closed doors at the far end of the small cottage.
One was the enchantress’s own bedchamber.
The other had no occupant, but Gretel had not been permitted the use of it.
She could not search the enchantress’s room, especially not while she was in it.
But if Gretel was very quiet, she might manage to look in the other.
With careful step, slow and deliberate, avoiding any floorboard that might squeak, she crossed the room, all the while eyeing with trepidation the door to her mistress’s bedchamber. It did not open. The distinctive buzzing of the enchantress’s snores echoed quietly within.
Gretel took a shaking breath and reached for the handle of the other door. She turned it downward and gently pushed. The door did not budge. She tried again. When a third attempt proved futile, she tried pulling it instead. Still, nothing happened.
The door was locked. But Gretel had never before seen a key in the house. How was she to find what she needed if doors were locked with no means of opening them?
Something rustled in the enchantress’s room. Gretel swiftly returned to the fireplace and pretended to be just finishing sweeping up the ashes. Behind her, the door of the enchantress’s bedchamber opened. Gretel took a slow breath, reminding herself to remain calm.
She stood, dustpan in hand. Keeping her expression neutral, she turned, intending to offer a small dip of her head in acknowledgment, as she always did. But the sight that met her surprised her so greatly that she could do little but stare.
“You appear to be feeling better,” Gretel said. Indeed, the enchantress’s yellow eyes glowed with life once more. Her skin had lost its hint of gray. Her silver hair shone brilliantly. She was hideous, as always, but somehow less haggard.
The enchantress declared herself quite well in tones of smug satisfaction before ordering Gretel back to work.
Gretel, grateful for the escape, slipped from the house to tend the garden.
Her enthusiasm waned as she approached that corner of the yard.
Oh, how she hated the garden with its looming wall of weeping rocks, its dark shadows and dismal corners.
She would weed and harvest and tend as quickly as she could.
Just as the house had changed overnight, so had the garden, but in a far larger way than the mere movement of furnishings.
A new stone pillar had been added, one as tall and wide as the others.
When had it been placed, and by whom? And why was this new rock dripping water like the others if it had only recently arrived?
The enchantress must have placed it there. That, no doubt, was the reason for Gretel’s discomfort. Even this secluded corner of the tiny world Gretel now occupied bore the mark of her taskmaster, a master she feared she would never escape.