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she was older, wiser. She knew how to cast spells not merely from passion, not merely when danger bade her to, but from intent. She wished to be my mother. Though the thought revolted me, I knew what mothers did. They taught their daughters. If she thought I respected her, she would teach me. I pushed back the thought of my own dear mother. It was worthless to think of such things. Mother was gone. My powers had come too late to save her. Besides, Mother would not wish me to die, to let Charlie die. I was sure of it. Equally, I was certain that, if I refused the witch’s request, she would kill Charlie. I did not know, did not care either, what she would do to me.
    And once I learned all I could, once I had gained her trust, I could escape.
    “And what would it entail, to be your daughter?”
    “Entail?”
    “What would I have to do, and what would you do for me? And for Charlie?”
    The witch drew in a breath. “I had not thought that far.”
    “Then think.”
    “It has been a great while since I had a daughter.” She stopped and stared ahead, eyes growing misty. “I lost the last of mine these two hundred years.”
    “But when you had daughters, what did you teach them?”
    “Ordinary things, baking and…” My neck snapped toward the wall through which I had heard Miranda’s voice. “Not that sort of baking. I wasn’t about that then. Regular baking, bread and cakes and, yes, gingerbread. It was rather a favorite of my dear Adelaide’s and, of course, she helped with the sewing. Not mending. I used magic for such dull work, but fine sewing, quilts and samplers. We discussed her future, the husband she would find, the babes she would carry. Of course, none of that came true. She too died of plague.” She shook her head.
    “Ah, I see. So you want companionship. If I were to provide it, you would give me advice and guidance … like a mother?”
    It was all I could do to force the word mother from my lips, but it had its desired effect.
    The witch’s blood red lips formed a smile. “Of course, my dear. I wish to be your mother in every sense. If you were my daughter, I would teach you to be a better witch. This is what I want, and what you want also.” She reached to arrange a hair that had fallen across my face. “I want you to love me.”
    I tolerated her touch. I had to. “And my brother?”
    She hesitated long enough for me to know that he was not to have been part of the bargain. Finally she said, “I will take care of him too. Like my own son.”
    I smiled. “Then I will do as you wish.”
    And this was how I became, in fact if not in heart, the daughter of a witch. I did not forget my real mother, but I was so busy learning many new and useful things that the pain of losing her, of losing all of them, lessened. I had lost my family, lost my home. Yet, I had gained something else, something few women of that time ever possessed.
    I gained power.
    And I learned how to use it. Each morning, instead of making breakfast or milking the cow, the witch would teach me a new trick to make short work of it, so that the cows milked themselves or the butter self-churned. Then, in the time we saved, we studied more serious spell work. I learned to make magic, not merely through passion but by design, not merely by chance repetition of magical words but by movement of my mind. I gained power over objects to make them dance about the room. I made plants grow and animals obey my command. The only power I was unsure of possessing was over people. There were no people upon whom to test power, other than Charlie, and I did not want to do that to him.
    Charlie was a bit of a problem. At first, while he was still recovering, he was content to sleep many hours a day, giving the witch ample time to school me in her—my—craft. As he recovered, though, he wished to run and play like other boys, not to be cooped up in a cottage (even one made of gingerbread) with two women. The witch used magic to hold him, magic to