“It is done,” she mumbled in reply, as much to herself as to the girl. Laying her things absently on the table, she pulled loose the comb which bound the iron-grey locks behind her head, and shook them free about her shoulders. At this simple act Mary drew a startled breath, and it was all she could do to suppress a gasp of fright. For here, truly, was the classic apparition of a witch: the ragged, wind-blown dress and shawl, the long, wild hair and intent, burning eyes. This, the woman noticed.
“Not much to look at, am I?” At first she glared as she said this, then turned away, remembering to whom she spoke. “There was a time, Mary, and perhaps not so long ago as you might imagine, when men said I was still quite fair. But time. . .and poison. . .have done their work.” She grew silent, and bitter, once more. But something inside the girl urged her now to draw the woman out, not leave her alone in this darkness.
She got down from the bed and stepped timidly towards her. Placing one hand on her shoulder, with the other she lifted a stray lock of her mother’s hair and tucked it gently behind her ear. The witch pulled forward and away, but Mary persisted. She came close again, and this time put her arms around her full, and kissed her lightly on the temple.
“Mother,” she said, the word arresting the other’s anger. “Won’t you tell me how it was for you, all these years, and what you’re feeling now?”
“What does it matter, girl? The wine is drawn and must be drunk.” But ominous as these words sounded, her daughter brushed them aside. Because now, her eyes clouding with tears, she understood what was taking place in her own heart: an orphan’s awkward and tremulous love for her true parent.
“But it does matter,” she insisted, “to you. And to me.”
Their eyes met. For a moment Mary thought the woman would weep, and embrace her, and all would be well. But the aged eyes knew no more tears. She turned away.
“All right, Mary, I’ll tell you, though I’ve little doubt you will stop me halfway. But just now I’m exhausted. If you really want to help me, put on the kettle for tea, and bring me a rye cake. The weather is turning,” she went on, rubbing her arthritic shoulder. “We’ll have no visitors tonight, at least. There’ll be hours of time for talk.”
“Promise me, then. Tonight you’ll open your heart?” Her mother gave a queer sort of laugh.
“What little is left of it. Yes, yes, child, I promise. Now bring me the tea and give me a moment’s peace.” Mary did as she asked.