“Soon,” she promised.

She gazed at the broom that stood next to her front door.

She turned her sight to the window that overlooked the dusty valley below. Her purple eyes glistened in the failing sunlight. She tucked a dark brown lock of hair behind her earring-covered ear. She leaned on her hands; her elbows digging into the old wooden table.

Don’t fly when the humans will see you. Her Grandmother’s words echoed in her mind. They fear what they don’t understand. You are my only Grandchild, the heir to my magic. If they catch you, they will burn you.

“They’ll have to catch me first,” she mumbled.

An abrupt thought called for her attention.

How many witches thought the same thing? How many were caught?

She thought about the history her Grandmother told her about. About the Witches who burned, those who hanged, those who could not escape the waiting hands of death.

It’s too risky to fly in the sun’s glory.

Her hands clenched the table. She looked around the small cottage, her inheritance from a long line of women who survived. A cauldron older than the fireplace it sat within, cast iron, yet not a speck of rust. Dust covered the shelves and glass bottles, filled with wonders and ingredients. Near her broom hung her black hat and red cloak, passed down when her Grandmother died.

Then the broom. A gnarly stick with straw pointing in different directions. It swept away evil intentions at her doorstep. The owl carved into the top provided wisdom she knew she needed to follow. Yet, neither would be useful if the humans knew where and what she was.

Soon… the evening wind whispered.

The sun fell below the horizon, bathing the cottage and valley in a cooling red glow.

She smiled, a slight uptick of her painted red lips. Her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she stood. She raced to the doorway, throwing it open as she slid to it. She grabbed her hat, cloak, and broom.

The bindings that entrapped the cottage gave way as she stepped onto the grassy knoll. She looked back to the place where generations of her family had lived. It choked her, a noose around her soul when she stayed within its protective walls. Thousands of spells covered the cottage; the hopes and dreams of her ancestors prayed into the very wood.

She turned away from it, mounting her broom. She kicked the ground, dust fluttering in the air. She rose from the grass and steadied herself. With a gentle urge, she leaned forward to guide the broom where to go.

She circled until she was above the forest trees behind her cottage. She stared at the valley below, wondering if it would be worth it to reveal herself. Fear forced her back to safety. She pulled the broom towards the woods and through the trees.

She longed to escape.

From the humans.

From the expectations of her family.

From the terror that gripped her daily.

From the magic that flowed in her veins.

She sighed. It would be no use. She turned back to her cottage as the moon rose above the horizon. She landed near the door and dismounted from her broom. She touched the door frame; the wood warmed under her fingertips. She said a prayer of protection, adding yet another to the cottage’s walls.

Her ugly reality that she would never be able to leave this place tainted the freedom she felt in the air.

She went inside her cottage and shut the door behind her. She removed her hat and cloak, then set them next to the broom.

She returned to the chair and table.

The window called to her. The moonlight beckoned. She wanted to run, but the chains of the cottage held her soul tighter.

“Soon,” she promised.