Agnes took it, feeling its soothing heat between her hands. Mathilda must have been keeping it warm all through supper, and it was just like her to be so thoughtful and considerate. Agnes looked into her pretty face and desperately wanted to trust her. The air next to her skin tingled, as though destiny had arrived and wanted her to know it was there.
But Oskar’s hands were still tight on her shoulders. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing this with you,” he told Mathilda flatly. “You can’t go around making these outrageous claims. I won’t have you raising my wife’s hopes. It’s no better than lying to her.”
Mathilda’s gaze remained on Agnes, calm and gentle. “You’re the only person in years who has bothered to treat me like a human being. You’ve given me hope that not everyone is terrible, and that my loneliness won’t last forever. You deserve what you wish for,” she said. “All it would take is a simple tonic: three ingredients, taken by you in three sips on each of three separate nights.”
Something in her voice made Agnes believe her, against all reason and what her rational mind knew to be true: that no drink could give her the child her heart hungered for. But the tingle in the air and the chill down her spine suggested there was more to Mathilda than what they saw. Whether it was good or bad—whether Hanau was right about her—she didn’t know. “We don’t have any money,” Agnes heard herself say. “We can’t pay you.”
Behind her, Oskar yanked open the door.
“I don’t need money,” Mathilda said, with a small smile that broke Agnes’s heart. “The price would be for you to keep writing to me and have supper with me every month. I’ve felt less lonely with you around, and I know you feel the same. Don’t decide now. Just think about it.”
Agnes hugged the warm cake as Oskar pulled her out the door. “I will,” she said, and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Mathilda’s light brown eyes wet with tears.
And then she and Oskar were hurrying through the garden and back down the hill.
Oskar cursed under his breath when they reached home, for standing at their door with a basket of pastries were the Braun sisters, the nosiest busybodies in town. Both women were in their sixties: Sophie was a widow with a grown son in Stuttgart, and Katharina, who had never married, was the town’s midwife. She had told Agnes once that she had chosen her profession because the juiciest bits of information often came from women in childbirth. “The poor dears are so racked with pain,” she cackled, “they don’t even know they’ve revealed the true father of their baby!”
Agnes knew that of all the townspeople, Oskar would have least wanted the Brauns to see them coming from Mathilda’s house. She forced a smile. “Good evening, ladies.”
“What were you doing up there?” Sophie demanded. Her bulging blue eyes cut from them to the hill. “You didn’t eat anything the witch gave you, did you?”
Agnes felt Oskar biting back his irritation and patted his hand. “We paid her a quick call. Would you please excuse us? Oskar’s getting over a cold, and we shouldn’t stand out here long.”
“What was her house like?” Katharina asked. She was all sharp angles from her chin to her elbows, in contrast to her soft, round sister. “Did she change her appearance in front of you? Frau Werner says she once saw the witch’s hair go from black to golden in minutes.”
“Kat! Be quiet,” Sophie snapped, then turned back to Agnes and Oskar. “You mustn’t be seen with that woman. You’re new here, so you don’t know, but the Werners and the Bergmanns—the most important families in Hanau—hate her because she cursed young Frau Bergmann once! She made toads and snakes and I don’t know what else fall from Lina’s lips!”
“Don’t forget Lina’s cousin nearly died eating that poisoned candy,” Katharina added. “The Werners were up in arms about that, but as soon as Georg Werner proposed a mob to roust the witch from her house, he fell deathly ill. A coincidence? I think not.”
“You’re a nice young couple and we like you, so we won’t tell anyone. We wouldn’t want people to think you were in league with the witch, would we?”
Agnes’s stomach twisted at the fear on Oskar’s face. He had worked so hard to buy them this cottage and move away from the old scandal, and now she had spoiled their fresh start. She had put them in this position, and now the gossips knew. “One of our goats escaped its pen last night,” she blurted out, and everyone looked at her in surprise. “It damaged the woman’s hedge, and we wanted to make amends with some milk and cheese. That’s why we went up there.”
At once, the Brauns broke into relieved smiles.
“Oh, you poor dears,” Katharina cried. “No wonder you looked so distressed just now! We almost thought you didn’t want to see us!”
“So you’ve never associated with her before this?” Sophie asked.
Agnes swallowed hard. “No,” she lied, pushing away the image of Mathilda’s notes and her light brown eyes, wet with tears. “This was the first time we had anything to do with her.”
“Well, no harm done, then,” Sophie said, patting Agnes’s arm. “Tie your goats securely and don’t leave your house for a few days. It was wise to appease her with a gift, but you don’t want to keep reminding her of what happened. Lord knows that witch can hold a grudge!”
“We’ll do that,” Agnes said weakly.
“Well, since that’s been cleared up, we wish you a good night,” Oskar told them.
“Good night,” Katharina said, handing Agnes the basket. “And next time you go to the tavern, Oskar, be sure to tell of your experience to Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re professors in Berlin, but they were born in Hanau,” Sophie explained. “They’re back all week to visit and collect stories about witches. Something about a volume of children’s tales they’re compiling. Frankly, it sounds like nonsense to me.”
“But if these Grimms can make a living from it, I say good for them!” Katharina added, as the sisters disappeared down the path.
Oskar went inside without another word and Agnes followed, glancing up the hill before she closed the door. The iron lanterns by the gate were still lit, illuminating a figure in a hooded cloak, which slowly turned and headed back toward the hedge wall. Agnes wondered if Mathilda had seen everything, if she could guess at what had passed between them and the Brauns. Her stomach clenched with guilt at the memory of Mathilda’s notes filled with care.
“I can help you,” the young woman had said, so confident, so sure.
It was silly to think a tonic could erase years of heartache and bring the child they wanted desperately. And yet it sounded so simple: just a few sips and a few suppers with a kind woman who longed to be friends. If it didn’t work, what was the worst that could happen?
But if it did work…
Agnes closed her eyes, imagining a head with sunny curls, eyes as blue as Oskar’s, and chubby hands touching her face. A little voice calling her Mama and squeals of delight blending with Oskar’s great shout of laughter as they played. She felt her husband’s arms wrap around her tightly, and only then did she realize that she had been sobbing.