She raises an eyebrow. She reaches back and snaps her fingers at Ralph, who begins to shrink down to his former, more reasonable size. He doesn’t look too pleased about the whole ordeal.
“You’re absolutely right,” she says, smiling at me with what I think might be pride. “I won’t call you that anymore.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You have to understand, Annie, I do adore you. I only want what’s best for you. Truly.”
Does she? I don’t know what to believe anymore.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she says. “You’re my dear friend. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve already lost so many friends. Friends like me. Like us. We should stay together. Protect each other. Enjoy each other’s company.”
“I can’t stay,” I say, my fear wearied. “I need to see what will happen with Sam. I need to know, or I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering. I deserve certainty.”
She looks away from me. She gets up, takes another cup from the cabinet, sets it down and pours herself more tea.
“Very well,” she says. “You said yourself you can make your own decisions. If you want to leave, leave.”
It’s a relief like I’ve never felt before. Blissful.
“But,” she says, “if you leave, you cannot come back.”
“What?” I say.
“I’m not punishing you. I support your right to choose whichever path you most desire,” she says, seating herself across from me at the table. “But I will lose all respect for you if you leave. And I don’t believe I will ever get it back.”
It might be the most hurtful thing anyone has ever said to me. The very definition of brutal honesty. Absolutely savage.
It stirs in me the urge for petty defensiveness. I stave it off. Just leave, I tell myself. Just go.
Why is it so hard? Ralph is small again and no longer blocking the door; he’s busy gnawing on a bone. There’s nothing in my way. It should be easy. I have the chance to extricate myself from all of this. This twisted fairy-tale horror-show bullshit.
I look at Sophie, who is sitting there casually sipping her tea. And up comes the resentment; up comes the pettiness, up with torches and pitchforks.
“You want to know why people are afraid of you, Sophie? I can solve that mystery for you. Save you the trouble,” I say. “It’s because you’re a fucking witch!”
The word hovers between us like dust in the ether.
My resentment chips away, and underneath it are guilt and sadness and fear. I want to apologize, to take it back, snatch the word out of the air, chew it up, swallow it down. But of all the impossible, unimaginable things transpiring in my reality lately, I know this won’t be one. Magic has its limits.
I know she’s hurt. It’s obvious to me in her erratic movements, in the oscillation of her eyes, the trembling of her hands. She seems aware of this. Maybe even embarrassed by it. Her cheeks glow exceptionally red.
She smacks her hands down on the table.
“Is that how you think of me?” she asks. “After everything, is that how you see me?”
She stands, and as she does, she begins to transform.
She lifts her hands, bending bony, haggard fingers. Her nails, usually artfully manicured, clean and well maintained, are a horrible yellow. They split as they curl under, and around, and around.
Her skin greens. Her veins seethe under her skin like hungry snakes. Her nose grows, breaking in multiple places as it extends out each foul inch. Her chin elongates with a loud, unrelenting crunch. Warts appear on her face, her hands. Sores rip open; they bubble and fester. Her lips shrivel. Her eyes expand to the approximate size, shape and color of undercooked eggs. She opens her mouth, a dark abyss punctured by pointy teeth.
She erupts in a fit of cackles. “Is this how you see me?”
A broomstick materializes in her left hand. Her dress is now puritan.
“Like this?” she says, lunging toward me.
I run for the door. I tear it open, topple outside. She follows, cackling louder and louder. I take off up the hill, into the woods.
“An-nnieee,” she sings. “An-nnieee.”
The rustling of the trees lets me know she’s not behind me. She’s above me. She’s flying above me.
Flying on her broomstick.
I think I’d laugh if I weren’t so terrified.
I keep my eyes down, focused on the ground in front of me, as I dodge rocks and branches, navigate the uneven terrain. The hut comes into view, and I notice the door is open. I can see inside. There’s a fire burning in a small cauldron in the center of the room, thick smoke billowing.