I went home and I wept and wept because there is no little head tucked against me and no tiny dress to sew beside my own. Forgive me for burdening you with my silly, small sadnesses, but I feel somehow that you might understand.
Your friend,
Agnes
To my friend Agnes:
No sadness of yours could ever be small or silly to me. You are a person who has much love to give, and you deserve much love in return. Tonight I send you mine, along with a honey cake and some lavender tea that I hope will help soothe you. Will you write again tomorrow and let me know if you are feeling better?
Your friend,
Mathilda
As the weeks went by, Agnes had also confessed why she and her husband had moved to Hanau. Oskar had a secret shame: His parents had never been married. When Oskar was born, his mother had left him with his father, who later wed and had a legitimate son, Otto. All his life, Oskar was treated as lesser than Otto, and when their father died, Otto inherited the family farm and all the money. Heartbroken, Oskar had saved up carefully for this move and this cottage so that he wouldn’t need to rely on his brother’s charity. Agnes knew her husband would be furious with her for sharing this, but Mathilda had no one to tell.
It was why they had needed a fresh start and a new town where they could put down roots and earn respect. And why he doesn’t want me associating with Mathilda, Agnes thought guiltily.
As if he had heard her thinking about him, Oskar gave a loud yawn and stretched. “How long have I have been dozing?” he asked, giving her a drowsy smile. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. I guess fixing the shed took more out of me than I expected.”
“It’s all right.” Agnes closed the box, then came over to him and kissed his unruly mop of wheat-colored hair. “My poor, hardworking husband. It’s high time you went to bed.”
He got up obediently, and his eyes fell upon the basket. “Another gift from the witch?”
“Don’t call her that,” Agnes chided him. “Not when she has been so kind to us. Look, she sent flowers and tea and honey, and invited us to supper at her house. I think we should go.”
“I don’t know—Is that glass?” Oskar broke off, distracted by the honey jar. He held the lovely object in his work-roughened hand, watching it glint gold and peach and amber in the firelight. “Where would one find honey this time of year? How can she afford such luxuries?”
“She must have harvested it last summer. And we always suspected she was wealthy.”
“But why settle in a humble village like this, then?”
Agnes tossed her heavy flaxen braid over one shoulder, exasperated by his determined dislike of the woman. “I don’t know, dear, but we can ask her when we go over for supper.”
Oskar set down the jar. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “Whether or not the rumors are true, people fear and hate this woman. If they see us befriending her, they may hate us as well.”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know that? How do you know it won’t be like Mannheim all over again, where we can’t go to market without being looked at and whispered about?”
“I see the reason in what you say,” Agnes said gently. “I do. But no one here knows about Mannheim, and I see such kindness in this woman. I know what it is to be lonely.” She looked around their cottage, in which she baked and brewed alone each day. It was cozy and comfortable, but it, too, was an empty womb, without any hope of laughter or little pattering feet. She put her hands on either side of Oskar’s face. “And if we find out she is a witch, we need not have anything to do with her again. Besides,” she added playfully, “aren’t you curious?”
After a pause, in which Oskar took in her determined expression, he sighed. “All right. One supper,” he conceded, and they sealed the agreement with a kiss.
The following night, when Agnes and Oskar approached the hedge surrounding Mathilda’s house, the wooden gates stood open. Iron lanterns illuminated a path between drooping willow trees, positioned like sentries on either side. Agnes was struck by the absence of even a flake of snow on the property, as though winter itself feared to walk here.
Oskar’s hand tightened in hers. “We can still turn back.”
“Don’t be silly,” Agnes said, pulling him through the gates, but even she could not deny that there was something unnerving about this place, a certain resonance that lingered in the air. Like a fading note of music, she thought, played on a pipe to lure the listeners onward.
It was a beautiful, wild space. All along the hedge grew plants of every kind: shrubs dotted with mauve berries, fragrant alabaster flowers, and trees that draped fleecy leaves over the grass like the train of a bride’s dress. Peppermint, rosemary, and thyme spiced the air, and a granite fountain issued a trickle of water that tinkled like fairy bells. It looked like a garden lost in time, a place that could lull someone to sleep for twenty years while the world spun by outside the hedge.
A surprisingly small cottage stood in the center of this wilderness. But where Agnes and Oskar’s home was made of mushroom-colored wood, Mathilda’s had been built from dove-gray stones, and she had panes of pretty colored glass set into black lead frames for windows. Warm light shone out from the curtains, and a little stone dog stood on the doorstep.
The door opened and Agnes held her breath, suddenly shy at the prospect of meeting the person to whom she had bared her heart in writing. She had pictured Mathilda as an old, frail lady with a gray bun and a sweet face lined with wrinkles, so when her neighbor emerged from the cottage, Agnes had to lean against Oskar in shock. The so-called witch, who by all accounts was loathsome and malevolent, looked about twenty-five, not much younger than Agnes herself. She was small and slim, with rich black hair tied with a frost-blue ribbon, and freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across a pale, heart-shaped face. Her light brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave them a shy smile, her hands fluttering at her sides as though unsure what to do.
“Hello,” she said timidly. “You must be Agnes and Oskar. Won’t you come in?”
Agnes opened her mouth, but no sound came out. They followed Mathilda inside, moving slowly as though in a dream, and were enveloped by a pleasant warmth that smelled of savory stew and honey cakes. Mathilda reached for their coats and they handed them over, unable to stop staring at her. For a moment, they all stood in a bashful silence by the door. And then Agnes burst out laughing, and Oskar joined in. So this was the old witch the town feared half to death!
“I’m glad to meet you, Mathilda,” Agnes said warmly. “Oskar and I have enjoyed your generous gifts, and your notes have made my winter much brighter.”
The young woman’s face shone. “I feel the same way,” she said, holding out her hands, which Agnes squeezed. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Supper will be ready in a moment.” She tightened the cream-colored apron over her blue flannel dress and bustled over to the fireplace, where two large pots were bubbling away. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have friends over at last. It’s always so quiet in my house.”
Agnes and Oskar sat down at the kitchen table, which had been set for three people, with deep-blue crockery and real silver. The cottage was as neat as a pin, with a blue-and-white rug on the floor that matched the soft-spun blankets and cushions on the chairs, one of which was occupied by a fat ginger cat. A thick leather-bound book lay open on a side table, a pen resting between the sheets of rough-edged paper as though Mathilda had been writing in it when they had knocked. Pretty porcelain figurines lined the mantel, and a thick purple velvet cloth covered a painting hanging over it, likely to keep off the dust.