Free The Magic Circle by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

to smile at her no-nonsense attitude. It is a pityshe didn’t have a beauty-loving mother like mine to soften her core, to open her to the pleasure around her.
    Gretel walks to the window and catches the reflection of herself in the spun-sugar glass. “Still, flowers are a treat now and then.” She smiles and returns to the table.
    I want to clap my hands with happiness at the evidence that this child is not yet so bound by her pastor’s strict warnings that she cannot enjoy beauty. But I don’t clap. She might think my happiness trivializes her efforts to be pious. I won’t risk alienating this fine child. She is working again already. I nod silently.
    She soaks the endive in the water bucket. “And the chicken?”
    Fear tightens its grip on my chest. “I have no meat.”
    Gretel looks at me solemnly. “We got very poor in the last year. We had only what meat we could hunt. You are an old woman. You cannot be a good hunter.” She lifts her chin proudly. “Poverty and age are nothing to be ashamed of. We will use much garlic.” She takes fresh garlic from her pocket. “I found it in the woods. We’ve been chewing on it, to keep the evil spirits at bay.”
    “And fennel, too,” says Hansel, holding up a limp stalk. “Mother said fennel helps in the night battles against the devils.”
    I step back automatically. I have seen both plants growing wild in these southern woods. I have stepped around them with care. “Add the garlic and fennel to your own bowls once they are on the table. I am neither a garlic eater nor a fennel eater.” Then I move closer to Gretel and put my fingers on her cheek. “You are not just lovely to look at,” I say, “you are clever.”
    “I’m clever, too,” says Hansel.
    “That remains to be seen,” says Gretel.
    “Don’t be hard on your brother,” I find myself saying, although I, too, don’t know if this boy is clever.
    “Our mother always said that,” says Gretel, looking at me with guileless eyes. She smashes the garlic expertly and puts it on a plate on the table. She looks around. “Where are the hot pads?”
    “Hot pads?” I say, feeling a small panic. I must be careful not to betray myself. I have been inured to the pain of heat ever since my brief hours as the salamander of vermillion in that birch grove those nine long years ago. Fire can eat my flesh, but it causes me no pain. I have no need of hot pads.
    “I have to hang the soup pot on the hook in the fireplace.”
    “But the pot isn’t hot yet,” I say, stupidly.
    “Of course it’s not hot,” says Gretel, looking at mecuriously. “But the hook is hot. What if I touch it? Where are the hot pads?”
    “Here,” I say, picking up an old towel from the small stack by the wall. “You can use this.”
    Gretel takes the towel from me with a doubtful face. She sets the pot on the hook in the fireplace. Then she turns to me with a face bright from the heat of the fire. “Tomorrow we can catch a rabbit.” She smiles faintly. “I’m very good with a slingshot. There are not many foods better than roast rabbit.”
    I give no answer. An answer will come to me in time, I know. For now, the danger is not immediate. I can let the child’s words pass.
    We eat endive soup in quiet peace. I am careful to take the bread from the oven with the old towel, rather than my bare hands. The smell of the fresh bread is almost as good as its taste. The children eat ravenously. And soon even Hansel is washing up with us and sweeping and wiping the table.
    The children are hiding yawns. I smile at their innocent politeness. “You must climb into bed now. Hurry and strip.”
    Gretel shakes her head. “We’ve been sleeping in the woods and . . . and we’ve come to prefer the feeling of leaves underneath us.”
    “We have not,” shouts Hansel.
    “Yes, we have,” says Gretel firmly. “I’ll carry in some leaf piles and we’ll sleep in the corner.”
    I am shocked, almost hurt. “Is there something wrong with