The witch pulled
forward and away, but Mary persisted. She came close again, and this
time put her arms around her full, and kissed her lightly on the
temple.
"Mother," she said, the word arresting the other's anger. "Won't you
tell me how it was for you, all these years, and what you're feeling
now?"
"What does it matter, girl? The wine is drawn and must be drunk." But
ominous as these words sounded, her daughter brushed them aside.
Because now, her eyes clouding with tears, she understood what was
taking place in her own heart: an orphan's awkward and tremulous love
for her true parent.
"But it does matter," she insisted, "to you. And to me."
Their eyes met. For a moment Mary thought the woman would weep, and
embrace her, and all would be well. But the aged eyes knew no more
tears. She turned away.
"All right, Mary, I'll tell you, though I've little doubt you will
stop me halfway. But just now I'm exhausted. If you really want to
help me, put on the kettle for tea, and bring me a rye cake. The
weather is turning," she went on, rubbing her arthritic shoulder.
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