Amelia wasn’t a witch- at least not in the traditional storybook sense. Her cottage was situated deep within the dark wood and produced the only smoke to be seen for miles. The cottage itself was a simple residence from the outside. And the inside? Well...maybe she had used an enchantment or two.

Enchantments in Thicket were sketchy at best. They went beyond just one’s unique abilities to something far more…ancient. She had never truly mastered the ability so most of it was left to chance when casting the occasional enchantment. The spells hadn’t failed her yet. Well, not in any irreversible ways.

Her cottage was indeed under a spell of sorts and stretched much wider than it should have from the look of the thing. The kitchen was functional and well-stocked and sat just beyond the front door, to the right. It had a little window overlooking the forest beyond. Beyond the kitchen was a sitting area with a plush chair backed up toward a roaring fire, a fire that needed no wood.

Directly next to the sitting area was a large library that she had conjured up over time - at great cost to her magic. For many years it had kept her entertained with stories of the world outside, the one that she could not enter. But as time passed, she had become more and more jaded toward the shelves upon shelves telling of lives she could never live.

Outside, a storm roared against the trees. She could have sworn the forest tried to roar back. It echoed her own tempestuous thoughts.

Amelia set to straightening up her cottage, mulling over the curse and that day so long ago when she had set her kingdom on this path. She still couldn’t be sure who had cast the thing to begin with but she had some ideas.

Amelia was startled out of her thoughts once again as a book dumped unceremoniously into the sink. She looked pointedly at her cat, Euclid, who simply licked a paw sarcastically and leapt cleanly to the bed. Amelia strode to the sink to assess the damage, only to discover that the book in question was, in fact, the book.

She whipped over to look at her cat. “How did you-” She shook her head. Never mind. The book had flipped open to a page she hadn’t seen in a long time. Ignoring broken dishware and water, Amelia plucked the book from her sink and read over the page. Maybe..just maybe.

...

Now reader, I must interrupt Amelia’s story to ask you this: have you ever felt like something is missing? Like something in life is not quite right? Have you ever thought that maybe there are mysteries out there that have yet to be discovered by brave heroes like yourself? I too have felt that need. It is why I am telling this story and why I acquired a special book at a library in the city and why I visited a lonely apartment to see what I could find. I am on this journey, same as you, and I don’t know where it will lead. I can tell you the story…what I know of it at least. But after that, there will still be mysteries and missing pieces. I feel that something is yet to be discovered, that I have abilities I cannot explain. And I think someone has the answers – if I could only find a way to reach them. I ask that you think of me on this journey reader, and help me if you can.

And do not think we are finished with the witch in the woods. She has found a very special book herself, of which we will soon learn more. And she is about to do something very, very risky.

Chapter Two: Who is Maggie?

Maggie Willoughbey is a mystery to me, as you now know. She is the center of my search and she may be the only person who can give me the answers I so desperately seek. As I search through clues and venture down darkened paths, I am finding it more and more vital to get you, dear reader, up to speed. I fear that if I do not, you will never be able to help me find her. Whoever you are. Wherever she is. Whatever I am…

Now I will back up and begin this story from a very logical place - Maggie’s 12th birthday.

Maggie Willoughbey turned twelve on a rainy day, sitting at a rickety old wooden table with her family. Maggie’s mother, Marie Willoughbey was a feisty and fearless woman who told her children from a young age that “everything in life is a mystery so it’s best you have some pie.” Maggie found her endlessly comforting. Her father, Henry, was a quiet, steady man who preferred to stick his face in a book next to the roaring fireplace and sail away to distant lands. Maggie and her brother would often crawl into his lap as he told tales of magical places and impossible creatures. He had given them their sense of adventure. Her brother, Charlie, was, as most little brothers can be, loud and rambunctious. Most times, Maggie didn’t mind. She found her brother’s imagination to be wonderful and often allowed him to drag her down into the creak near their home where they would become heroes fighting mysterious villains and casting magical spells. They would often return muddy and laughing to find their mother waiting for them at the back door. She would laugh and sigh and tell them to ‘please not track all that muck in’ before hurrying off to the kitchen to make them hot chocolate.

