A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. I smother it with a cough. “Did you just saypiss?”
Her face goes blank. “Aye. Piss.”
“As in, urine.”
She frowns, not knowing what to make of me. “D’you nae ken such things?”
“No, no, of course I know. I just wanted to make sure. So, do you use your own, or…?”
Horrified, she exclaims, “And who else’s?”
Ah, yes. That’s the part to be scandalized about. But I give her an admiring smile, because I’m only just getting started. The whole pimple thing is ridiculous, but what if that chant is legit?
“You know so much,” I say, though she probably has no idea what any of it means. “Is that why you’re so pretty? You put pee on your face?” I bite my cheek to stop from smiling.
Not Margie. She’s taking this very seriously. Which is for the best as I pepper her with questions.
How does she make a counter-charm? Does she always say the same chant or does it depend on the charm she needs to undo? Can she do this any time, regardless of the month or moon?
And, most critical of all, is there a limit to what charms can undo?
Leaning close, I whisper, “What if a really bad witch did something to you?”
She flinches, visibly alarmed. “I ken naught of such things.”
I interject, “I mean, could someone use a counter-charm to undo something big?”
Alarm fading, some new thought brightens her gaze. She sneers down her nose at me. “Is that how you got the red in your hair? You crossed an evil witch?”
I pause at the unexpected direction this conversation is taking, then bite back a smile as it hits me. Appealing to Margie’s vanity is precisely the way to reach her. She clearly prioritizes prettiness over all things.
I hold up my braid and study it with a sigh. “My hair wasn’t always this color. But yes, there’s a bad witch—” I don’t want to sound too scary so quickly add, “Don’t worry, she’s far away.”
Her eyes widen, exactly as I hoped.
“Is that why you traveled all the way here? To escape her?”
“Yes!” Her explanation is so perfect, I don’t need to fake my exuberance. “I had to flee, but I knew the witch wouldn’t be able to follow me.”
“There’s a way to undo what she’s done.” As she studies my hair, her expression curdles, like she just swallowed something foul. “’Twill take a bigger charm forthat.”
I keep the smile on my face, though I want to smack her. “More sticks and thread? No problem. Can you help me?”
She shakes her head slowly. “’Twould require a strand ofher hair, or a thread from her dress. But she’s far from here, as you say.”
“I have some fabric of hers,” I improvise. “I knew I might need it. I hoped I’d meet someone as wise as you. So I brought it with me.”
She tightens her lips as she registers this. Did I just call her bluff?
“Can you help or not? I thought you were smart and powerful, but?—”
“You’re sure she’s nae a fairy in disguise?”
Enough with the fairies.
I work to keep my face blank. “Definitely not a fairy.”
The next afternoon,I stare at the pile of supplies I’ve gathered. Twigs. Thread. Candle wax. It’s absurd—like a kindergarten craft project meant to propel me through time.
