Like fine wines, witches only improve with age. This particular witch sat in her armchair, enjoying the sounds of the forest at night through the open windows. She breathed in the spicy scent of gingerbread wafting on a warm breeze, thinking how much she was going to enjoy retirement far from the pestering mothers and runny-nosed whelps from the town.

As if the thought summoned them, the chirrup of little children giggling jarred her into full alertness. She narrowed her eyes, wondering why on earth parents would insist on allowing their young to roam free, disturbing honest folk.

“Hansel, look at that house!â€? a little girl cooed. “It looks so good you could eat it!â€?

“Do you really think it is made of candy, Gretel?â€? a boy replied.

“Oh no they don’t,â€? the witch muttered, picking up a bowl of gumdrops that had hardened into little pellets. She ran outside as fast as her old legs could carry her and pelted the little girl with one just as she was about to rip off a piece of her window ledge.

“Witch!”