I hopped onto the little wooden stool at her feet.“It’s me, Grandma.”
“Gigi,” she said, turning to me with a smile.It crinkled the corners of her eyes, turning them into half-moons.“Shouldn’t you be studying or playing with Christabella?”
“Christabella is taking a nap.”
“Ah, that’s right.”Grandma began peeling a carrot, leaving the ribbons of dirt-streaked orange skin in a wooden bowl.
I took it, assuming she’d want the scraps thrown out, but Grandma tutted.
“Leave it, Gigi.I’ll wash it with the other scraps and make a nice vegetable broth.”
I set the bowl back down.“Okay.”I rocked on my feet, eager to return to my dress.
“Every part of a vegetable has a purpose, just like how every witch plays a part in keeping the village thriving,” Grandma said.
It sounded like the premise to another lecture, but I didn’t mind Grandma’s lectures; they weren’t accusatory like Ma’s.
“What part do you want to play when you’re older, Gigi?”Grandma asked.She sliced off the top of the carrot and added it to the scrap bowl.“Maybe you’ll help in the fields, like your friend Alexander?”
I leaned my arms on the counter and frowned.Farming did not sound appealing in the least.One couldn’t wear pretty things to dig in the dirt.
“Or you can be a weather witch’s apprentice,” Grandma continued.
The weather was even duller.
“Or maybe I can sell hats at the Witch Market,” I said brightly.“Like you did, when you were younger.”Grandma made the most beautiful hats.She had told us about the millinery shop she had before the Non-Magic Age, where she used to make hats for wealthy ladies.
Grandma went silent.“The Witch Market is dangerous, Gigi.There are humans there.If one of them decides to report you...it’s over.”
“But everyone goes there,” I said.“Alexander’s grandpa watches over the entrance.And Miss Lana sells there all the time.”
Grandma shook her head.“Why don’t you go back to your room and play, Gigi?I’m almost done here.”
I shrugged.There was sewing waiting for me, anyway.
Three days later, I finished the dress.It was a simple pinafore, laced up in the front with ribbon loops, the skirts split down the center.I thought it was charming, especially paired with my plain gathered shift underneath.
Christabella caught me trying it on one morning when she slipped into my room.Her eyes widened.“So pretty, Gigi,” she said in a hushed whisper.“Where did you get it?”
I bent to her eight-year-old height.“I made it,” I said, barely able to contain the excitement in my voice.I ran my hand down the fabric and swished from side to side.The skirt flared out, and I noted with some disappointment that the hem was uneven.That could be fixed later.
“Is that your bedsheet?”Christabella asked.
“It is,” I said proudly.I had discovered that I had worn a hole through it and had the brilliant idea to convert it into a dress.Even old items could serve a new purpose.
“Wanna show Ma?”Christabella said, her round face lighting up.She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the sitting room.
“No, Christabella.”I tried to pull away, but she was surprisingly strong for a small child.We both stumbled into the sitting room, where Ma was sweeping the floor.Pa was snoring in his chair, as always.
“Mama, Mama, look!”Christabella said, jumping up and down.“Gigi made something sooooo pretty!”
“Christabella, please don’t jump around.You’ll knock something over,” Ma said without looking up.
“But loooook!”
I tugged my hand away, hoping to make a quick escape to my room, but something caught on my skirt and tugged me back.Then, a loud crash sounded.
Christabella began to cry.
