Where is it that the king must now go? Such a mystery, isn't it? Unfortunately for me, I already know, which is both blessing and curse. So, forearmed as I am with proper insight, we shall fly now to the place and be there, well before he arrives. For this journey we needn't stop the clock, as it transpires well within the confines of chronological order.
So, here we are, a short distance from the castle, in the woods that act as border to the region, before a lonely little cottage that sits amidst the trees, in near complete isolation. Into this hovel we now enter, but it is empty. There is not a single living thing inside, but that is a condition soon to be changed.
A window opens slowly, allowing the pale moon to throw its beams onto the exposed floor. A shadow is cast by this light as it draws near to the open window while descending from the sky. It's an odd silhouette, possessing the obvious shape of a seated person, yet there is something more, something that combines with the shadow, creating a strange outline.
It lowers nearer to the house, careful to avoid the stretching branches of the trees, as it reaches the open window and alights inside. The bright light of the moon bathes the figure in illuminating radiance revealing an old woman sitting upon a broom. So, we can drop the subtle nuance and call her what she is, a witch, Maggie by name.
It has been a long night and the aged woman is glad to be inside her home once again. She gives herself a nice long yawn before reaching her foot down into the blanket of shadow that obscures her vision. She can feel nothing. She looks up, she is just inches from the rafters, which means the floor is several feet below.
Maggie knocks upon the broomstick's head. "And what do you call this?" she asks without a hint of absurdity to her words while resting her fists on her hips.
The head of the broom bends inward upon itself, in response to the question. Once it sees the problem it quickly corrects it by lowering closer to the floor.
"Darn old broom," Maggie berates the animate object as she hops down.
A maneuver she soon regrets as the bones in her old body protest the sudden violence enacted upon them. She groans loudly as she stretches the muscles in her back, by placing her hands on her hips and stretching her head upward. Meanwhile, the broom slinks its way across the floor and quietly shuts the closet door behind it.
Maggie catches sight of the retreating household implement. "Ah, ah, ah!" she corrects the sneaky behavior as she waggles a finger before returning both fists to her hips. "And where do you think you're going?"
The broom cracks the closet door open and slips its head through the narrow slit afforded.
"This floor isn't going to sweep itself you know," Maggie declares as she sweeps her hand across the open room. "Unless you expect me to do it."
The broom indicates that's exactly what it thought with a nod.
"Ooh, what cheek!" Maggie shouts as she bounds toward the closing, closet door which she pounds on with her fist. "I should chop you up and use you for firewood."
She steps aside, as the door flies open and the broom sets to the task with the intensity belonging to the desperate.
"That's better," Maggie remarks and leaves the cleaning apparatus to its work.
She exits the room and shuffles across the worn floor as she braces her weight against the banister. She gazes downward as she finds herself at the top of a long, crooked stair, a sight that is quite intimidating to her old bones. She lets out a long exasperated sigh before working her way down each and every step.
The weathered wood creaks and groans in concert with her bones as she proceeds deeper into the darkness. Luckily, the lack of vision does not hinder her descent. Finally, after what seems an eternity, she makes it to the floor below where she gives her bones a good couple of cracks and makes loud declarations about illegitimate lineages.
After which, Maggie noisily claps her hands. "All right everyone!" she calls aloud to an empty room. "Time to get to it!"
In response to the summons, the room becomes filled with animated furniture. A circular table stretches itself before hobbling over to the center of the room. It's soon joined by two chairs, one to either side, while fire erupts in the fireplace, cooking the concoction contained within a large cauldron. She makes her way over to the cooking liquid and samples of its noxious contents.
Maggie smacks her lips noisily as she gives a satisfactory emission. "Just like mother used to make," she speaks to no one in particular as she fills her cup.
She walks over to the table and settles herself inside the embrace of a simple chair, which grunts under the weight.
"Now, now," Maggie responds as she elbows the back of her chair. "I'm not that heavy."
The chair would have begged to differ, but it keeps silent all the same. It doesn't want to be firewood.
Maggie wriggles in her chair as she holds the cup of bubbling brew near to her face and bathes in the rising steam. She gingerly sips the scalding content as she rests back in her chair. She's in pure bliss and her body relaxes to the point of being weightless. Not long after, the door opens quite on its own and inside its frame stands the king.
"Come in your majesty," Maggie addresses her visitor without even looking in his direction.
Gerard should have known better than to be surprised by her acknowledgment, despite the shock upon his face. The old witch always knows when someone is visiting her, sometimes even before they do. At least, it's always been so in his case. The monarch crosses the threshold and shuts the door behind him.