In the quiet English village of Willowbrook, the locals often muttered behind their hands about old Margaret, claiming shed lost her marbles in her twilight years. Some even called her a witch, though none could deny how brilliantly shed silenced the village gossipsa moment still talked about to this day.
Margaret was the sort of woman youd pass without a second glancea silver-haired eccentric with a heart too big for her modest pension. While the wealthier villagers (and Willowbrook was prosperous, mind you) would barely spare a lost traveller a cup of tea, let alone a bed for the night, Margaret was different. Shed feed any stranger, offer them a warm drink, and tuck them in if the hour grew late.
Naturally, the villagers thought her mad. «Inviting strangers in, with a granddaughter to think of!» theyd scold. Some even threatened, «Keep this up, and well have little Emily sent to an orphanage. Social services will take her faster than you can blink!»
But that was before Emily turned eighteen. Before then, Margaret had seethed with quiet furyEmily was her only treasure, her last joy in a life that had taken too much. Shed lost her husband youngheart attack at forty-two. Her daughter, Charlotte, had been her pride, marrying well and moving to the city, where little Emily was born. Then, tragedy struck.
Charlottes husband, a geologist, vanished on an expeditionno body, no answers, just endless searches that yielded nothing. Charlotte crumbled under the weight of grief, raising a child alone. Margaret did her best. «I raised you after your father died,» shed remind her. «Youll raise Emily, and Ill help.»
At first, Charlotte seemed to rally. But grief has claws. Soon, she turned to the bottle. «Whats the point without my William?» shed weep. Margaret tried everything, but the drink had its grip. Charlotte died far too young, and the village tutted, as villages do.
At fifteen, Emily was left an orphan. Margaret took her in, bringing her to Willowbrook. Emily hated it at firstcity life was all she knewbut Margaret persuaded her. «Wed starve in London on my pension! Here, weve a garden, chickens…»
And then shed wink. «Youll have a different life, my love. Just waitIll find you a fine husband yet!»
Emily would laugh. «Where? In this backwater? The only men here are lost hikers!»
«Leave that to me,» Margaret would say. «Ignore the gossip.»
So they liveda grandmother and her granddaughter in a creaky cottage on the village edge. Margaret tended the garden; Emily went to the village school. The other children teased her»Your mum was a drunk, what hope do you have?»while the neighbours clucked disapprovingly. Margaret pretended not to care, but it stung.
Then came the night that changed everything.
A bitter winters evening, the village swallowed by darkness, when the sound of a stalled car engine shattered the silence. Voices cursed the cold, the roads, the rotten luck. A burly neighbour, irritated by the noise, stormed out.
«Whats all this racket at this hour?»
«Its barely eight!»
«Who *are* you lot? City folk, by the look of it. What brings you to Willowbrook?»
«Were hunters. Got lost. Cars dead. Any chance of help?»
«Help? With two daughters in the house? Not likely. We dont take in strangers here.»
The hunters exchanged glances. «Anywhere we might stay the night?»
«No hotels here, city boy,» the neighbour sneeredthen, almost as an afterthought, added, «Though old Margaret might take you in. Bit touched in the head, but shell open her door to anyone.»
With that, he slammed his gate shut.
The hunters trudged to the cottage on the village edge. A knock, and the door creaked open.
«Come in, come in! Teas brewing,» Margaret chirped.
The menOliver and Jamesstepped inside, bemused by the warmth. James, the quieter of the two, blushed like a schoolboy under Margarets gaze.
Dinner was simple: boiled potatoes, pickles, fresh bread. «Try the dandelion jam,» Margaret urged. «Nobody makes it like we do!»
Jamess eyes lit up. «My gran used to make this!»
Later, a weak voice called from another room. «Gran… water…»
Margaret sighed. «My Emilys poorly. Fever. No medicine, and Im too old to fetch any.»
James rummaged in his bag. «Herepainkillers. Give these to her.»
Margarets eyes softened. «Youre kind.»
That night, James woke to the sound of footsteps. Margaret tiptoed to the coat rack, took his jacket, and vanished into Emilys room.
*Odd*, he thought. *Is she really a witch?*
At dawn, he found his jacketthe torn sleeve expertly mended. *How had she even noticed?* He could buy a hundred jackets if he wanted (his restaurant empire saw to that), but her kindness touched him.
He chopped firewood, earning Margarets praise. «Stay for Shrove Tuesday!» she insisted.
Oliver scoffed. «Youre mad. Im leaving.»
Their argument drew the neighbour back. «Cars fixed,» he said, then hissed to James, «That old bats nothing but trouble. My daughters are better stock.»
James ignored him.
At breakfast, Emily appearedpale but smiling. James couldnt take his eyes off her.
«Ill return for Shrove Tuesday,» he promised as they left.
But days passed. No James.
The neighbour gloated. «Hes a *millionaire*, you fools! Whatd he want with you?»
Emily fled inside, heartbroken.
Thentires on gravel.
James strode in, roses in hand. «Margaret,» he said, «Ive fallen for Emily. May I marry her?»
Margaret beamed. «If shell have you.»
Emily flew into his arms.
The village buzzed for yearshow had that daft old woman snared a millionaire for her granddaughter?
Margaret just smiled. Some things, after all, are beyond even a witchs magic.
