The old woman invited us to sit, "You speak of
lost children."
“Where should we sit?” asked Mr. Longville.
“Can we just sit anywhere? Or do you have a
preference? Is this divan a fine place? Would you
prefer the lady sit on the chaise longue there?”
The old woman flinched noticeably at each
question.
“Percy, please,” I said, sitting gingerly beside
Mr. Longville. I leaned over, intending to tell him
not to ask questions, but he was oblivious.
“I was wondering,” he barreled on, “Why do
you wear that mask? Is it a skin condition? Have
you had it long? It’s quite dry this time of the
season, is it not?”
The Old Woman clenched her hand around
the handle of her hatchet. "You are too late; those
children are devoured, I think."
“I have heard it said,” I continued, minding my
manners. “That personal questions are considered
very rude in these parts. We do not intend to
offend you.”
The old woman's grip on her hatchet eased; she
ran a fingernail contemplatively down the wood of
the handle. It made a most unpleasant scratching.
"I saw a wolf in the dead of the night. I watched
as it devoured the children it had stolen from the
city! It is what the wolves do; they devour.”
“Are you quite sure?” Mr. Longville asked.
The witch sprang up. The front of her clothing
was clotted with layers of blood, most being dry,
others... quite fresh.
"Yes. And you, little fool! I shall cut that tongue
from your head and eat it, too, for your endless