To Melody Marshall and Marisa Hopkins, the best writer friends and cheerleaders I could ask for
Agnes saw the gift by the light of the moon.
She glanced back at the cottage, expecting to see Oskar’s worried face at the door, but her husband must have still been dozing by the fire. A cheerful glow crept from the shutters and illuminated the snowflakes drifting down from the sky, and, for a moment, Agnes almost turned back, the way Oskar would want her to. Instead, she retrieved the basket that had been left at the gate. She peered at the contents: a note written on finely milled paper; a handful of muslin tea sachets so fragrant she could smell their sweetness on the chill air; a bundle of snowdrops tied together with a frost-blue ribbon; and a jar, a glass jar, of honey like precious sunshine.
This basket was the latest in a series that had come every week since October, one gift for each humble offering Agnes left by the towering hedges of the house between the willows. She had never met the occupant, but she knew from these presents that their mysterious neighbor was not poor. Or unkind, she thought, gazing up the snowy hill where the woman lived. Last week, Agnes had left her some fresh goat cheese rolled in herbs and mentioned in her note that Oskar had caught a terrible cold. Clearly their neighbor had remembered, judging by the tea and honey.
“This is a mistake,” Oskar had said grimly, when two pairs of knitted woolen socks had come in exchange for Agnes’s sourdough bread and butter. “People already wonder why we bought this old cottage next door. Let’s not risk our good name by associating with her.”
Agnes noticed that fearing for their good name hadn’t stopped him from wearing the socks, but she decided not to mention it. “I don’t believe for one minute that she’s an evil witch like everyone says,” she had told him. “I do believe, however, in being good to our neighbors. She could just be old and lonely.”
Oskar had relented, kissing his soft-hearted wife with an affection that had not faded over ten years of marriage. Agnes still sensed his disapproval, but she didn’t know how she could stop corresponding with their neighbor when her gifts were so kind and her notes so amusing. When they had first moved in last September, Agnes had baked molasses cookies for everyone who lived nearby, knowing how important it was to Oskar to start off on the right foot in this new town. She had never dreamed that leaving baked goods at the house on the hill would begin such an unusual friendship.
Now, she reached for the message in the basket.
To my friend Agnes:
Thank you for the delicious cheese. I put it on some oat bread with a drizzle of honey and feasted like a queen. I think I can taste the friendliness of your goat in it, and I even like her name, Johanna. You asked for my opinion on what to name her baby. What do you think of Honey? I have enclosed some for Oskar’s cough. I do hope he is feeling better.
Your friend,
Mathilda
Agnes chuckled at the suggestion for the baby goat’s name, and then noticed a single line of writing all the way at the bottom of the note, like a timid afterthought:
Would you please join me for supper tomorrow night?
She read it three times to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. They had exchanged dozens of messages by now, and every time she had tried to invite Mathilda over for tea, the woman had politely declined, citing some excuse or other. It had made Agnes pity her even more, knowing that she had likely heard the distressing rumors about how the old woman on the hill flew to the moon on a willow branch, or could make a hundred poisons from the blood-scented flowers of her night garden, or cursed the hearts of men as revenge for the lover who had left her on their wedding day. No wonder her poor neighbor was reclusive, with such cruel gossip being spread around town.
Agnes did have to wonder, however, where the stories came from. As a child, when she had asked her mother if fairy tales were real, her mother had replied: “The truth of a tale lies in where it took its first breath,” meaning that a story transformed with each retelling until its origins faded. But this cryptic answer had always made Agnes think of fairy tales as uncomfortably alive, with clawing roots buried deep in dark winter forests.
Shivering, Agnes went inside and set her neighbor’s basket on the table, rubbing her tingling hands in the warmth. Oskar was still asleep in his chair by the fire, so she went to the shelf and took down a little wooden box in which she had been keeping Mathilda’s notes. Growing up, she had always wanted a friend to write letters to but had never found anyone, and these messages with her sweet neighbor meant more than she would admit to her husband. As she carefully added the new note to the box, she couldn’t help rereading some of the old ones.
Paper was a luxury she and Oskar couldn’t afford, so Agnes had been scribbling on the backs of Mathilda’s notes. And though she was sure her neighbor could buy as much paper as she liked, the woman had tactfully followed her lead, squeezing elegant script into every corner of each note until it was filled, and then sending a new one on fresh paper. As a result, Agnes had both her own messages to Mathilda as well as Mathilda’s to her.
To my new neighbors:
I was pleasantly surprised to find your gift by my hedges this morning. Thank you for the delicious cookies, which disappeared much too fast. I am glad that poor little cottage, which has stood empty for too long, now has such kind people living in it.
Please accept this woolen blanket and my own special rose and chamomile tea, made from the plants in my garden, as housewarming gifts.
Gratefully,
Mathilda
Dear Mathilda,
Thank you for the lovely blanket and tea. My husband, Oskar, and I enjoyed them both. I hope you did not feel obliged to send something back. And since you enjoyed my cookies, I am enclosing a second bigger batch for you. Would you like to join us for supper one day? I am always baking and you would be more than welcome, as we haven’t met many neighbors just yet.
Your neighbor,
Agnes
To my kind neighbor Agnes:
How quickly you discovered my sweet tooth. I’m sorry to say that the only thing I can bake well is cake, so I am sending one I made for you and Oskar. I hope you like cinnamon and dates, and it should pair well with that tea I sent. What other sweets do you like? And where did you live before? I’m afraid I don’t leave my house much, but I am so grateful for your invitation.
Your neighbor,
Mathilda
Agnes smiled as she flipped through the messages. Exchanging notes with Mathilda felt as easy as chatting, for the woman had so many charming stories to tell: chasing a family of stubborn rabbits out of her garden, following a new knitting pattern for socks that turned out to be some kind of tent, and baking mishaps with her mischievous cat that liked to steal and hide her spices all over the house. There was always a caring inquiry at the end of her notes. How did Agnes and Oskar like their new home? Did they have any family nearby? Did they have enough blankets for the long winter, and would they like her to knit them a few more?
And for the first time in her life, though they had never met in person, Agnes felt that she had a close friend—someone she could trust, someone who would listen and give thoughtful advice.
Dear Mathilda,
I feel low today. I saw a woman and a girl at market. The child was crying her heart out, with her little hands pressed over her eyes, and her mother knelt down to hug her until she felt better. I couldn’t look away. I noticed everything about them: how the child tucked her head into her mother’s shoulder, how their hair was the exact same shade of brown, how their dresses were made from the same fabric. I imagined the woman sitting up late at night, cutting the cloth with care so there would be enough left over for her daughter.