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Willow Lane, when we rolled up it, quickly developed the same sweeping and window box weeding problem it had the afternoon before. Mrs. Piddock’s stoop got a new brushing. Old Tom lifted his mug to us in a silent toast.

“They’re watching us,” I said in a low voice.

“Hm.”

“You know what they’re saying.”

“I hear most of it.”

Ogre ears.

He handed me down at my mended door, in front of an entire audience, his big hands spanning my waist with only a little bit of room left if I plumped up from his tasty porridge.

He left, and I worked through the day. The shop was busy, much busier than normal. Everyone seemed determined to stick their noses into my business.

“What happened last night?” Mrs. Honeycake asked, following her question up with a titter.

“I slept.”

“In his bed.”

“Where else? He offered, after all.” I shot a stern look Melissant’s way because I could see her gearing herself up to start spitting out her own questions. “He slept in the hayloft. Far from his bed inside his cottage. He was nice to offer his home to me. It’s lovely having a secure roof over my head.”

And that seemed to be enough fodder for the gossip mill for one day, because no one else asked questions.

Near closing, the bell rang for a girl I knew by sight and not by name, which in this village takes effort.

Seventeen or so. Freckles across her cheekbones. Dressed in a gown more suited for a dance than for shopping. She came to the counter, put both hands on it, and said nothing.

“Take your time,” I said.

“I’m Tansy. Mrs. Piddock’s sister’s girl.” She swallowed. “I’ve come about the ogre.”

“Everyone has.”

“No.” Her chin came up. “I’ve come about what you gave him. I’d like some.”

A door I’d hoped would never need to open got knocked on. I’d always assumed I’d be furious when it happened. I wasn’t. She was seventeen and she’d dressed well before asking.

“Who is he?”

“Ansel Puddlefoot,” she snarled. “He doesn’t know I exist. He has seventeen brothers and sisters and he counts them twice a day, but he has never once counted me.”

I got down two cups, because this was a two-cup conversation.

“I’m going to tell you something, Tansy, and then I’m going to make you a pot of tea.” I set the cups on the counter. “There’s a blend that was passed down from witch to witch going all the way back to when this village was formed, and it stays in a warded tin. I will never sell it to you or anybody else. I’m not stingy. But it doesn’t do what you think it does.”

“It made an ogre adore you. Nearly attack you in a good way, from what I hear of it.”

“It made him do what he’d already decided to do two years ago.” My hands kept working while I said it, which was the only reason I got through the sentence. “That’s it. It opens a gate. It doesn’t build anything on the other side. If there’s nothing behind Ansel Puddlefoot’s gate, you’ll get a boy standing in a doorway looking confused. Then you’ll get a boy who’s embarrassed about it. After that, you’ll have to live in this valley with him for the next sixty years knowing you’d tried to force something that wasn’t there.”

Her eyes had gone glassy. “You won’t help me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

I turned around and started pulling tins.

Moonbell for a clear head. A pinch of bright-blend, because dread makes everything look like the worst days of winter. Lemon balm to keep her hands still. And last, down at the bottom of the pot where it would steep longest, a spoonful of the rough gray stuff out of the unmarked tin, which held dried nettle and a touch of my grandmother’s temper.