(Credit: Maxime Desmettre, digital-art-gallery.com/artist/1438)

The bursts of anger were powerful, but short. Most of the time she did not want to kill the little girl at all. Sometimes the girl was almost like the sister she never had; doing summersaults on the moss, falling into the stream with arms and legs flailing. In those moments she wanted Joanna to stay or at least to return regularly. Those were also the only times she felt truly lonely. She could lose herself in her craft for months on end, weaving and chanting, needing nothing but the completion of the next spell. But if after having made her smile, Joanna waved goodbye and the forest closed between them, something stirred in her heart which she had thought long dead and it was getting harder to strangle each time.

It was easier when the anger came. When Joanna chased one of her cats or wanted her to follow her to the village, the rage rose up through the mud of her soul and chased Joanna away. Which was nice; there was some satisfaction to be found in tears, and in the time following she could almost forget the little girl and her smiles.

Until the next time Joanna came knocking at her door.