Rose sat in the garden doing nothing. She was just staring at the vegetables around her. She watched as bugs, some good some bad, went about their business. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice told her to get back to work. She ignored it.
"Those weeds won't pull themselves you know! Get back to work," a gnarled voice said from behind her.
It was Mistress Yaga. Rose had been so engrossed in the tiny world she was observing, she hadn't heard the old woman come up behind her.
"Sorry Mistress Yaga," she said quietly. To show how sorry she was, Rose plunged her spade vigorously into the dirt, uprooting some nettles. Mistress Yaga grumbled to herself, no doubt about young work ethic, and lumbered away.
She wasn't a fat woman, but Mistress Yaga was big. She was tall and built thickly. Her hair, which must have once been beautiful, was now white as snow and was always in a bun with wisps flying everywhere. Her face was well weathered, which Rose always found strange. Mistress Yaga could easily have made a potion or poultice or something for that. But her eyes were still clear and strong. They were such a warm brown that they might have been amber. Anyone who tried to stare down Mistress Yaga was in for a shock.
Rose sighed as she pulled up a thistle and put it in her weed basket. The nettles went in a satchel on her hip that was made just for them. Most weeds, most plants really, had a use. Mistress Yaga knew all of them. Weeds were not meant to be thrown away.
Sometimes, times like this, Rose wondered how she came to live with Mistress Yaga. They weren't related. But Rose didn't have anyone else. She liked her life, but she wanted to know about her parents. What happened to them? She could still remember their voices, and sometimes their faces. How was it that Mistress Yaga chose Rose to be her student? But whenever Rose asked Mistress Yaga about it, she would change the topic or find a way to tiptoe around it.
"Ah well. It does no good to dwell on it," she said to herself, "I'm lucky to have Mistress Yaga. I don't want her to think I'm ungrateful for her help. After all what usually happens to orphans?" She shuddered as she recalled the stories she'd heard.
Of course it never occurred to her that her parents may not have wanted her to be the old woman's student. But now what could they do?