Reflections of an Elderly Witch
And so it happened, one winter afternoon, that a woman of elder years sat in a wing-backed chair fat with cushions, and thought deeply. She thought about many things—about kings and princes, and whether she should do away with the lot of them; about fairies, and whether she should call and ask them to sit about inside her cottage house again, as they had made it look so cozy the last time; and, of course, about cats. But the last was because there was one sitting under a pile of yarn, tugging at the mounds of string that grew slowly smaller and smaller as the woman’s knotted fingers curled around wooden needles for the small magic of making a sweater. It was a small magic; infinitesimal in the grand scheme of the use to which she had put magic to in her time. It ...