In the hazel woods, there was a clearing of flowers from early spring to late autumn. There was meadowsweet and foxglove and old man’s trousers and Jack-jump-into-bed and ladies’ bonnets and three-times-Charlie and sage and southernwood and pink yarrow and ladies’ bedstraw and cowslips and primroses and two types of orchid.
It was where the old lady they had called the witch was buried. If you knew where to look, you could see what little was left of her cottage underneath all that greenery, and if you really knew where to look, you could see the place she had been buried. If you really and truly knew where to look, you could find the spot where Tiffany had buried the old lady’s cat, too; there was catnip growing on it.
Once upon a time, the rough music had come for the old woman and her cat, oh, yes, it had, and the people walking to its drumming had dragged her out into the snow and pulled down the rickety cottage and burned her books because they had pictures of stars in them.
No one talked about it. After all, what could you say? Rare flowers growing on the grave of the old woman and catnip growing where the Aching girl had buried the cat. It was a mystery, and maybe a judgement, although whose judgement it was, on whom, for what and why, was best not thought about, let alone discussed. Nevertheless, wonderful flowers growing over the remains of the possible witch—how could that happen?