Miss Grimm's cottage lay back from the road, nearly hidden among the trees of the forest. Margaret approached it warily, looking again at the decorative scrollwork near its roof. Gingerbread, her mother had called it. Gingerbread....
This had to be the right place.
The door had no bell, just an ornate brass knocker shaped like a horse. Swallowing, Margaret lifted it and dropped it three times.
The door opened only a moment later, quickly and noiselessly, startling Margaret. She involuntarily took a step back, but managed to otherwise suppress the urge to run away.
The old woman squinted sourly at her, as though she resented being called to the door by a young girl. Margaret couldn't begin to judge her age: her face was wrinkled and leathery, with a small wart growing near the corner of her mouth. Her hair was wispy thin on her small head. "What do you want?" she asked.
Margaret swallowed. "You're the witch, aren't you?"
Miss Grimm looked surprised. "What kind of way is that to greet someone?"
"You're a witch," said Margaret. "And I need your help."
"What makes you so sure think I'm a witch?" Miss Grimm said.
"Of course you're a witch," Margaret said. "Everyone knows that."
"Never believe what everyone knows," the witch said. "That's my advice to you."
Margaret nodded. "Yes, ma'am." She had never used that last word before, but it seemed the right thing to do now.
)
