Free Sorceress by Celia Rees

going to warm the place up after the long cold of winter, and dry out any damp that might have crept in during the spring thaw.
    Agnes swept round the rockers which stood either side of the hearth. She wiped down the oil cloth spread on the table under the window and pushed in the straight-backed chairs. A shelf ran the length of one wall. Agnes dusted over and round the battered storage canisters and rearranged the books. A mix of old maps, seed catalogues and mildewed herbals stood next to a selection of well-thumbed paperbacks fat with damp. They were propped up by a pile of stones from the lake, some round, some oval, smooth as eggs.
    While Agnes worked, Aunt M buzzed about doing what she called ‘a bit of brightening’, tacking up pictures out of magazines and bright woollen blankets woven in stripes and zigzag patterns to cover where the whitewashed wall was webbed and meshed with cracks.
    ‘There. That’s better!’ She stepped back to admire her handiwork and then stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the flaking surface. ‘Needs a fresh coat, but I guess that can wait for another day.’
    When they had finished, Aunt M brewed up more coffee. She made it the old-fashioned way, setting a chipped and blackened pot of blue enamel to heat on the wood stove, watching it until the brown liquid splurged through the thick glass dome on the top.
    ‘Got no milk or creamer,’ Aunt M said as she poured out two mugs. Agnes stirred in sugar from the bowl on the table to sweeten the brew.
    ‘Oh, I forgot. I brought you these.’ Agnes reached in her pack and laid the carton of cigarettes on the table in front of her aunt. Aunt M took the traditional gift of tobacco, nodding her acceptance.
    ‘Thanks, but I quit.’ She turned the red and white box over in her hands. ‘Smoking’s bad for your health, didn’t you know that? Take ’em to Jake over at the fishing shack. They’re his brand. He still uses ’em. Says he’s too old to quit.’
    ‘That’s clear across the lake! There’s still ice out there, I saw it!’
    ‘Won’t be a problem if you go careful. You can get me some bait while you’re over there and I need some supplies. Here.’ She handed Agnes a list. ‘If you go now, you’ll be back by dark. If you’re not, I’ll put a light out on the dock – just head for that.’
    g
    Agnes dragged the faded orange plastic canoe from under its tarp cover and took it down to the water. She climbed in gingerly, arranged the apron around her and used the paddle to shove herself off against the lapping water. It was a long time since she’d been in one of these. She hoped her stroke had not deserted her. It was a calm blue day with no wind to speak of and she glided over the water, guiding the boat through and around the remaining cakes and plates of melting ice. The stroke, the steering, it came back as natural as cycle riding. She began to revel in her new-remembered skill on the water, even though her back hurt from the cramped position and the handle of the paddle chafed her hand, breaking the blisters raised across her palm by a morning spent chopping wood.
    Jake accepted the cigarettes with thanks and sent her off with a couple of cans of worms and coloured maggots.
    Agnes went from his bait shack to the small store which supplied the boats and the summer folk, waited for the boy to fill out her order and toted the paper sacks back to the boat, stowing them in the nose and tail. She had to be careful, the extra weight meant the canoe rode lower in the water. Her hands hurt more now, making her progress even slower.
    The sun sank in the west, its rays flooding across the lake until it seemed her paddle dipped and dripped liquid gold. She went on working her way towards the farther shore as dusk thickened and the sky’s blue deepened above her and white mist came up from the lake, rising around her like wraiths. She guided the boat with care through rafts of ice, feeling the chunks clunk against the sides