For the longest time it was me and the crone. But what a garden, and my towering height giving the best view—the castle in the distance a promised glory. Made of the same stone, the very same.

But the girl, what of the girl? The pacing and sighing, always singing. That voice bouncing off my skin, that hair everywhere, every crevice. Gold. A light within. What a mistake to bring her here, I told the old bat. There is only longing here. But the warmth of a crawling child. To hold a new laugh, to have it ricochet.

The witch has always been foolish. The poisons, the isolation. Things take root and fester when kept alone in the dark. And that trickery she pulled with the peasants next door—a plant for a girl. And every month when the moon was hidden, the quiet sobbing at the shared low wall, the only thing I could hear: my daughter my daughter my daughter.

I tried to teach the girl in my way—be unmoved be constant be watchful be strong. But she was not deceived. My perfect window, my desire displayed.

My stone warm under her feet.

And of course, that boy. Foolish boy. With the too-long fringe, the spirited horse, the look in his eye when she sang—what good could come from it?

And I, a helpless stage, only meant to bear witness.