The home itself was a large rickety structure. It had started as a one bedroom cottage before Marie’s eccentric parents had begun adding to the place in what seemed a random fashion. There were balconies and secret hallways and a crow’s nest at the top like the ones on pirate’s ships. Maggie and Charlie found it to be the most magical place on earth. They would race down the halls and up the creeky stairs until they reached the very top room - an old observatory. There they would pretend to be ancient astronomers, charting the stars and discovering the secrets of the universe.

On Maggie’s 12th birthday, the Willoughbeys were all enjoying one another’s company in the kitchen of that rickety old house when the doorbell rang out - loud and clear. Now, before we find out who was at the door that day, I must quickly address what it is like to turn twelve.

As any twelve-year-old or previous twelve-year-old reading knows, this is a tricky year in one’s young life. It is the age when magic grows further away and teenagerdom comes ever nearer. Childish things suddenly become childish even though they were never meant to be. The secret land behind the closet door, the old troll that lives under the washing machine, and even the characters in beloved books shrink further into the recesses of childhood. And yet, it is an age of possibility. It is an age when one feels slightly more independent than they did before, when a backpack of supplies and trusty boots mean a day’s worth of adventure. Twelve is a complicated age, as Maggie was discovering, but it would be made all the more complicated by the visitor at the door. 

Chapter Three: The Visitor at the Door

Maggie swung open the oak door and took in the identity of their visitor, a towering woman seemingly unfazed by the torrents of rain cascading down behind her.

The visitor at the door, as it turns out, was the mayor of Seaspell - one Miss Evelyn Langston.

Miss Langston was tall and muscular – as if she had spent much of her life on a boat or working outside or engaging in some other physically laborious task. She always wore brown trousers and boots with some sort of weathered button down shirt tucked in. No matter the weather, her black, curly hair always seemed to be blowing wildly in the wind. The mass framed her caramel brown face and hid the frames of her enormous spectacles.

Maggie had known Miss Langston all her life. Not only was the woman the mayor of their town but she was also the only tutor in sight - and among the many strange things about Seaspell, perhaps one of the strangest of all was the lack of a single school.

The circumstances of her appointment to the family had been mysterious. Marie and Henry had known there were no schools on Seaspell Island – which seemed strange and possibly against the law. When they had moved back to the island to begin a family (another long story for a different day), and had inquired with the mayor of the town, she had simply explained that there were no children on the island but that she could serve as a private tutor for any children who arrived.

She assured them that this was very much legal. 

Miss Langston was soft spoken and genuinely kind during lessons– well-read in the ways that count without become overly attached to the rules and details that make one boring -the perfect balance for a teacher. And outside of lessons, she was a boisterous force of energy. Maggie quite admired her. 

Now, as Maggie stood contemplating her tutor, she wondered what on earth Miss Langston was doing at her home on a Saturday. Maggie felt her parents approach behind her and gather in the doorway. Maggie’s mother smiled warmly when she saw who was at her door but huffed in exasperation at the state of the tutor.

“Miss Langston! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in out of the storm, you’re going to become ill!”

Miss Langston laughed a little, as if the rain wasn’t bothering her in the slightest, but nevertheless accepted the invitation.

As the group walked back into the kitchen, they found Charlie still seated at the table, having sliced the cake and taken a large portion to dig into. When he noticed them all in the doorway, he simply grinned, mouth full of cake. “Whamft? I didn’t know how long youm’d be gone and I’m hungfry.” Little crumbs spilled out of his mouth as he spoke.

Maggie giggled which set them all to laughing at the sight before them as Marie hastily headed to the stove to put a kettle of tea on.

