were able to sneak up and peek inside without anyone noticing. I saw only one person, a short old man with white hair, a rounded belly, a substantial mustache and a neat, trim beard. Dressed in a knee-length light blue robe, the old man wore a soft, four-cornered cap that threatened to silp off each time he turned his head. Both robe and cap were decorated with scattered silver stars, and a chain of larger stars twinkled around his neck. A large green and red bird with a well-developed beak sat on a perch beside him.
On a table against the wall, pink and white seashells held down the edges of a fresh piece of parchment. A quill pen lay on the table, dripping ink beside a small clay pot. From where I crouched, I could see that the parchment was clean except for a few written words and a splattering of ink.
"I'm sick and tired of this!" grumbled the old man.
"Me too!" squawked the bird, shuffling back and forth on its perch.
"I can't wait until we're finished and can go home."
"Me too!"
"I wish you'd think of something else to say!"
"Me too!"
The wizard's left eyelid twitched. "You know, it was funny at first, but now it's just annoying. Stop saying 'Me too,' Metoo!"
"Thppt!" The bird made a rude sound with its beak.
"Now cut that out! I don't know why I put up with you."
"Grack!" said the bird.
The old man shook a pudgy pink finger. "You stupid bird. If it weren't for you, we would have been finished and out of here already!"
"Awk!" squawked the bird. "Don't blame me, Olefat! I told you that lying to a bunch of old witches would get you in trouble, but you had to steal their memories—"
"It seemed like a good idea," said Olefat. "All those memories just waiting to be bottled up. Once I found the book, it was only a matter of time."
"You wouldn't have needed to do it if you could come up with your own spells."
Olefat shook his head. "That wasn't the point. Those witches were once the leaders in their field. By collecting their spells, I'm doing the world of magic a service."
"Then don't come crying to me when you don't like what you hear. Even you couldn't have expected those old memories to be pleasant." Sidling along his perch, the bird twisted his head to the side to stare at the old wizard.
"I never thought they'd be this bad," Olefat wailed. "I can't stand much more!"
Something rattled, and I peeked over the window ledge to see what it was. A row of bottles filled a shelf that had been pegged to the opposite wall. One bottle was a sickly yellow shot through with violet; another was gray with purple specks the color of a bruise. While some bottles were shaking, one that was the color of dried blood looked like it was about to rattle itself completely off the shelf.
"Are you through yet?" said a scratchy voice. "I'm sick of hearing you two yammer on. Close your mouths and listen before I turn you into a couple of cockroaches!"
"You're so full of hot air!" said another voice, shrilier than the first. "You can't cast spells now. You're just a memory."
"Quiet, you old crones. It's my turn and I'm going to have my say. Ahem," said a husky voice clearing a nonexistent throat. "I married a widower king who doted on me for my beauty. I kept my splendor for years with a lotion I made from the dust of a thousand butterfly wings and the milk from two bushels of milkweed pods. I was very happy for a time, since I was the fairest in the land. But then my stepdaughter turned sixteen and ruined it all by being even more beautiful."
"A thousand butterfly wings..." muttered the old man as he scribbled on the piece of parchment.
Another witch cackled. 'You wasted your life trying to stay beautiful while I spent my days teaching lessons to those who deserved it. Every day I waited for someone to come into my woods. If a maid shared her lunch with me, I cast a spell so that each time she spoke, pearls and precious gems fell from her lips. Maids who refused to share their food had frogs, snakes and lizards squirming from
On a table against the wall, pink and white seashells held down the edges of a fresh piece of parchment. A quill pen lay on the table, dripping ink beside a small clay pot. From where I crouched, I could see that the parchment was clean except for a few written words and a splattering of ink.
"I'm sick and tired of this!" grumbled the old man.
"Me too!" squawked the bird, shuffling back and forth on its perch.
"I can't wait until we're finished and can go home."
"Me too!"
"I wish you'd think of something else to say!"
"Me too!"
The wizard's left eyelid twitched. "You know, it was funny at first, but now it's just annoying. Stop saying 'Me too,' Metoo!"
"Thppt!" The bird made a rude sound with its beak.
"Now cut that out! I don't know why I put up with you."
"Grack!" said the bird.
The old man shook a pudgy pink finger. "You stupid bird. If it weren't for you, we would have been finished and out of here already!"
"Awk!" squawked the bird. "Don't blame me, Olefat! I told you that lying to a bunch of old witches would get you in trouble, but you had to steal their memories—"
"It seemed like a good idea," said Olefat. "All those memories just waiting to be bottled up. Once I found the book, it was only a matter of time."
"You wouldn't have needed to do it if you could come up with your own spells."
Olefat shook his head. "That wasn't the point. Those witches were once the leaders in their field. By collecting their spells, I'm doing the world of magic a service."
"Then don't come crying to me when you don't like what you hear. Even you couldn't have expected those old memories to be pleasant." Sidling along his perch, the bird twisted his head to the side to stare at the old wizard.
"I never thought they'd be this bad," Olefat wailed. "I can't stand much more!"
Something rattled, and I peeked over the window ledge to see what it was. A row of bottles filled a shelf that had been pegged to the opposite wall. One bottle was a sickly yellow shot through with violet; another was gray with purple specks the color of a bruise. While some bottles were shaking, one that was the color of dried blood looked like it was about to rattle itself completely off the shelf.
"Are you through yet?" said a scratchy voice. "I'm sick of hearing you two yammer on. Close your mouths and listen before I turn you into a couple of cockroaches!"
"You're so full of hot air!" said another voice, shrilier than the first. "You can't cast spells now. You're just a memory."
"Quiet, you old crones. It's my turn and I'm going to have my say. Ahem," said a husky voice clearing a nonexistent throat. "I married a widower king who doted on me for my beauty. I kept my splendor for years with a lotion I made from the dust of a thousand butterfly wings and the milk from two bushels of milkweed pods. I was very happy for a time, since I was the fairest in the land. But then my stepdaughter turned sixteen and ruined it all by being even more beautiful."
"A thousand butterfly wings..." muttered the old man as he scribbled on the piece of parchment.
Another witch cackled. 'You wasted your life trying to stay beautiful while I spent my days teaching lessons to those who deserved it. Every day I waited for someone to come into my woods. If a maid shared her lunch with me, I cast a spell so that each time she spoke, pearls and precious gems fell from her lips. Maids who refused to share their food had frogs, snakes and lizards squirming from
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