Free Red by Liesl Shurtliff Page B

overgrown with weeds and thistles, and the stones were cracked and crumbling.
    “Do you think this is the right well?” Goldie asked.
    I was doubtful, except we had followed the dwarf’s directions so exactly, and everything had matched his description.
    “There’s only one way to be certain,” I said.
    I walked to the well and leaned over the edge. The bottom was black as a cave at midnight, and I couldn’t smell anything at all. I turned the rusty stile so the bucket lowered down. There was a
plish.
I heaved the bucket up and looked inside. Goldie gasped.
    “It’s wine, Red! Red wine!”
    The nymphs swirled over the roof of the well, whispering excitedly. This had to be The Wine Well. I felt that tingly feeling I get when there’s magic around—surely this would restore Granny’s magic, her life, her youth….
    “Do you think we should drink some?” asked Goldie.
    “The dwarf said it would restore youth,” I said. “We’re already young. I just need to bring some back to Granny.”
    “How will you carry it?” Goldie asked.
    I hadn’t considered that. I had nothing in which to carry the wine, but then there was another rush and swirl of nymphs, and what I’d assumed was a nearby grove of trees was revealed to be a house, or at least what was left of one.
    It was a large manor, most certainly abandoned. The shutters were chipped and hanging off their hinges, dead ivy climbed the walls and frame, and the stone chimney was only half standing.
    “It doesn’t seem like anyone lives there,” said Goldie.
    “No,” I said.
    “But perhaps there might be a bottle or a jug inside.”
    “Yes,” I said, though neither of us moved. A few nymphs settled on the roof of the dilapidated house, making it look all the more overgrown and haunted.
    “You go first,” said Goldie.
    I walked slowly to the door. It was cracked and chipped. The knob and hinges were orange with rust.
    “I think we should knock,” said Goldie. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
    “Yes, of course,” I said. “We can’t go barging into other people’s houses.”
    I gave a quick rap on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again, and the door fell inward. Clouds of dust billowed up as it crashed to the floor.
    I covered my mouth with my cloak as the dust settled. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I said.
    “Except maybe ghosts,” said Goldie.
    We walked slowly inside and the floorboards creaked beneath our feet. It must have been a grand house once. It looked as though it had been abandoned centuries ago. Everything was covered in thick layers of dust from floor to ceiling. Walls, nooks, and candlesticks were festooned with cobwebs, and the drapes and tapestries had been eaten away by moths.
    A dining table was set for two with fine china and silver and crystal goblets, as though the inhabitants had just sat down to a special supper and then—poof!—disappeared, leaving their meal to rot and collect dust.
    And there was a wine bottle, too. With a cork. I took the bottle off the table. It was empty. When I turned around, something rustled and hooted. I jumped back and Goldie screamed. An owl was perched on the edge of the fireplace. He turned his head and looked at us with one amber eye.
    “Hello, owl,” I said.
    Hoo! Hoo!
said the owl.
    “What did he say?” Goldie asked.
    “He said it’s not polite to barge into other people’s houses.”
    “Oh, is this his house, then?” Goldie asked.
    Hoo-hoo-HOOT!
    “No, he said owls aren’t people.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. Well then, whose house is it?”
    “Albert?” called a soft voice. “Is that you?”
    Goldie and I both gasped as a figure emerged from a cobwebbed corner. It was a woman, thin and pale as mist. She was draped in dust and cobwebs like a forgotten figurine on a shelf. The only bit of color on her was her lips, glistening red.
    Goldie clutched my arm. “It’s a ghost!”
    “A ghost?” said the woman. “No. They call me The Well Witch,