~2.14~

The bell tinkled over the door of the Old Forest Sweet Shoppe as Mama entered, and the red-haired proprietress turned a plasticine smile towards her. She said, “Hi! I’ll be with you in a moment, ma’am,” then turned back to the old-fashioned balancing scales, where she was measuring a half-pound of fudge for a yuppie couple.

When they had left, she handed Mama a small cardboard sign with a clock with movable hands on it, below the words “WE’LL BE BACK AT“. Mama glanced at her watch and set the hands thirty minutes ahead, then stuck it in the door and turned the lock.

“You’re keeping some bad company these days, Mama,” Ginger said ruefully, glancing towards the display window, at the broad back of Ivan.

“Or he’s keeping me,” Mama replied. “He does good work.”

“You can’t do good work by doing ill,” Ginger countered.

“That was the reason most folks wanted to keep the witches out of tribe, back when,” Mama said.

“Small-minded superstition,” Ginger said, with a shrug. “As far as I know, nobody’s had cause to regret our inclusion. You’ll want to watch that one twice as hard as he watches you, though… they don’t call him ‘Ivan the Terrible’ for nothing.”

“I expect they don’t,” Mama said. “Most folks who insult him wind up paying something. Anyway, I didn‘t come here to discuss my minders.”

“I’d guess that you didn’t,” Ginger said, her manner changing in the blink of an eye, becoming more guarded.

“You’ve got too many kids here, Ginger,” Mama said, her tone also changing, becoming less conversational and more authoritative. “Somebody’s bound to start counting. Somebody’s bound to notice.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Ginger asked. “Turn the new ones away? Start culling? Nobody ends up here because they wanted to. These children are here because they were unwanted, neglected if not abandoned outright by their parents.”

“Something’s got to be done,” Mama said.

“Well,” Ginger said, thoughtfully. “How about an adoption program?”