Free The Magic Circle by Donna Jo Napoli

it. That was before our mother died.” Gretel rummages through my small collection of pots and pans as she talks. “I enjoy cooking.”
    “Your mother is dead,” I say softly. Orphans have come to me.
    “But our father is alive,” says Hansel, sitting at the table, swinging his short, stubby legs.
    “And he has married a most wretched woman,” says Gretel.
    “A real witch,” says Hansel.
    His words hurt my ears.
    “She sent us into the woods, thinking we would die right away.” Gretel has chosen a pot. She rubs out theinside with her filthy skirt and smells it. I would smile at her vain effort if I were not afraid of offending this earnest child. The pot obviously has passed her test, for she now sets it on the kitchen table. “We wouldn’t have even gotten lost except for the fact that Hansel is so stupid.”
    “I’m not stupid,” says Hansel.
    “Putting bread crumbs in your pockets instead of stones was very stupid, Hansel. Your brain is pea-sized.” Gretel speaks with great audacity, I am thinking, for one who came so close to starvation’s door.
    “What is this story of bread crumbs and stones?” I ask.
    “Well, the first time our stepmother sent us out in the woods—”
    “Our wicked stepmother,” says Hansel.
    “Yes, our wicked stepmother,” says Gretel. “The first time, I told Hansel to fill his pockets with white stones. So he did. And all along the way we dropped white stones. That night, when the moon shone bright, we followed the white stones back home.” Gretel has spied a basket of onions in the corner. She takes one and peels.
    “You should have seen the look on the witch’s face when we showed up the next morning,” says Hansel.
    “Please, please,” I say, “don’t call her a witch. Just call her your evil stepmother.” And I am already wondering if this woman, so maligned, is truly a witch. But a witch would have more effective ways of disposing of unwanted children. So she is just one more wayward soul. I wonder what mistake she made, what crime of the soul she committed, to bring herself to the state of mercilessness that these children speak of.
    “But the next afternoon when she sent us away again,” says Gretel, now chopping the onion with my only knife, “stupid Hansel here—”
    “I’m
not
stupid.”
    “He puts bread crumbs in his pockets instead of stones.”
    “It takes time to gather that many stones,” says Hansel. His eyes water from the onion. I smile. This one is no use in the kitchen at all. I pull my small hand towel off the bowl of rising bread dough near the hearth and hand it to him. He dabs his eyes and walks over to the window.
    “So the birds ate the crumbs, of course,” says Gretel. She wipes her hands on her skirt.
    “You need an apron,” I say, as I shape the bread dough and put it on a flat pan. I open the oven in my hearth and slide in the pan.
    Gretel looks down at the stains on her skirt. “I’ve slept in this for three nights now. It doesn’t matter how much dirtier it gets.”
    I nod. She is a practical girl.
    “Where’s the endive?” Gretel looks around the kitchen area as she talks.
    “I have to cut it.” I take the knife from her and leave, walking quickly through the late-afternoon rays. I can see the moon rising already. It is a full moon of the new month. I walk to the corner of my garden just inside the marigolds. Without the marigolds, all my endive would be eaten by the rabbits. But the smell of marigolds protects it.
    I look at the marigolds as if I’m seeing them for the first time. They are cheerful and simple. I make a pocket of my skirt and fill it with endive. Then I cut two sprigs of marigold. I march back.
    Gretel’s shoes stand just inside the door. She is on her knees, helping Hansel take his off. She rises as I come in. I walk to her and weave a sprig of marigold into each of her braids.
    “You will be a beautiful woman,” I say.
    “I’ll settle for being good. Like you,” says Gretel.
    I want