Back at the Withershins Inn and Tavern, the handful of daytime drinkers who have straggled in and out through the afternoon have all straggled on their way again to be replaced by the more ambitious and dedicated nighttime crowd. Well, all except our dear Madame Sarsenet. Her dedication apparently exceeds all known bounds as she is still perched at the bar where we found her this morning, peering down at her sticky scrying puddle.

Honestly, I don’t think she’s even moved off that stool. Do you think she used a fairy spell to keep her rather… um… generous backside from falling asleep? It’d be a rather useful spell, that. I mean a person could—

What?

Oh! Oh, is your bum falling asleep while you wait for me to get off my ass and move the story along? Oh, by all means, accept my humblest apologies. I would never want to inconvenience such a fair and gracious reader. That would just be dreadful.

Yes. Yes, that is what we call sarcasm. Well spotted. Spoiled, snotty little…

Where was I? Ah, yes.

Madame Sarsenet has clearly worked herself into quite a state. Her teeth are gritted, her eyes narrowed, her face is red, and—oh hell—angry blue sparks are once again shooting from her wand. Needless to say, the other patrons, drunk or not, are giving her a wide berth. Even Billy is keeping his distance, though not without a few distraught glances at the scorch marks appearing on his lovely bar.

“Yaga!” our fearsome fairy fumes. “I should have known that batty, nosy, old bit—”

Madame!

“—ch would get her claws on it.”

You’re one to talk, lady.

And talk she is. Honestly, one really doesn’t expect fairy tale characters to have such an extensive knowledge of the profane, but the cast of our small story seems to be quite proficient in vulgarity. And creative threats. Seriously, I didn’t know you could do that with a frog and—good god. That sounds dreadful.

**shudder**

Fates and trolls, this story is getting out of hand. Get to the point, Madame!

“Tim. I’m going to need Tim for this.”

Oh. Well, there we are. She got to the point. That was… abrupt. Hmm.

In any case, fair reader, our winged godmother has hopped down from her stool and is now scuttling out the tavern door and into the night, apparently in pursuit of whoever this “Tim” is. Interesting.

Oh well. Shall we?

***

Back in our enchanted forest, night has fallen fully now and the storm has settled into a steady rain and all the denizens of our woodland—

Oh, to hell with this. They’re asleep all right? Let’s move this along a bit.

**time lapse forward to morning**

Ah. Much better. The sun is up, the birds are caroling in the freshly washed trees, and Elaine is on the road again. A hearty breakfast and reluctant directions from Mr. Stilskyn have set our girl on her way to the home of Ms. Yaga and, hopefully, the egg.

And what an interesting home it is too.

We find our brave heroine standing on the edge of a muddy road, staring up at the curious abode filling the clearing before her. And curious is most definitely the word for it.

The home of our possibly-friendly-possibly-not neighborhood witch is rather lumpish. And brown. And… a bit furry in places. And… appears to be standing on four legs. Um…

Are those badger legs?

“Bugger and hell.”

In this case I think I’d have to agree with our girl.

**gulp**

Right. So. Now all our brave heroine has to do is march up to the… um… tail? Is that a tail? Where’s the door? The bloody thing has windows and a chimney… and a tail. Mother of trolls, this is odd.

“Okay.”

Our girl takes one cautious step onto the cobbled path leading toward the cottage and a low growl echoes through the clearing.

“Shit.”

Shit indeed.

The badger legs begin to shuffle and the whole house, tail and all, spins around to face her and reveal…

The front door.

Well, I suppose that’s better than giant badger teeth.

And that’s when the door swings open to reveal a scrawny, white-haired woman who leers down at Elaine with a row of sharp, iron teeth.

Right. I think I might have preferred the badger.

“Yes?” the apparition snaps.

“Um. Ms. Yaga?” Elaine begins.

“Yes. Yes.” The woman waves a knobbly hand to get on with it. “I’m in the middle of sweeping up the poppy seeds some brat spilt all over the floor. If you’re selling something I don’t have time.”

“No. Mr. Stilskyn sent me. I need—”

A grin lights up the woman’s face. “Oh! Rumble! You should have said. How is that rascally charmer?” She pats the door frame. “Down boy.”

Another low growl rumbles from the house, but it settles down on its haunches, bringing the door to the ground.

“Come in! Come in!” She waves an enthusiastic hand toward our girl now. “How is the old dear? He always brings me the best deals. And the best gossip. I do love a good gossip, don’t you?”

Elaine takes a few cautious steps forward. “I—”

“Of course you do. In! In! I’ve just made a fresh batch of cookies and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Before our girl can protest, she is hauled inside and the door slams shut behind her. Ms. Yaga bustles away to a huge tiled oven, still chattering, as Elaine peers around her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Your house is—” Elaine tries to start when the older woman pauses for a breath.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But—”

“And quite effective at deterring trespassers, I must say.”

