Mirror, mirror

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Head cocked, the witch sniffed at the pot propped over a hissing, smoky fire. It smelled almost ready, so much so that she felt her stomach rumble. She reached out and groped around the hearth, warily keeping track of what she touched. Yesterday she'd badly burned her hand, which meant that she was getting careless. Carelessness didn't he in her nature, never had, and she'd do well not to let it encroach now, not if she wanted to retain her independence-or at least that pale mockery she chose to call independence. Truth was, she'd starve if it weren't for the alms the villagers brought her; some out of gratitude or in exchange for a potion or ointment, most because they feared her and gladly parted with whatever food they could spare as long as it helped keep her at a comforting distance from the village.

An unthinkable number of years back, she would have sustained herself by hunting, fishing, gathering roots and berries, none of which was possible when you'd lost your sight. She'd schooled herself not to regret it. When all was said and done, it was a fitting punishment for her blindness so long ago. If she had allowed herself to see the danger, then perhaps-

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