The Witch in the Cottage

"Lisette, you're here early today."

I flash Aastha an easy smile in response, holding up a basket of bread and jarred jam in supplication. "My thanks for patching me up last week," I tell her, the words rolling out of my tongue like honey and butter. The woman blinks, then grins, opening the door a little wider as she lets me in.

"Ah, you shouldn't have," she murmurs. "But this is very sweet of you. Thank you."

It took some getting used to, answering to the name Lisette. The words felt foreign and strange and my tongue struggles to keep up with it. Yet the language came to me like a distant memory along with flashes of this young girl's past. The daughter of a merchant, a nameless extra in this story with no notable roles whatsoever. Anyone in the crowd could have been Lisette during those walks through town.

But the woman in front of me, unsuspecting as she was, holds far more prominence.

Aastha was the witch who seduced Baron Montagne, after all.

There were three things I learned so far. One, I have taken the form of an eight-year-old girl, due to the story's canon occurring nineteen years from now. Two, time seemed to flow at a faster pace in this dreamscape, with me waking to see weeks have passed with filler and fluff stuffing my memories. Three, whatever affects me in this dream, affects me in real life.

Nineteen years was a long time to wait and a part of me huffs with growing disappointment over being trapped in the body of one so young. But that quickly melted away when I met Aastha and saw the faint bump on her stomach.

In a few months, Solène's birth was due. The story would kick off soon enough.

For now, I am unsure of my position here. Aastha was not what I expected. She was not some scheming entity who rubbed her hands in spiteful glee. She looked worn out and tired, battered in some places. Her smile was gentle and I could recall the warmth in her hands with how she helped me with her magic.

"Come on! I'm sure you're feeling a little hungry. You can have some of the food I cooked up." she offers, patting the empty chair by the table.

"No thank you. The baby might need it more." I reply, like the responsible little eight-year-old I was. Aastha raises a brow but says nothing, hiding away the amused chuckle that threatens to burst through.

I could see why Baron Montagne would have been attracted to her. She was petite, with burnished brown skin and wild dark hair. But it was her eyes that struck me the most, a deep shade of brown that pierced any stray souls who met her gaze. I witnessed their steely glare when she faced those bandits who attacked me, and the gentle warmth they gave out when she faced me. Aastha was a beautiful woman. That much, was certain.

I absently tug at my blonde hair. They weren't the brown I was used to back home, but they were well-kept and pretty nonetheless. Lisette's mother did well, taking care of her.

"How are you doing? I hope you're still not shaken up after the incident..."

"I'm fine! Mama gave me an earful for wandering out without her word, but that's about it." I sit in the chair for appearance's sake. I was growing tired of aimlessly standing around.

"Good." Aastha nods. She absently touches her stomach as she prepares some food anyway, placing a helping before me. She rarely cooked cuisine from her homeland, given the lack of ingredients, so I made do with her bread and stew. It was still delicious.

"How long till the baby comes?" I ask on a whim.

"A few months...maybe five...maybe for. You can't be too sure...and this one is temperamental.." she laughs. "Elias keeps dropping by for a visit to check on us...he's just as excited about this."

Excited.

The more time I spend here, the more I question the validity of the story's perspective. For a moment, I worry it won't follow the path intended, but throwaway events such as the stalemate between two warring kingdoms floating around and the flood in a nearby village making news; tiny details mentioned in the book's past, have occurred.

I know for a fact that this woman, kind as she is dubious, will die in a few years.

I don't want to care about it. Solène brought me grief reading that story. Her hypocrisy was unmatched and her mother still practiced arts that may as well have been blasphemous. Communing with the dead, and gathering knowledge from lost souls, Aastha practiced her necromancy openly yet saw little problem in it.

But that nagging voice stills that bias.

Aastha reminded me of my mother in a way. Tired, kind, imperfect, and rough around the edges.

I do not know what to think or say. The weight in my chest persists.

So I look down and listen to Aastha's chattering.