The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [12]
“My future looks lumpy,” she said uncertainly.
Goodbye broke ranks with her family and swooped around the great cauldron, kneeling before September. The witch suddenly looked very beautiful, her pale hair swept back, her eyes dark and bright. September did not remember her looking so beautiful before, when she was stirring the pot. But now, Goodbye’s face fairly glowed, her lips perfectly rose-colored, her cheeks high, aristocratic, even blushing a little. “September,” she breathed. Her voice was pure honeywine, warm and deep and sweet. “That’s what you said your name was, yes? I prefer October, myself, but it’s such a pretty name. Your parents must have loved you very much, to give you a name like that. Do you like my name? It’s unusual, like yours.”
“Y…yes.” September felt odd. She wanted to please Goodbye very much, but more, she wanted Goodbye to like her, to love her, even, and to tell her more about how much they were alike. The witch laughed again. But now it a long, rippling laugh full of notes, almost a song.
“My sister has no shame at all, September. That’s a very secret thing she did--right in front of you! You see, the future is a kind of stew, a soup, a vichyssoise of the present and the past. That’s how you get the future: you mix up everything you did today with everything you did yesterday, and all the days before, and everything anyone you ever met did, and anyone they ever met, too. And salt, and lizard, and pearl and umbrellas and typewriters and a lot of other things I’m not at liberty to tell you because I took vows and a witch’s vows have teeth. Magic is funny like that. It’s not a linear thinker. The point is, if you mash it all up together and you have a big enough pot and you’re very good at witchcraft, you can wind up with a cauldron full of tomorrow. That lump of greasy, slimy goop is a prophecy, and my sister cast it for you.”
“What does it say?”
“Oh, so many things, September, if you know how to look. Would you like to know how? Would you like to be able to divine the meaning of that blob there, the color of mashed potatoes, or that vein of jelly? Would you like to be a witch?”
“Witchery is a life of wonder,” said Hello, “all the wheeling stars at your command, all the days of the future laid out before you like dolls in bronze armor!”
“And a really top-notch hat,” added Manythanks.
“The Marquess has a fine hat, too,” said September, shaking her head to clear Goodbye’s sudden perfume. “I’ve been told.”
Their faces darkened a little.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll all be wearing tweed trousers by fall,” Goodbye snapped sarcastically. She shut her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them again they were once more pools of deep violet, glistening with promises. “But we were discussing your prospects, my dear. For as much as I would like to bring you into my coven this very day, something bars me from accepting such a charming, polite, intelligent young ward. For a witch is nothing without her Spoon, and the Marquess stole mine years ago, because she is capricious and selfish and a brat.” Hello and Manythanks drew back from her as though the Marquess might appear that very moment and punish the brazen witch soundly. Goodbye hurried on. “But if some intrepid, brave, darling child went to the City and got it back for me, well, a witch would be grateful. You’ll know it right away, it’s a big wooden spoon, streaked with marrow and wine and sugar and yogurt and yesterday and grief and passion and jealousy and tomorrow. I’m sure the Marquess won’t miss it. She has so many nice