“I’m sure you’ll be able to have a swim somewhere on our Quest,” said Anya.
She took out the handkerchief the Good Wizard had given her and unfolded it to inspect the map. It had been drawn in a bit of hurry; there were ink splotches here and there, but it showed Trallonia, Trallon Forest, The Demesne of the Good Wizard, Rolanstown, Brokenmouth Hill, and New Yarrow, with the distances between each indicated by straight as-a-carpet-might-fly lines and a numeral for the number of leagues. Anya was surprised to see it was only nine leagues from Trallonia to Dragon Hill. It had felt much, much farther.
It was also interesting to see that New Yarrow was closer than she’d thought. Twelve leagues from the witches’ meeting place. They could fly close to it, if she could steel herself to being wrapped in the carpet again.
She picked up the sack of onions and put it over her shoulder. Even with two-thirds of it emptied out, it was still heavy.
“I’m going to find the witches and trade with them,” she said. “I think you should all stay here.”
“What?” barked Ardent indignantly. “I go with you, Princess.”
Anya shook her head.
“I need you to stay here with the carpet,” she said. “And Smoothie and Shrub. I was going to leave him behind anyway, and Denholm.”
“Why?”
“Eye of newt and toe of frog,” said Anya.
Ardent put his head to one side, puzzled.
“It’s in a song or a story about witches,” said Anya. “I can’t remember it that well, but I do know they like newts’ eyes and frogs’ toes.”
“Not much meat on a frog’s toe,” observed Ardent dubiously. “Why would they eat just the toe and not the leg, like they do in the village?”
“I don’t know if they eat them … it doesn’t matter. We have to be careful with the witches, so it’s best if you’re hidden and can come and rescue me if necessary.”
“Oh,” said Ardent, his puzzlement replaced with satisfaction at being given an important job to do. “When do we c-c-come and rescue you?”
“If I’m not back by nightfall, come and take a very careful look,” said Anya. “But I don’t expect to need rescuing. I’m not that kind of princess.”
“What kind of princess are you?” asked Smoothie. She was arranging herself on the carpet to get the best possible spot where the most sun managed to get through between the trees.
“Not the kind that needs rescuing,” said Anya firmly. She looked around the orchard again. There was a chance that a farmer might come along, but she doubted it. They’d be picking soon, but that would already have begun if they were going to do it today. “Be careful. Try to stay hidden.”
“We will,” said Ardent. Smoothie nodded and rolled over, lifting her arms and legs to wriggle around so that a dinner plate–size patch of sun was firmly in place on her sleek, furry stomach.
Anya made sure she had the handkerchiefs stuffed securely down her jerkin front, picked up the pint bottle, and resettled the onion sack on her shoulder.
“Remember, don’t come looking for me until nightfall,” she said, and set off towards the hill and the witches, pulling the hood of her cloak up as she went. “And feed Denholm some bugs!”
The scene on the hilltop was very much as Anya had seen in the pool of the Wizard’s Magic Mirror. Only it being a day later, the culinary preparations were much further advanced. A very large pig was roasting on a spit above a fire pit; there was another table set up near it on which rested two small barrels of beer marked Mild and Brown, numerous bottles of wine, and an eclectic mixture of glasses, cups, steins, and goblets, made from glass of all colors and thicknesses, silver, pewter, and even wood.
Several steel mirrors had been set up on the standing stones, and six of the witches—mostly the younger ones—were preparing themselves, jostling for room to look at their reflections as they carefully glued on hairy warts, carbuncles, and bat-shaped moles, or settled snake-wigs over their own hair.
The other seven were under the canvas roof of the kitchen, taking time out of various preparations to engage in a dispute about who was supposed to have brought the onions.
“Onions aren’t greens, Shushu,” said one. “I was in charge of greens.”
“Oh, everyone knows you do onions with greens,” said the witch who was presumably Shushu. “And potatoes, and turnips, and pumpkin.”
“We never use pumpkin in summer,” said another witch.
“Yes, but if we did, whoever was on greens would have to bring it,” said Shushu. “Now, what are we going to do without onions?”
“I got some scallions,” said another witch.
“Scallions!” retorted several of the witches. Shushu, who seemed to be in charge of the cooking at least, laughed derisively and then confusingly said, “Don’t make me laugh.”
Anya, who had been watching from behind one of the smaller standing stones, chose this moment to step forward. Her heart quailed a little as she did so, but she knew it had to be done. On the way up the hill, she’d half seen a bird fly out of a tree, and it could have been a raven, and hence one of the Duke’s spies. So there was no time to waste.
“I have onions for sale,” she said loudly, brandishing the sack. “Best onions. Pungent and sharp.”
All the witches turned to look at her, including the ones who’d been staring at themselves in the mirrors. For a moment Anya felt herself skewered by their gaze, like some tiny kitchen mouse suddenly noticed by a cat. Then Shushu spoke, and the gaze was broken, everyone turning back to whatever they’d been doing before, or beginning new tasks.
“Well, isn’t that helpful,” said the head witch with a kindly smile. She wasn’t the oldest witch there, but she had to be at least in her seventies. Her hair was all white, cut fairly short, and her eyes were … Anya tried not to stare … her eyes were different colors. One was blue and the other green.
“You just happened to be passing with a sack of onions?” asked Shushu.
“Not exactly,” said Anya. She was glad she’d kept her hood up, shadowing her face. “I heard you might need onions.”