‘What?’ Snow asks Daisy, through gritted teeth.
‘It’s a long story,’ Daisy replies. ‘There was a dog. Needless to say; sorry.’
‘It’s a good thing, Daisy,’ says Morning. ‘I meant every word I said about doing things differently from now on. Gretel, you’ll be pleased to hear that you’re free to return to your home village. No recriminations, and no more abominations. Man or woman, boy or girl, all of you are free to pursue whatever interests, hobbies or careers you please. No more need to turn to the wicked witches in order to escape the Citadel’s rules. The huntsmen are on your side. I’m on your side.’
‘Just as long as we’re not witches, right?’ Gretel replies coldly.
‘The witch problem is a threat to our way of life, I’m afraid.’ Morning doesn’t drop her cheerfully matter-of-fact tone whatsoever. If anything, it makes her message sound even more upsetting. ‘It doesn’t have to be a problem that concerns you any more, though. We will eliminate them, to protect you. You can go home – all of you humans – you can live happily ever after, in comfort and freedom.’
Gretel draws herself up to her full, tiny height. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘If this is about your brother, I’m sure we can come to some -’
Gretel meets Morning’s eye steadily. ‘I can’t, because I’m a witch too.’
‘Aww.’ Morning barks out a loud, good-natured laugh. ‘No you’re not, but aren’t you sweet for trying to stick up for them? In time, you’ll see how they brainwashed you into that.’
‘I am a witch.’ Still Gretel refuses to break eye contact with Morning. ‘I made half a village disappear and turn up somewhere else. I magically escaped death on the bonfire. I’m a witch.’
‘So am I,’ chimes Daisy, taking Gretel’s free hand. ‘That’s how I escaped the rack. I’m a witch too.’
‘I see what you girls are doing,’ Morning says with a smile.
‘but I’m sure your parents will talk sense into you before—’
‘I’m a witch,’ says Gretel’s stepfather quickly, stepping forward next to Hansel.
‘So am I,’ adds her stepmother.
‘Me too,’ says Ethel Wicker, linking arms with Daisy.
‘I’m a witch too!’ cries Coriander the midwife.
‘We’re witches,’ call out Tailor and Tiler Hill in unison.
‘So am I,’ shouts their mother Dollis.
‘So am I!’ adds their grandfather Gregor.
‘I’m a witch,’ shouts Lisbet Grief.
‘I am actually a witch,’ shouts Mother Goggins over her, but gets drowned out.
Morning takes all of this in, smiling and nodding in understanding. ‘I see. Are there any of Nearby’s residents who don’t want to admit to witchcraft right now? Knowing what the penalty for it is?’
There is a pause. Carpenter Fred shuffles towards her awkwardly.
‘No,’ he tells her. ‘No, we’re all witches. We can’t take your crumbs of a slightly better life if it’s at the expense of thems that live in the Darkwood. So, anything you want to do to witches, you’re going to have to do to us, too. Due to us being witches.’
Morning nods again, and her face splits into a beautiful, warm, toothy grin. ‘OK.’
‘Uh oh,’ says Scarlett, her voice turning canine as she transforms as a reflex.
‘Oh,’ Carpenter Fred says, realising. ‘Hang on…’
But no, the huntsmen will not hang on. They come pouring out of the cave, melee weapons at the ready, and Gretel is suddenly aware that none of the huge group of villagers and Darkwood refugees is armed. Her own knapsack of devices is still in Gilde’s cottage way up in the mountains behind a river of fire, as is Snow’s armour and all of her axes. Even her precious new ‘secret weapon’ was lost along with Trevor.
‘Run,’ she cries.
‘No,’ calls Hansel over her, in a voice that carries further and holds far more authority than hers. ‘The flying machine’s doubling back. If we leave the crevasse, we’ll be easy pickings for it.’
‘So, what do we do?’
The huntsmen are only a few yards away from them. Dwarves and wolves push forwards to form a defensive line in front of the other creatures, sharp teeth snapping. They’re joined by a few of the Unicorns, horns lowered, ready to stab. A couple of Ogres stomp forwards as well. Gretel notices that they too are unarmed – nobody would have had time to grab anything as they were being herded to the crevasse.
‘Jack,’ she calls, ‘we could do with some lumber here.’
‘Gotcha.’ Jack sweeps with his arms, causing a tangle of thorns to grow between the huntsmen and the Darkwood creatures and villagers. As huntsmen swear and hack at the thicket, Jack pulls up a small copse of birch trees for the Ogres to pull up and use as weapons. They swiftly rip branches off the trees and pass them down to the villagers as smaller makeshift clubs. Some of the Dwarves clamber to the top of the thorny barrier and start throwing stones down at the huntsmen on the other side of it, which considerably increases the volume and strength of the swearing.
Hex flutters his wing nervously. ‘Should I fly over?’
‘Not yet,’ Snow tells him, selecting the sharpest bit of branch that she can. ‘I saw crossbows. You’ll only make yourself a target…’
Beyond the thicket, there is the sound of a thick crossbow string’s release, followed by a dull, meaty sound. A Dwarf tumbles from the thorny barricade, a crossbow bolt in its belly.
‘No,’ screams Snow. She races to the stricken Dwarf, the other Dwarves howling in horror and outrage.
With the swipe of a broadsword, a huntsman breaches the barrier of thorns, and is met with the bared teeth of the wolves. The huntsman stumbles when he’s nipped in the leg, but another huntsman clambers over him to take his place, followed by another, and another.
‘Oi. Oi.’ Snow pats the Dwarf’s cheek tenderly, and for the first time, Gretel realises that ‘Oi’ must be this particular Dwarf’s name.
‘Oi, come on. We’ll get you stitched up, you’ll make it.’
Gretel’s stepmother kneels down next to Snow. ‘I can deal with this, Majesty. You get back to fending them blighters off.’
‘But…’
‘I’ve brought newborn piglets back from death’s door, Majesty,’ snaps Gretel’s stepmother, ‘but I can’t do it while being stabbed by a huntsman, so get to it, please and thank you!’
Gretel barely has time to be proud of her stepmother before the breach in the thicket completely collapses and huntsmen pour towards them once more. Wolves snap and bite, Unicorns charge, villagers, Ogres and assorted other beings swing tree trunks and branches. Above the noise of all of this comes the sound of the flying machine again, approaching them from behind. Trapping them in the narrow crevasse.
Snow spots it too, and whistles a low note. Thousands of birds take off, flying in the direction of the airship’s engine noise. The Harpies and Manticore start flapping as well, and Hex begins to change.
‘No,’ comes Hansel’s curiously loud voice again, travelling through the ground and up into the soles of people’s feet rather than through their ears.