A few minutes later, they were all seated at the table nursing hot cups of tea. Henry spoke up for the first time that evening. “Now, Miss Langston, what brings you here this evening? Not a casual visit I presume?” Miss Langston raised her ceramic cup and took a long sip of what was surely scalding water. She simply smiled and placed the When he noticed them all in the doorway, he simply grinned, mouth full of cake. “Whamft? I didn’t know how long youm’d be gone and I’m hungfry.” Little crumbs spilled out of his mouth as he spoke.

Maggie giggled which set them all to laughing at the sight before them as Marie hastily headed to the stove to put a kettle of tea on.

A few minutes later, they were all seated at the table nursing hot cups of tea. Henry spoke up for the first time that evening. “Now, Miss Langston, what brings you here this evening? Not a casual visit I presume?” Miss Langston raised her ceramic cup and took a long sip of what was surely scalding water. She simply smiled and placed the cup back onto the table carefully. Quietly she pulled a leather strap from her shoulder and placed a worn bag on the table. The force of it knocked the tea cup off the edge of the table and Maggie winced. But Evelyn simply caught it without looking or spilling a single drop and replaced it back onto the wooden surface. “Sorry about all of this. I assure you I’m not trying to be mysterious.” Maggie blinked as her tutor continued on without acknowledging her near impossible catch of the cup. “The fact of the matter is, that I have come today to give Maggie a birthday gift.”

Miss Langston flipped open the worn leather bag and began rustling inside for something before pulling out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and yellow ribbon. “Here it is!”

She passed the package to Maggie gingerly and took another sip of tea. Finally, Charlie broke the silence. “But…I didn’t get anything from you on my birthday.” He crossed his arms and hunched in his seat pouting. His parents looked both amused and slightly mortified. Evelyn simply winked at him. “Well it wasn’t your 12th birthday then now was it? You’ll just have to be patient Charlie.”

Maggie had tuned out the rest of the conversation and was now contemplating the parcel in awe. Miss Langston had driven all the way up here to give her a birthday gift?

Maggie looked around her and realized that everyone was waiting expectantly for her to open the package. She smiled sheepishly and gently untied the yellow ribbon before ripping off the paper. A book and metal tin sat amidst the wrapping and Maggie eagerly examined both. The book was a beautiful hardback bound in dark green leather with little floral designs etched in the corners. When she opened it, she found that it was full of blank creamy pages. She glanced up at Miss Langston who was beaming.

“Its a sketchbook, a journal, for whatever you want to record. So that you won’t ever forget the important things.” Maggie slowly grinned and nodded before turning to the tin. It was bronze looking and aged. She opened the lid to find the fanciest writing and drawing utensils she had ever encountered. There were sturdy pencils and a pen with a shiny black cap engraved with little golden designs. There was a brush with fine hairs perfect for small details and an eraser. She also noticed four little vials of ink in different colors. She sat stunned.

Everyone in her life knew she liked to tell stories - to imagine and sketch and write. But her parents had never really had the money for fancy supplies. It didn’t matter. Maggie had always gotten along fine with a pencil and spiral notebook. But this - the stories she could tell with this. Little tears pricked her eyes and she immediately blushed, embarrassed. She stared at the table as she got out a small “Thank you Miss Langston. I love them.”

Miss Langston laughed, the booming kind that fills a space with humor and warmth. “You’re very welcome my dear. Now carry those with you wherever you go and record the world as you see it.” With that, Miss Langston stood, thanked them for the tea and abruptly whisked out of the room. The family followed her out and watched as she waved and peeled away down the driveway in her bright yellow Volkswagen bug.

Marie sighed. “Well then. It seems as though we have some cake left to eat.” Henry chuckled and put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder as she watched the dust settle where her whirlwind of a tutor had been. She glanced down and realized she was still holding the book in her hand. And maybe it was the wonderful day she had just had, maybe it was the excitement of the gift, or maybe it was the security of her father’s hand on her shoulder, but she could have sworn that the book warmed in tandem with her very mood.

I of course, reader, can tell you it was none of those things - however pleasant they may sound. It was something else - embedded in the very nature of the book that was causing it to warm in the hand of its new owner, something very mysterious indeed.