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Mabel’s fingers twitched. She wanted to grab a pen and a notebook. She wanted to scribble it down. The Careless Witch Meets a Disagreeable Duck.

She flattened her hand to the sofa, shaken. It had been years since she’d had the urge to write. So long that she’d assumed that whatever creative spark had lived inside her had withered and died. It had been like losing a part of herself, but what was another loss alongside other greater ones? And yet apparently, it had simply been dormant, because that feeling was back, a faint version of itself, but definitely present. And all because of the delightful chatter of a child. She’d forgotten how entertaining young children could be. How their innocent observations sparked joy.

And ideas.

The witch threw the bread and the duck gave a quack,

“What use is your food when it lands on my back?”

“Well,” said the witch, “I happened to trip.

It’s not my fault that the bread did a flip.”

“You won’t be eating a duck,” Matt said. “You and Elsie are having your own meal.”

Izzy joined them in the room and immediately sensed distraction was needed. “What’s your favourite food ever, Poppy?”

“Her favourite food is pizza,” Elsie said. “Pizza, pizza, more pizza.”

Poppy nodded. “Pizza.”

“We could make pizzas together.”

“I want to write my own story this afternoon,” Elsie said. “About Tripalot and Christmas. I’m going to do it with Mabel.”

Mabel was distracted by duck psychology. Why was the duck disagreeable? Did someone keep stealing his food? Was this a story about sharing? Or kindness?

The duck shook its feathers and gave a frown,

“If I was as careless as you, I’d drown,”

The witch waved her wand, “I think you’re rude.

If you don’t mend your ways, you’ll end up stewed.”

Was that too gruesome? She used to have perfect instincts when it came to knowing what would entertain a child, but she was rusty and out of touch.

Brooke took her silence to mean disapproval. “Elsie, it’s not polite to say Mabel.” She looked at Mabel. “What should the children call you? Do you prefer Mrs. Kingston?”

Mabel wanted to scribble everything down. What if she forgot something? She knew how easily words slid from your brain.

But she caught Brooke’s worried gaze and smiled.

“My friends call me Mabel. And I already think of Elsie and Poppy as friends. I’d like it if you called me Mabel, honey.” She saw pleasure and pride flush Elsie’s cheeks.

“You never did a Christmas story, did you, Mabel?” Elsie used the name carefully, savouring this new privilege.

“No. I never wrote a Christmas story.”

Although that wasn’t true, was it? Not exactly.

But she wasn’t going there. Yes, she was taking steps forward finally, but that would require a giant leap and she wasn’t ready for that.

Elsie walked over to her and sat down on the other side of Mabel. “Why did you stop writing stories? Did you run out of words?”

Those clear blue eyes stared into hers, and Mabel’s heart gave a little kick.

“Something like that. It became—difficult.”