“I’m sure, but—”

“Peppermint or chamomile?”

Elaine blinks. “Pardon?”

“The tea dear. Mint or chamomile?”

“Um. Mint is fine.”

“Excellent choice. Where was I? Oh, yes. The house—”

“I thought your house was supposed to have chicken legs,” Elaine rushes in a single breath.

The woman blinks. “What? Oh! No, no. You’re thinking of my cousin Baba Yaga, the Witch of the Western Wilds. I’m Sybil Yaga, the Witch of the Semi-Overgrown Thicket Just Off Water Mill Road. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, I grant you. But what can you do? Baba always did get seniority. Uppity old baggage. That whole branch of the family is a bit batty. Chicken legs! I ask you.”

“Right. Of course.”

“And the iron teeth!” Sybil winces dramatically and plucks said teeth from her mouth, smacking a set of red toothless gums Elaine’s direction. “Useful for dealing with thieves and the like. But the wooden ones are so much more practical. Except for the occasional termite.”

The Witch of the Semi-Overgrown Thicket Just Off Water Mill Road drops the iron dentures on a shelf and pops a pair of wooden teeth into her mouth instead.

“Ah, there we are. Much better. I swear, Baba keeps hers in all the time just for the look of the thing. Ridiculous.”

“Yes. Ridiculous.” Our girl’s eyes appear to have adjusted to the dimness as she turns about to examine the room.

A huge mortar and pestle dominate the corner opposite the stove while the walls are covered in shelves. Shelves full of the oddest things. Bundles of herbs and pots of salve are scattered amongst combs of carved bone, oddly embroidered handkerchiefs, and—**shudder**—the occasional grinning skull.

Ugh.

Elaine swallows. “So… you have much trouble with thieves and such?”

Something like a low cackle sounds from Sybil’s direction. “Not so often as I’d like. Though I did hear about some impertinent young baggage who’s been impersonating me. I’ll have to deal with that.”

Oh, shit.

“Really?” Elaine swallows again. “How rude. Can’t imagine who’d do that.”

“Yes. Astonishing isn’t it. Young people these days. But I heard it just last night from a pair of half-wit half trolls who came blundering through my vegetable patch. I suppose I should have questioned them a bit more on that. One can’t have fake witches running round making use of my good name.”

“No,” Elaine murmurs. “That would be bad.”

“Oh, well,” Sybil shrugs and fetches down a tin of cookies from a shelf. “It’s too late now, I suppose.”

“Um. Why is that?”

Sybil turns with her wide wooden smile. “Why, I turned them into hedgehogs, of course.”

“Of course.”

Our friendly-but-still-really-scary neighborhood witch turns back to arrange the cookies on a small plate. “They’re living in the back garden for now. At least until something steps on them. Which honestly would be inconvenient. Hedgehogs really are a wonder for dealing with a slug problem. Do you garden, dear?”

“Not real—”

A rattle and a hiss sounds from behind our brave heroine and, with a tiny shriek, she spins around. On the shelf behind her sits a small cage containing a white rabbit with evil red eyes. It glares back at her.

Next to it sits another cage. This one holds a tiny man no bigger than her thumb. He gives her the same vicious glare as his fellow prisoner, mumbles something unintelligible, and turns his back before sitting down.

“Don’t mind Monty.” Sybil’s voice comes from right behind Elaine, making her jump. “He’ll murder you quick enough if you let him out, but otherwise he’s a sweetheart.”

Our girl pales slightly and points at the tiny man. “He’ll murder—”

“No, no!” the witch waves the words away. “Monty is the rabbit. Nasty pointy teeth he’s got.” The red-eyed terror begins to gnaw on the bars of the cage as if to prove the witch’s point. Sybil points at the little man. “That is the world’s biggest nuisance and a pain in my ass. Ignore him.”

The tiny man flips a rude finger over his shoulder and continues to mutter but doesn’t turn around.

“Now, then. Tea. And I’ll fetch the cookies.” The older woman presses a steaming mug into Elaine’s hands and bustles back to where she left plate.

Our fair damsel gives the cages’ occupants one more wary glance and steps back. Only to have her foot knock against something solid. Looking down she sees the gleam of something golden peeking from beneath a ragged quilt.

Could it be…

Elaine peeks over her shoulder to see the other woman busy with something on a shelf. Our girl turns back, flips the blanket out of the way and…

A golden dragon egg gleams up at her.

“Found my treasure did you?” a low voice purrs from behind her.

Elaine spins, tea flying, and finds the Witch of the Semi-Overgrown Thicket Just Off Water Mill Road has replaced her sharp—very sharp—iron teeth and is grinning down at her.

“Now,” the suddenly looming hag leans in, “what was it I said I did to little thieves?”

Oh, dear.

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…