I was eight years old when we moved in with a witch.
I wasn't sure that she truly was one. Annie looked to be nearly the same as any servant girl I'd ever seen: skin a touch sallow, eyes set a bit too deep, dark auburn hair pulled back into strict plaiting. But those deep brown eyes glimmered with intense wisdom, that gentle smile hinted at depths only the Atlantic could fathom. Annie was different in her strong, assured quietude.
I didn't think she was a witch. I saw her, simply, as a newfound friend.
Papa said she was a witch. "She's going to protect us, Delia," he said. "If we keep her with us, our family will always be prosperous. No enemy will harm us."
I remember knitting my brows, confused. "But, Papa," I asked, "don't you protect us? Why do we need a...a her?"
Papa's eyes flashed with something unidentifiable. "Never you mind, Miss Cordelia. Never you mind." He lovingly swatted my nose with a finger, then, accompanied by a grim non-smile, turned to direct Annie to her quarters.
Had he been frightened? Angry? Helpless?
I hadn't cared at the time. I simply watched with young fascination as the new girl disappeared into the servants' hallway. She gave me one final, playful smirk as she closed the camouflaged door.
I returned the smile, then contentedly skipped away to make up stories with my new doll.
I hadn't any idea how much Annie would mean to me.
© Rhiannon Ling, 2019
Scribble in a composition book between classes.
Cover photo courtesy of Sarah Kuhn.