...

When the cab stopped at the Wandlebury Country Park car park, the driver shot Sunna a glance. He had already looked oddly at her when she had given him the destination. Clearing his throat, he remarked, “The park is closed and only open from dawn to dusk. You sure you have the right address, Love?”

    “I’m sure.”

    “Shall I wait—”

    “Keep the change and have a good evening,” she cut him off while climbing out.

    Walking in the direction of the park entrance, she watched him carefully from the corner of her eye until he left before she took the path she actually wanted.

    Turning right, she slowly walked into the spinney, which grew more tightly with every step. She had needed a forest, and while the few trees around her hardly counted as one, they had to do.

...
In her desperation, a thought had appeared to her which had frightened her more than anything, and she had quarrelled with herself until the sunset had forced her hand.

    She stopped and considered leaving, before moving forwards again and passing several more trees. Reaching a small clearing, she decided that this place was as good as any. Like all witches, she instinctively knew how to call her ancestor. However, a bitter taste formed on her tongue, and she halted once more with uncertainty rushing through her. To avoid losing conviction, she closed her eyes and spoke three times the name of whom she wished to see.

    Several seconds passed while nothing happened. Then a cracking sound appeared in the far distance that came fast closer. A moment later, a wooden house appeared while the trees in front of it were shoved aside to make space. It was a shabby-looking wooden cabin without a single window and only an old door that looked like it would fall out of its hinges at any second. The black smoke from its crooked chimney danced in the tree’s branches, which moved behind the hut back into their places. However, its most distinct feature was the selection of gigantic skeleton feet that carried it and which moved erratically and seemingly unsynchronised. Through this, the hut was shaken like a nutshell on a stormy sea.

Only an inch before her, it came to a halt and set down, burying its feet underneath it. With a squeaking noise, the door opened, letting only darkness out. She let her tongue run over her lips before stepping in. However, hardly had she crossed the threshold when she was standing in a room well-lit by candles and a chimney fire that spread a soaring heat. A tremor went through the floor, and she felt the cabin move again, though the erratic movements she had observed from the outside were only mildly noticeable.

    Unsure what to expect, she glanced cautiously around. From the ceiling hung herbs and other dried plants while the walls were covered with shelves that spilt over with all kinds of pots, baskets and other utensils. At the wall on her right, the shelves were filled with large glass jars that contained various types of organs, body parts and other dead things. Without those jars, it would have been an ordinary room if there had not been its unrealistic size, seeming far bigger than the cabin itself.

    “Too big,” a scratchy voice laughed.

    Holding her breath, she observed a figure emerging from the shadows of the wall and quickly fortified her mind against further invasions.

Making a respectful bow, she spoke, “Dear Baba Yaga, Primal Witch of old and greatest of all witches, I thank you for granting me access to your home.”

    The Yaga snarled and came closer before reaching out a wrinkly hand. She freed the presents she had brought from her bag. With another bow and a quick move, to not touch the Yaga’s bony fingers, she placed several small vials into the outstretched hand. The Yaga closed her fingers around them and glared at the vials.

   “What’s that supposed to be?”

   She kept her head bowed and spoke calmly, “Those are my gifts of power. Harvested from sacred creatures. Dragon scales from the olden days. Mermaid tears from the deadly wet depth. And the claw of a death-calling Harpy.”

   “You think those are gifts?” the Yaga laughed. “They hold no interest for me.”

    She made another bow and begged the Yaga for forgiveness, as it was customary, while her hand stroked over the silver scroll container, still hidden in her bag. It was her backup plan should her presents fail. What she had given would tempt others to kill for, but she was also aware that the Yaga would toy with her.

    “If you like to bow that much, maybe you should stay down,” the Yaga mocked.

    With eyes gliding disapprovingly over the vials, her ancestor threw them into a corner. She exhaled before letting go of the silver container. So far, so good. Now the tricky part would begin. The moment the Yaga had invited her into the house, her ancestor had committed to the law of hospitality like all witches had to. This forbade her from harming any visitor, but only to a certain point. If she broke the law first, the Yaga could do with her as she pleased. However, as long as she stepped carefully, did not overdo her stay or break any customary rules, she would be safe. At least this was the theory. It meant following four simple rules. Not attacking or trying to harm her host. Not accusing her host of wrongdoing. Not bringing another guest into her host’s home. And lastly, not calling her host a liar.

    The Yaga would try to get her to lose her temper and break one of those rules. It was well known that she lived for the sport of outwitting her guests and loved to con her prey into digging their own graves. In essence, it was a game of cat and mouse, and the Yaga would look for whatever reason she could find to get her to misstep. However, she had no interest in letting the Yaga win the game.