by Julie C. Dao
Copyright © 2020 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
Designed by Marci Senders
Cover art by Julia Iredale
Cover design by Marci Senders
ISBN 978-1-368-06514-6
Visit www.hyperionteens.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: January 1848. Hanau, Germany
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: December 1855. Heinrich Farm, Hanau, Germany
Chapter 7: April 1865. Bauer Farm, Hanau, Germany
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Melody Marshall and Marisa Hopkins, the best writer friends and cheerleaders I could ask for
Agnes saw the gift by the light of the moon.
She glanced back at the cottage, expecting to see Oskar’s worried face at the door, but her husband must have still been dozing by the fire. A cheerful glow crept from the shutters and illuminated the snowflakes drifting down from the sky, and, for a moment, Agnes almost turned back, the way Oskar would want her to. Instead, she retrieved the basket that had been left at the gate. She peered at the contents: a note written on finely milled paper; a handful of muslin tea sachets so fragrant she could smell their sweetness on the chill air; a bundle of snowdrops tied together with a frost-blue ribbon; and a jar, a glass jar, of honey like precious sunshine.
This basket was the latest in a series that had come every week since October, one gift for each humble offering Agnes left by the towering hedges of the house between the willows. She had never met the occupant, but she knew from these presents that their mysterious neighbor was not poor. Or unkind, she thought, gazing up the snowy hill where the woman lived. Last week, Agnes had left her some fresh goat cheese rolled in herbs and mentioned in her note that Oskar had caught a terrible cold. Clearly their neighbor had remembered, judging by the tea and honey.
“This is a mistake,” Oskar had said grimly, when two pairs of knitted woolen socks had come in exchange for Agnes’s sourdough bread and butter. “People already wonder why we bought this old cottage next door. Let’s not risk our good name by associating with her.”
Agnes noticed that fearing for their good name hadn’t stopped him from wearing the socks, but she decided not to mention it. “I don’t believe for one minute that she’s an evil witch like everyone says,” she had told him. “I do believe, however, in being good to our neighbors. She could just be old and lonely.”
Oskar had relented, kissing his soft-hearted wife with an affection that had not faded over ten years of marriage. Agnes still sensed his disapproval, but she didn’t know how she could stop corresponding with their neighbor when her gifts were so kind and her notes so amusing. When they had first moved in last September, Agnes had baked molasses cookies for everyone who lived nearby, knowing how important it was to Oskar to start off on the right foot in this new town. She had never dreamed that leaving baked goods at the house on the hill would begin such an unusual friendship.
Now, she reached for the message in the basket.
To my friend Agnes:
Thank you for the delicious cheese. I put it on some oat bread with a drizzle of honey and feasted like a queen. I think I can taste the friendliness of your goat in it, and I even like her name, Johanna. You asked for my opinion on what to name her baby. What do you think of Honey? I have enclosed some for Oskar’s cough. I do hope he is feeling better.
Your friend,
Mathilda
Agnes chuckled at the suggestion for the baby goat’s name, and then noticed a single line of writing all the way at the bottom of the note, like a timid afterthought:
Would you please join me for supper tomorrow night?
She read it three times to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. They had exchanged dozens of messages by now, and every time she had tried to invite Mathilda over for tea, the woman had politely declined, citing some excuse or other. It had made Agnes pity her even more, knowing that she had likely heard the distressing rumors about how the old woman on the hill flew to the moon on a willow branch, or could make a hundred poisons from the blood-scented flowers of her night garden, or cursed the hearts of men as revenge for the lover who had left her on their wedding day. No wonder her poor neighbor was reclusive, with such cruel gossip being spread around town.
Agnes did have to wonder, however, where the stories came from. As a child, when she had asked her mother if fairy tales were real, her mother had replied: “The truth of a tale lies in where it took its first breath,” meaning that a story transformed with each retelling until its origins faded. But this cryptic answer had always made Agnes think of fairy tales as uncomfortably alive, with clawing roots buried deep in dark winter forests.
Shivering, Agnes went inside and set her neighbor’s basket on the table, rubbing her tingling hands in the warmth. Oskar was still asleep in his chair by the fire, so she went to the shelf and took down a little wooden box in which she had been keeping Mathilda’s notes. Growing up, she had always wanted a friend to write letters to but had never found anyone, and these messages with her sweet neighbor meant more than she would admit to her husband. As she carefully added the new note to the box, she couldn’t help rereading some of the old ones.
Paper was a luxury she and Oskar couldn’t afford, so Agnes had been scribbling on the backs of Mathilda’s notes. And though she was sure her neighbor could buy as much paper as she liked, the woman had tactfully followed her lead, squeezing elegant script into every corner of each note until it was filled, and then sending a new one on fresh paper. As a result, Agnes had both her own messages to Mathilda as well as Mathilda’s to her.
