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Pflanze watched as her witches scuttled about the kitchen getting the tea ready for Ursula, who had her feet propped on a little cushioned stool Ruby had brought for her. Pflanze’s witches had been quite unlike themselves since their little sister, Circe, had left, and Pflanze was growing worried they would wither from their constant fretting. But what troubled the cat more was how quiet the sisters had become. She was used to their insane ramblings and manic chatter. But now the house was almost unbearably quiet without Circe to fawn over. Now the sisters would simply sit and mope, uninspired even to cause their usual mayhem. And when they spoke, they did so as coherently as they could manage, in an attempt to make their sister Circe happy when she finally came home. Pflanze presumed that if the sisters had hearts within their hollow, hateful shells, they had been broken the day the witches’ little sister left with hate in her eyes, anger in her words, and a deep sadness in her heart.
Circe wasn’t like her sisters, Pflanze mused. She loved. And Circe felt Lucinda, Ruby, and Martha had finally gone too far with their magic, hurting someone she had once cared for very deeply. Pflanze didn’t blame the sisters for what they had done to the Prince, the curse they had helped set on him, or the torments they had rained upon his head. They had almost driven him mad, and with good reason. He had broken Circe’s heart and treated her rather shabbily.
Everything they had done, all the meddling and scheming, was for their little sister. But Circe was terribly angry with them for the part they had played in the curse, which had sent the Prince further into his greedy, hurtful ways, nearly destroying kingdoms in the process.
No, Circe couldn’t forgive her sisters, and Pflanze was almost sure she would never speak to them again as their punishment. The beautiful feline hoped the visit from Ursula would inspire a wee bit of wickedness and bring her mistresses out of the deep depression they’d been suffering.
But Pflanze’s musings were shattered by screams that caused Martha to drop the glass teapot, breaking it into tiny shards on the black-and-white kitchen floor. Ruby was sobbing. The glass sparkled like diamonds, dazzling in Ursula’s eyes. Soon Ruby’s sobs were so severe she found herself in Ursula’s arms as the sea witch tried to calm her theatrical ravings.
“Pflanze thinks Circe will never speak to us again!” Soon all the sisters were screaming and crying, wringing their hands, and ripping their dresses. Martha started pulling her hair, and Lucinda was ripping at the feathers in hers, casting them about the room like a madwoman.
“Ladies, stop!” boomed Ursula’s voice, and the sisters could see, cast onto the wall behind the elegant human body Ursula was hiding in, the shadow of her true form, dominating the kitchen.
“Silence!” Ursula commanded.
The sisters fell quiet.
“You will see your little sister again, I promise you, but first there is something I will need from you.”
The witches were standing on the rocky cliffs, looking down on the small coastal town of Ipswich. Its little weather-worn cottages were barely distinguishable under the thick layer of soot. You could feel the hate emanating from the place, the pain and suffering that were not only inflicted but that imbued the magic that caused this nightmare.
The sisters were not only intrigued; they were impressed.
Like all witches in the land, they had felt the shudder of power when Ursula caused that ruination so many years before. The place stood like a monument to death, a reminder not to cross the sea witch. To the sisters it was beautiful.
Even Ursula’s brother could not cleanse that land. As pure as his magic was, it could not penetrate Ursula’s hate. Not even the old queen’s rage had caused that much destruction. Oh, she, too, had blighted the lands, but she had left one singular tree with a shiny red apple, a symbol of the tiny shard of hope and, indeed, love that remained within the Wicked Queen’s dark and lonely heart.
That was the old queen’s failing, the sisters thought: her love. She had never truly relinquished herself to grief and anger. She had never completely filled her heart with hatred. Even now the old queen looked in on her daughter, Snow White, stealing glimpses of her in an enchanted mirror, the sisters’ mirror! The thought of it filled the sisters with rage. Snow White still had one of their treasures and was therefore protected by the old queen and forever out of the sisters’ reach.
The old queen had failed them so miserably, allowing herself to be swallowed by grief, loneliness, and fear, and ultimately weakened by love. Even in death, she surrounded Snow White with her everlasting love and protection. The sisters often wondered what the old queen could have accomplished if she hadn’t destroyed herself for the love of her daughter. She was such a bitter disappointment. But Ursula was different. There was no one to distract her, no one for her to love. She was alone in the world, alone in her grief, and alone with her pain. No, she wouldn’t disappoint them. Unlike the old queen, Ursula would be able to fill her heart with hate.
Oh, but the Beast, he had been close to doing that, hadn’t he? Too close, they thought. He’d had a hate within him that sometimes frightened even the sisters. If it hadn’t been for Circe and Belle, he would have died of his hateful, greedy ways.
Their thoughts returned to Ursula and how powerfully distinct she was from their other subjects. She was a remarkable creature and a magnificent witch with none of those human failings. Her hate was righteous and pure and untainted by self-doubt or conscience. There weren’t many witches like Ursula, and the odd sisters were happy to call her their friend. But why had she brought them there?
What was that place to them?
Unlike the odd sisters, Ursula was not privy to others’ thoughts. The sisters sometimes forgot that and then remembered they needed to use their voices if they expected to get answers to their questions.
“Why this town?” “Yes, why? There are so many towns like it.” “Towns filled with murderous fishermen.” “Why take revenge on this one?”
Ursula laughed gutturally at the simplicity of their scope. She hadn’t waged war on the human town because its residents offended the sea. It was much more personal.
“This was my home, dear sisters. This is where it began, and I want to share my story.” Ursula paused, lost in thought, and then continued. “We’re here because I want you to help me kill Triton.”
The witches shivered. Magic fueled by hate was very powerful, indeed. And if Ursula was willing to gather all their hate, which was their impression, then there was a chance they could destroy Triton—but the sisters needed a reason. They needed to be invested. They needed to hear her story.
Hate—true hate—wasn’t just conjured; it was birthed. It had to come from within so it might become its own entity and slither into the hearts of its enemies to choke them. If this was a truly worthy cause, if their hate could be harnessed, then there was nothing the witches couldn’t destroy. Then the sisters thought of her.
Their Circe.
Her heart was full of hate, probably for the first time. She harbored hatred for her older sisters deep within her beautiful little heart, a heart they had thought was too full of love to hold hate for anyone, especially her family. Never even in their wildest of frenzies had they ever considered the possibility of losing their little sister’s love. It didn’t seem possible, but it was true: she detested them for their foul meddling with that damnable Beast! No matter how the odd sisters pleaded, Circe wouldn’t listen to reason. Her heart was broken, shattered into tiny pieces, and Lucinda, Ruby, and Martha couldn’t mend it.
Circe’s magic could keep her from her older sisters for an eternity if she chose. At once, the thought sent chills down the odd sisters’ spines. Never to see their little sister would be the worst of punishments, the most horrible thing they could imagine. And they wondered if they deserved it. Surely Circe was making more of things than she should. Everything they had done was for her. In defense of her. For the love of her. All for Circe. All for their dearest little sister. They would happily risk their lives to destroy the sea god Triton if it meant they could see her again.
They would destroy anything. And with stakes like those, they knew it wouldn’t be too difficult to muster their hate.
Tucked away in the gingerbread-style mansion, Pflanze and her witches prepared for Ursula’s story. The sisters put Ursula in their most comfortable spot next to the fireplace, in a lovely overstuffed periwinkle velvet chair with many red quilted pillows piled high to rest her weary feet upon. She was not used to walking on land, on two legs, and it wore on her.
