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Then they heard them: the evil words. Even though it was strangely beautiful, something about the song struck fear into Mrs. Tiddlebottom’s heart. She knew something foul was happening to her little Rapunzel.
Flower, gleam and glow
Let your power shine
Make the clock reverse
Bring back what once was mine
Heal what has been hurt
Change the fates’ design
Save what has been lost
Bring back what once was mine
What once was mine
Mrs. Tiddlebottom rushed down the stairs. She couldn’t have imagined a more horrific scene. The four witches were in a semicircle, their bloodied hands linked and dripping on Rapunzel’s sleeping body. The witches’ eyes were rolled back into their heads, and in front of them were three bodies. Two beautiful dead young women and Rapunzel sleeping between, with her long hair brushed out and blanketing the dead beauties.
Her hair glowed as the witches sang their song, which seemed to be penetrating the dead and lovely creatures:
Flower, gleam and glow
Let your power shine
Make the clock reverse
Bring back what once was mine
Heal what has been hurt
Change the fates’ design
Save what has been lost
Bring back what once was mine
What once was mine
Mrs. Pickle screamed, drawing the witches out of their trance. Nothing about the scene was natural, especially the contortions of the witches’ faces after being brought of their trace. They were stupefied, and their bodies were twisting in ways that didn’t seem possible—in ways that brought terror to Mrs. Tiddlebottom. It was as if something within them were breaking, snapping, causing the witches to cry out in pain. Their peals of horrific screams were like the things of nightmares, but nothing—nothing—was more unimaginable than the image of poor Rapunzel lying there among those dead things as if dead herself.
Gothel’s mouth bubbled with black goop as she struggled to spit out her words. “Look what you have done! You fool! You’ve ruined it!”
“What have you done to Rapunzel?” screamed Mrs. Tiddlebottom.
Lucinda waved her hand at Mrs. Tiddlebottom, causing her to fly backward and smash into a shelf covered in books and glass bottles, which tumbled down on the poor unconscious woman.
Gothel waved her away. “No, Lucinda, no! Don’t hurt her!”
Lucinda gave Gothel a queer look. “Why not, Sister? She ruined our spell! She deserves to die!”
“I want her to live. I need her,” she said, looking at Mrs. Tiddlebottom’s young face, no longer marred by deep lines.
“And what about this one?” asked Lucinda, pointing to Mrs. Pickle, who was huddled in the corner, crying.
“Oh, you can kill her,” said Gothel. “She is nothing to me.”
