Shama:
I guess from Sheila’s reaction that she not only wasn’t a practicing witch, but didn’t seem to know that she was potentially one.
She was still sitting there on the bench. She hadn’t bolted up and charged away, as if I’d suddenly been contaminated, but she’d started fanning herself like the very idea of it was too much for her to hear. I wondered if I should change the subject and talk about something cheerful. I did still want to more about her children. She’d told me a little about them, but I still couldn’t picture them. Were they fair or dark? What color were their eyes? Was the daughter already blossoming into a beauty?
I had just opened my mouth to ask her those kinds of questions, but she suddenly popped up, rocking the whole picnic table so badly that I had to hold off for balance. Then she swung her legs out, stood up, and walked away without another word. .
I heard the backdoor swing open and then shut with a rather pronounced slam, and then silence. That wasn’t all negative. I was ready to stop trying to cater to her whims, anyway. I kind of wiggled myself off the bench, managing not to get scratched or splintered from the over-weathered wood, and moseyed off to talk with Frey.
As usual, he was willing to forgo munching on his hay to rub his head on my arm. Thankfully, he didn’t slobber, this time. Green horse slobber was dreadfully difficult to get out of material. I’d already had to soak three dresses and do some scrubbing. This one I was wearing was fresh out of the closet. I hoped not to have to change again, but Frey had been so polite the screaming Sheila. He deserved an extra pat, rub, and kiss.
However, what started off quietly, soon became a boisterous affair because once Sheila entered the house, the boys came running outside, neither wanting to brave her moodiness.
Actually, I didn’t blame them in the least. I handed out brushes, and the boys pretended to do a couple of minutes of grooming, but mainly they just wanted to feed Frey some pancakes they’d secretly crammed into their pockets. Frey was, of course, happy to oblige in eating them. Oddly enough, it turns out that my stallion adored bunny cakes, as the boys called them. And the fact that they’d been mushed into pockets that often kept pebbles and twigs, the boys had found in their walks, didn’t faze Frey at all. He simply ate the good parts and spit out what wasn’t tasty.