To my new neighbors:
I was pleasantly surprised to find your gift by my hedges this morning. Thank you for the delicious cookies, which disappeared much too fast. I am glad that poor little cottage, which has stood empty for too long, now has such kind people living in it.
Please accept this woolen blanket and my own special rose and chamomile tea, made from the plants in my garden, as housewarming gifts.
Gratefully,
Mathilda
Dear Mathilda,
Thank you for the lovely blanket and tea. My husband, Oskar, and I enjoyed them both. I hope you did not feel obliged to send something back. And since you enjoyed my cookies, I am enclosing a second bigger batch for you. Would you like to join us for supper one day? I am always baking and you would be more than welcome, as we haven’t met many neighbors just yet.
Your neighbor,
Agnes
To my kind neighbor Agnes:
How quickly you discovered my sweet tooth. I’m sorry to say that the only thing I can bake well is cake, so I am sending one I made for you and Oskar. I hope you like cinnamon and dates, and it should pair well with that tea I sent.
What other sweets do you like? And where did you live before? I’m afraid I don’t leave my house much, but I am so grateful for your invitation.
Your neighbor,
Mathilda
Agnes smiled as she flipped through the messages. Exchanging notes with Mathilda felt as easy as chatting, for the woman had so many charming stories to tell: chasing a family of stubborn rabbits out of her garden, following a new knitting pattern for socks that turned out to be some kind of tent, and baking mishaps with her mischievous cat that liked to steal and hide her spices all over the house. There was always a caring inquiry at the end of her notes. How did Agnes and Oskar like their new home? Did they have any family nearby? Did they have enough blankets for the long winter, and would they like her to knit them a few more?
And for the first time in her life, though they had never met in person, Agnes felt that she had a close friend—someone she could trust, someone who would listen and give thoughtful advice.
Dear Mathilda,
I feel low today. I saw a woman and a girl at market. The child was crying her heart out, with her little hands pressed over her eyes, and her mother knelt down to hug her until she felt better. I couldn’t look away. I noticed everything about them: how the child tucked her head into her mother’s shoulder, how their hair was the exact same shade of brown, how their dresses were made from the same fabric. I imagined the woman sitting up late at night, cutting the cloth with care so there would be enough left over for her daughter.
I went home and I wept and wept because there is no little head tucked against me and no tiny dress to sew beside my own. Forgive me for burdening you with my silly, small sadnesses, but I feel somehow that you might understand.
Your friend,
Agnes
To my friend Agnes:
No sadness of yours could ever be small or silly to me. You are a person who has much love to give, and you deserve much love in return. Tonight I send you mine, along with a honey cake and some lavender tea that I hope will help soothe you. Will you write again tomorrow and let me know if you are feeling better?
Your friend,
Mathilda
As the weeks went by, Agnes had also confessed why she and her husband had moved to Hanau. Oskar had a secret shame: His parents had never been married. When Oskar was born, his mother had left him with his father, who later wed and had a legitimate son, Otto. All his life, Oskar was treated as lesser than Otto, and when their father died, Otto inherited the family farm and all the money. Heartbroken, Oskar had saved up carefully for this move and this cottage so that he wouldn’t need to rely on his brother’s charity. Agnes knew her husband would be furious with her for sharing this, but Mathilda had no one to tell.
It was why they had needed a fresh start and a new town where they could put down roots and earn respect. And why he doesn’t want me associating with Mathilda, Agnes thought guiltily.
As if he had heard her thinking about him, Oskar gave a loud yawn and stretched. “How long have I have been dozing?” he asked, giving her a drowsy smile. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. I guess fixing the shed took more out of me than I expected.”
“It’s all right.” Agnes closed the box, then came over to him and kissed his unruly mop of wheat-colored hair. “My poor, hardworking husband. It’s high time you went to bed.”
He got up obediently, and his eyes fell upon the basket. “Another gift from the witch?”
“Don’t call her that,” Agnes chided him. “Not when she has been so kind to us. Look, she sent flowers and tea and honey, and invited us to supper at her house. I think we should go.”
“I don’t know—Is that glass?” Oskar broke off, distracted by the honey jar. He held the lovely object in his work-roughened hand, watching it glint gold and peach and amber in the firelight. “Where would one find honey this time of year? How can she afford such luxuries?”
“She must have harvested it last summer. And we always suspected she was wealthy.”
“But why settle in a humble village like this, then?”
Agnes tossed her heavy flaxen braid over one shoulder, exasperated by his determined dislike of the woman. “I don’t know, dear, but we can ask her when we go over for supper.”
Oskar set down the jar. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “Whether or not the rumors are true, people fear and hate this woman. If they see us befriending her, they may hate us as well.”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know that? How do you know it won’t be like Mannheim all over again, where we can’t go to market without being looked at and whispered about?”
