Parenthood was finally settling into a pattern. Lillian covered herself, then passed the satiated week-old infant to Agnes, who whisked the swaddled pink cherub out of the room to unswaddle and mop up her back end. Harold reclined on a pile of pillows, peering through half-moon readers at a sheaf of parchment.

Lillian took advantage of the moment of privacy.

"It does make you wonder, though, doesn't it Harold?"

"Hmm, dear? Wot's that?" Harold stared through the parchment spreadsheets. He gripped them a little tighter, crinkling the sheets.

"Why? Why would a witch materialize out of nowhere at exactly the moment we faced disaster, volunteer to help, and then just fly off into the night? It doesn't make sense."

"Well, she didn't say," Harold began haltingly. "But maybe … maybe not all witches are bad?"

"That's true, Harold, and I should feel bad for judging her … but still, if she wanted to help, why saddle our little girl with such a heavy burden?"

"Well," Harold stalled, his gaze drifting up to the corner of the room. "Perhaps she wanted to help, but witches only have so many spellbooks, and most of them are for cursing? Maybe she was just working with what she had," his ad-hoc theory building up to a victorious climax, "and somehow she knew this particular ... spell ... would save little Fiona." Harold nodded with confidence.

"Maybe that's so," Lillian considered. "Apparently we have a witch to thank, and perhaps a curse to be grateful for."

Grateful, Harold thought bitterly. He swallowed against a dry tongue.

"I mean, it's tough to accept her curse, but imagine the alternative! What if she had died? That would have been such an awful alternative!"

Harold stared at the hem of his robe.