“This stallion,” said Grandpa, a twinkle in his eye, “will bewitch those Nightmares and keep you safe.” The charm was bone white; whittled from the wood of a skeleton tree.
“Nightmares are part of growing to Witch-hood,” huffed Grandma, but she let me keep it.
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“This tower is 700 years old,” said Uncle Atticus. “The house came later.”
Lotta trailed behind. The incessant winding left her dizzy. Added to that, his tower smelt bad. Bat droppings. Damp. An unidentified animal smell that seeped beneath the doors on every landing.
Quite a start to her first flying lesson.
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Grandma parked her camper van beside a sprawling oak, leaving eight year old Lotta roadside, collecting payment. As a steady trickle of townsfolk appeared, Lotta watched Grandma delve amongst her treasures, dispensing potions for all manner of mumbled ailments.
It was sundown before the last customer skulked away.
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