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Of Witches and Princesses

 Once there were two sisters who diverged upon different paths. One sought to become a witch, for she loved study, the other a princess, for she loved the idea of power and pretty dresses. It is a far simpler thing to apprentice to a witch than to apprentice to a princess. Indeed, the latter seemed hardly possible at all. Try as the second sister might, she could find no princess who would take her on. She found, instead, that the princesses she queried thought her high and mighty to think she could try and attain such a high position. 

    At her tenth attempt, a courtier took her aside and explained that a princess was not a position to be achieved, but rather one to be born to, or, in the sister's case, married into. It was not so hard to marry a prince, the courtier said. All it would take was one spell from a witch. 

    How often, the sister asked, do princesses ask for the help of witches?

    More often than the sun rises, the courtier said.

    It was then that the second sister decided to become a witch. There was far more power there.

    And whose to say a witch can't wear a pretty dress?

Unbearability

 'I cannot breathe,' the specter shouted. 'I cannot bear the weight.' It never bear more than an ounce on a good day. 'It does not seem that something so horrible should be able touch us here,' the faerie sighed. Then flinched. 'I cannot carry the burden any longer,' noted the witch. It was said as a matter of fact. 'The wind has changed,' said the girl. She raised her finger raised toward the wind. The curious party looked at her finger. They raised their eyes to the sudden breeze. 'That is a small way of putting it, child,' said the witch. She had crinkling eyes. Very few noticed that they twinkled. 'Small indeed,' said the faerie, her face turned up. Her nose was button-like. Most noticed that much. 'I suppose I don't breathe. Usually. As a matter of course,' the specter noted. 'It always turns. Just before the worst of it,' the girl said. 'Not always,' the witch warned. 'Always,' the girl sa...

The Wicked Prince and the Woodcutter

 Once upon a time there was a wicked prince. He was bad in all the ways you can imagine: taking all advantages, stealing from the poor, corrupting youths, dancing very badly... One day he met a girl who was as good as he was wicked. As these stories go, he became enthralled. She was not, it must be said, immune to his ardor. And so she took him into the Enchanted Forest to meet her mentor: the wise old witch.  This particular wise old witch was filled with all the spunk and vigor one could hope for. More importantly, perhaps, she was an excellent mistress of potions and was passing on her skill to her young charge.  The wicked prince was unconcerned as to his meeting with the wise old witch. How harmful could an old woman be to his suit? But then his beloved began speaking to the old witch. And the old witch spoke back. On and on they spoke, knowledgeable, with keenness tinged with an essence of friendship. It was too much for the wicked prince. He fled. The girl married ...

A Prince Falls Down a Hole, etc...

 Once upon a time a prince fell down a hole.    A princess was walking by and heard his shouts.    Naturally, the princess found a ladder nearby and lowered it into the hole.    The prince climbed out, shook the princess by the hand, and they went on their separate ways.     They saw each other from time to time in marketplaces between their two kingdoms, acknowledging the other's presence with a nod.    Later they met at a call for rescuing villagers from a nearby fire.    A witch once gave a tea for those inclined to help her with her healing work; it was there that they became friends.    Their friendship was lively and intellectual and satisfying.     A whisper grew in the kingdoms, of a marriage, of a combined land, of tiny princesses and princes.    Perhaps. And perhaps it was the witch that married them. But if it happened, it was nice that it didn't happen all at once. For th...

A Recipe for the Care of the Aged Village Witch

The baker had made a perfect loaf. She set it aside that day, and even after all the rest were sold, she kept it back. She knew it was perfect by the sound, the sight, the smell, and a fourth sense  — a tingle of magic that made her certain. She had been taught that secret once, a long time ago.     After closing the bakery, she warmed the loaf, wrapped it, put on her cloak and scarf, stepping out into the cold, dark afternoon.      Her feet stopped in front of the oldest cottage. It had just a few patches of thatch missing. That would need fixing. A tilted door frame. But that had been there for years. There were no holes in the mortar. And while the garden had died it's annual winter death, it would come back just fine.     The baker knocked at the tilted door, then entered.      The one room had a single bed, and in it a woman whose face had skin so deeply etched it was hard to find other features. Her hair w...