**Married at Last!**
By the third day, the fingers began to twitch. It started at the very tipsthose that looked like the caps of red fly agarics, only without the spots. Then the grey lengths followed, and by noon, each finger swayed along its full span. There were no bones insidejust hollow stalks that took full advantage of their freedom. One by one, they stretched toward the edges of the flowerpot, grasping clumsily at the rim. Emily smirkedamusing, really, that shed chosen a pot shaped like a human head. Clever little things, writhing like tangled thoughts.
The fingers paused their exploration when a fly buzzed against the window. With a flick of its wings, the insect landed on the floral-patterned curtain and crawled downward, testing the fabric with its proboscis before flitting onto the glass. The fingers stilled, wary of startling it. The fly crept onto the crimson tip of one finger, then lower, probing curiously.
The reaction was instant. The red tip snapped down, crushing the fly mid-crawl. A brittle crunch cut off the buzzing; all seven fingers coiled into a fist and hunched against the soil. The fungus now resembled a grey brain veined with red.
“Food for thought,” Emily muttered, fetching a small pot from the stove. The meat broth had already begun to simmer away.
***
She ladled a bowl of broth, stirring absently before inspecting itgood consistency, decent aroma. Scooping a spoonful, she drizzled the hot liquid over the pot. The fingers trembled, greedily soaking up the nourishment between their sinewy folds. Emily stepped back, watching. The digits quivered, then burst open from the tips, grey stalks peeling into crimson petals lined with tiny, pulsing nodules. The fully bloomed fungus splayed like a grotesque flower atop the clay skull.
Emily gave a dry chuckle, lifting the pot. One tendril stretched toward her hand. She hissed sharplyit froze.
“Thats more like it,” she whispered, carrying it to the open cellar.
Something shifted in the dark pit below. She tossed the pot in. A muffled squeak, then a wet slap.
Returning to the stove, she hefted the pot again. The thick woollen rag in her grip slipped slightly, the cast irons heat seeping into her fingertips. Cloudy, murky liquid poured into the cellars depthsanswered by a chorus of eager, squelching gulps.
Setting the pot aside, Emily lifted the lantern to inspect the cellar. Fungi lined the walls, their grey fingers writhing. One by one, they unfurled into crimson blossomspetals like tentaclesdrunk on the meat broth brewed from her grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, she dragged the bed back into place, iron legs scraping the floorboards. She tested the mechanism, smoothed the quilt, and drew the curtain over the pit beneath.
A crisp white tablecloth draped the table, steaming dishes arranged atop it. The floor gleamed from fresh scrubbing; the oil lamps brimmed. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh frock, Emily pinched her cheeks and peered out the cottage window.
A rider in gleaming chainmail approached from the crossroads standing stone. How lovelyperhaps today, shed finally wed. And if the suitor proved unsuitable? Well, the cellar always had room for more.
The groom reined in at the porchand Emily, the hereditary witch, grinned at him, all teeth.
