she said, “oh!”
And:
“I hope the dragon annihilates you!”
And Cobweb flew towards the fire, and sprang up the chimney like a piece of paper, and was gone.
Floralinda lay herself back on the bed and pulled the rat-skin cloak over her. The fire crackled in the hearth, and she stared up at the ceiling. She knew that she had done a good thing—or if not a good thing, something she ought to have done a long time ago, in response to something she never should have done at all. The worst part about trying to make good a sin is that it does not make the sin any less ugly. She was sorry she had kidnapped Cobweb. She was sorry that she had let Cobweb go. She was sorry for everything.
And then she wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know why I’m waiting,” she said.
Floralinda picked up her spear.
Flight One
It was a lovely winter’s morning when the witch came back to the tower. The snow was in sparkling diamond drifts all along the tower’s base, and the air smelled like pine needles and the cold. She was aggravated by the mess at the base, though thankfully she could not see how messy it really was beneath the snow-fall. It was a heap of bones and goodness only knows what, sticking out, looking rather like a kitchen-midden. It was all very close to the golden sword and made the whole thing look shabby.
“If one goes to the trouble of setting up an aesthetic,” she remarked, “it is really too bad when other people come and have their own say-so. This isn’t commentary. This is simply offensive.”
When she went into the tower, she was more aghast than ever, and she said—
“You!”
For there was Floralinda, steaming gently in the winter’s morning, covered in dragon’s blood. Her arms and legs were cut all over, and her hair was sizzled, and her lips were split. There was also a dead dragon, as well as a pile of well-sucked prince bones.
The witch was not struck by the prince bones. In her line of business, she had seen so many prince bones that she could be said to be a connoisseur. She was surprised by the dead dragon, which was already hardening into a dead diamond mass, and she was shocked by Floralinda.
“Yes,” said Floralinda, timidly.
The witch thought hard.
“Why, didn’t the prince like you?”
“He didn’t come,” said Floralinda, “or at least, I mean, lots came, but they didn’t manage it; and you never came back. It’s not that I expected you to, but I thought you might check in on me.”
“I only check when the thing’s over and done with,” said the witch, “it’s amateur hour, to look at it before it’s done; only I did think that it was taking pretty long. I was interested when I felt the dragon go, and then the rest of the tower triggered as completed, and here we are. It’s not an artistic failure, even if it is an economic one,” she added bracingly. “If you make the perfect mouse-trap, you had better hope for the perfect mouse,” and she laughed, and seemed put out that Floralinda did not laugh with her.
Floralinda said:
“Why have you come back now?”
“Well, to start fresh,” said the witch. “It’s a bit early, but I might as well start re-springing the thing. Well! well! you did do a number on it, young lady! I’m rather sore about that dragon you just killed, you know. Those were real diamond scales and teeth.”
“I know,” said Floralinda, and she smiled, faintly.
The witch said, “Perhaps this calls for a return to the basics. There’s nothing so appealing as a timeless classic: I’ll stagger things this time, and put the hardest ones up at the top, so that the prince feels as though he’s getting more competent each time. Zone of proximal development, you know. I don’t suppose you’d like to get back up there at the top?” she added, and she winked jovially.
Floralinda looked at her.
“Would you want me?” she said.
The witch looked at the curls that should have been butter-coloured, and were stained a rather less pleasant strawberry colour, owing to the blood. She looked at the eyes that had once been as blue as sapphires and were now hard like sapphires too. She looked at the rat-skin cape, and at the broken spear on the ground; she looked at the chapped, calloused hands.
“Not particularly,” she said. “I hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings. I always speak my mind. What if I