“I see the reason in what you say,” Agnes said gently. “I do. But no one here knows about Mannheim, and I see such kindness in this woman. I know what it is to be lonely.” She looked around their cottage, in which she baked and brewed alone each day. It was cozy and comfortable, but it, too, was an empty womb, without any hope of laughter or little pattering feet. She put her hands on either side of Oskar’s face. “And if we find out she is a witch, we need not have anything to do with her again. Besides,” she added playfully, “aren’t you curious?”
After a pause, in which Oskar took in her determined expression, he sighed. “All right. One supper,” he conceded, and they sealed the agreement with a kiss.
The following night, when Agnes and Oskar approached the hedge surrounding Mathilda’s house, the wooden gates stood open. Iron lanterns illuminated a path between drooping willow trees, positioned like sentries on either side. Agnes was struck by the absence of even a flake of snow on the property, as though winter itself feared to walk here.
Oskar’s hand tightened in hers. “We can still turn back.”
“Don’t be silly,” Agnes said, pulling him through the gates, but even she could not deny that there was something unnerving about this place, a certain resonance that lingered in the air. Like a fading note of music, she thought, played on a pipe to lure the listeners onward.
It was a beautiful, wild space. All along the hedge grew plants of every kind: shrubs dotted with mauve berries, fragrant alabaster flowers, and trees that draped fleecy leaves over the grass like the train of a bride’s dress. Peppermint, rosemary, and thyme spiced the air, and a granite fountain issued a trickle of water that tinkled like fairy bells. It looked like a garden lost in time, a place that could lull someone to sleep for twenty years while the world spun by outside the hedge.
A surprisingly small cottage stood in the center of this wilderness. But where Agnes and Oskar’s home was made of mushroom-colored wood, Mathilda’s had been built from dove-gray stones, and she had panes of pretty colored glass set into black lead frames for windows. Warm light shone out from the curtains, and a little stone dog stood on the doorstep.
The door opened and Agnes held her breath, suddenly shy at the prospect of meeting the person to whom she had bared her heart in writing. She had pictured Mathilda as an old, frail lady with a gray bun and a sweet face lined with wrinkles, so when her neighbor emerged from the cottage, Agnes had to lean against Oskar in shock. The so-called witch, who by all accounts was loathsome and malevolent, looked about twenty-five, not much younger than Agnes herself. She was small and slim, with rich black hair tied with a frost-blue ribbon, and freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across a pale, heart-shaped face. Her light brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave them a shy smile, her hands fluttering at her sides as though unsure what to do.
“Hello,” she said timidly. “You must be Agnes and Oskar. Won’t you come in?”
Agnes opened her mouth, but no sound came out. They followed Mathilda inside, moving slowly as though in a dream, and were enveloped by a pleasant warmth that smelled of savory stew and honey cakes. Mathilda reached for their coats and they handed them over, unable to stop staring at her. For a moment, they all stood in a bashful silence by the door. And then Agnes burst out laughing, and Oskar joined in. So this was the old witch the town feared half to death!
“I’m glad
to meet you, Mathilda,” Agnes said warmly. “Oskar and I have enjoyed your generous gifts, and your notes have made my winter much brighter.”
The young woman’s face shone. “I feel the same way,” she said, holding out her hands, which Agnes squeezed. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Supper will be ready in a moment.” She tightened the cream-colored apron over her blue flannel dress and bustled over to the fireplace, where two large pots were bubbling away. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have friends over at last. It’s always so quiet in my house.”
Agnes and Oskar sat down at the kitchen table, which had been set for three people, with deep-blue crockery and real silver. The cottage was as neat as a pin, with a blue-and-white rug on the floor that matched the soft-spun blankets and cushions on the chairs, one of which was occupied by a fat ginger cat. A thick leather-bound book lay open on a side table, a pen resting between the sheets of rough-edged paper as though Mathilda had been writing in it when they had knocked. Pretty porcelain figurines lined the mantel, and a thick purple velvet cloth covered a painting hanging over it, likely to keep off the dust.
“That’s some beautiful detailing,” Oskar said, pointing at the walls, which were carved with a pattern of willow trees. “I’ve never seen woodwork to equal it.”
“Thank you,” Mathilda said, her face lighting up. “My home isn’t large, but I like it to be cozy and attractive, since I spend so much time in it.” She poured them mugs of barley water and ladled a thick, steaming stew of root vegetables into three bowls, then cut into a fresh, crusty loaf of sourdough bread. She moved nimbly around the kitchen, her cheeks pink and hands graceful.
Agnes exchanged glances with Oskar. Had the townspeople ever even seen this woman? But then again, the gossip had never mentioned her age, and perhaps Agnes had heard witch and assumed she was an eccentric old lady. “How long have you lived in this cottage?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s been a long while now,” Mathilda said.