Before them stood an older woman (children, it should be said, are not reliable readers of age—but neither is Arcadia). She was stout and tanned, wore trousers and sturdy boots, and kept her dark hair swept untidily into a bun that glinted here and there with wisps of silver. She had a pack strapped to her back, a walking stick in one hand, and their wayward chicken nestled peacefully in the crook of her arm. Esther was suddenly shy; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Before she could answer, Ysabel peeked out from behind her and said, “Are you a witch?” The woman laughed—longer and
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