Bewitching by Alex Flinn Read Free Book Online Page A

battled the crow. This gave me an idea. I let go of Charlie’s wrist and nodded at him to run.
    Yet he did not move. Why did he not? The witch was engrossed in fighting off the swooping, singing bird. He could escape.
    He waited for me, I realized.
    The oven door was fully open now, and I said to the witch, “Perhaps if you made the fire, I could light the oven.”
    “Oh, of all…” Yet she obliged, waving the stick in the air. It burst into flame. As she did this, the bird swooped again, causing her to duck and stumble. “Oh!”
    Only then did Charlie move out from behind me. With both hands freed, he shoved the distracted witch through the oven door. The flame inside had not lit, but as she was propelled into the oven, her skirt caught, glorious red and orange. She shrieked, “I’m on fire! I’m on fire! Kendra, help me!”
    I stood, frozen, until Charlie stomped on my foot. Then I flew toward the oven door. The witch turned back, clawing at me, but it was too late. Her hands, even her face, were melting before my eyes like butter. I slammed the door and threw my back against it. Charlie locked it. All the while, the witch’s screams echoed through the silent wood. Black smoke belched from the sides of the oven door.
    I stood there a long time, feeling the heat on my back, until the witch’s shrieks waned, and I knew she was dead. I touched my eyes then, and found I was crying. Then I was wracked with sobs. I did not speak, nor did Charlie. Finally, there was silence but for the cawing of the crow above. I glanced up. It flew down and perched upon my shoulder, singing:
    When she her sweet eye turneth;
    Oh, how my heart it burneth!
    Fa la la la la la la la la!
    I was shaking, but I stroked its head. “Yes. Yes. You are a good bird.”
    I remembered the crow at Lucinda’s house, the day I’d saved Charlie. Probably just a coincidence.
    I turned to Charlie. “Why did you not run?”
    He gestured toward his mouth, and I realized he still could not speak. Quickly, I uttered the words to the counterspell. He said, “Had I run, the witch would have cooked you.”
    “Not true. ’Twas I who persuaded her to light the fire.”
    “But ’twas I who stuffed her into the oven.”
    I sighed. “I suppose. But, Charlie, if ever again I tell you to run, you must run.” I had a premonition, as I had stood with my back to the oven, of the difficulties that lay ahead for a witch like me. “Promise, Charlie.”
    “I will protect you.”
    “No. You will protect yourself first. Promise.”
    Finally, reluctantly, he agreed.
    With nowhere else to go, we trudged back to the witch’s house. When we arrived, the sun was high in the sky, the better to see the change that had occurred.
    “Where is the picket fence?” Charlie asked.
    A smile spread across my face as I now fully believed that the witch was dead and gone. “The children, they are free. They are free!”
    “Girl?” A small voice came from behind the house.
    I knew that voice. “Miranda?” I ran to her. She was a sweet little thing, with red-gold curls and freckles.
    “You … you killed her?”
    “Charlie and I did. And now you can go home, to your mother.”
    “All the others have left already, but I, I wanted to thank you.”
    I embraced her. “You will be safe?”
    “I think so.”
    “Then you should leave.” I broke off a bit of gingerbread from the windowsill. “Here. For your trip.”
    And then, she left.
    Charlie and I, with nowhere else to go, entered the gingerbread house. We were free! We were alive. The house was on fine, farmable land, and I knew that we would leave behind our dismal past, build a real house, and live happily for many years to come.
    E PILOGUE
    Or a few days, in any case. For, you see, one of the escaped children ran straight to the next village with his tale of a gingerbread house and the witch who resided there. Of course, the constable would not believe such a wild story … until it was corroborated by a second, a