Wonderful Willow

This enthralling short story by Kitty-Lydia Dye welcomes you to our brand-new Special.

- Kitty-Lydia Dye

YOU must never pick flowers near Willow Blyth, Matthew,” Mother warned me. “Not unless you want a funeral, not a wedding!”

“What?” I thought I hadn’t heard her right over the splashing. “Stop struggling, Jacob!”

Jacob fell still and crossed his arms, shivering. He sat curled up in the copper tub as Mother and I tried to wash him.

Outside, rain pattered on the window. Water inside, water out there – we were practically drowning, and not even the fire could chase away the chill. “But it’s cold,” Jacob whined. “Well, if you go running about in the fields where the cows have been, you know what you’re going to trip in.”

My nose wrinkled as I scrubbed his back even harder. Was the smell ever going to go? “I didn’t trip. Sarah pushed me!” “And you pushed her back, so now her mother is doing just what we are.” I sighed, but then chuckled. “Once we’re finished, we’ll duddle you up by the fire.”

“Willow,” Mother went on, not about to give up. “I’ve seen you sighing over her when she skips past. I’ll not have a pretty jibby like her in my house, dabbling in herbs and spirits.

“All the women with Blyth blood have been odd. I’ll bet she dances with bogles when the green mists are in the air.” I couldn’t help but snort in disbelief. “Bogles! Women can’t dance with creatures that don’t exist. She’s a lovely young woman. A little dreamy, I admit.” I smiled knowingly. “You’re just not fond of Willow’s mother, seeing as she’s from Norfolk.”

Mother scowled, roughly rubbing the cloth over Jacob’s mucky face. He spluttered against it.