The Missing Ingredient

The first time I saw her, she was wearing a velvety, red ribbon in her hair. She carried a small leather backpack everywhere. She searched the forest by turning stones, checking beneath shrubs, listening to the wind as if it might carry an answer.

At times, she straightened, frozen like a roe at the snap of a twig breaking under a hunter's boot. Then she moved on, hunching, almost folding over.

I knew well what she was looking for. The sister she lost to a wretched fairy bargain made unintentionally in the heat of an argument, which is how the fæ prefer it—consent without comprehension.

But the price the two girls paid was unimaginable. One sister wished to become the other, while the other wished their interrupting cousin away. In the midst of it all, the fæ closed the deal and granted their wishes, but in a wicked way—the two girls swapped places, and one of them vanished.

I had little interest in interfering with her search for her sister. On the other hand, I deeply cared about her ritual. On the same day every summer, she performed it relentlessly.

She believed the same ritual the children conducted by accident, which took her sister and her shape, would bring her back. I grew quite fond of her, watching from afar, from the generous cover of the old weeping willow tree.

The girl stepped into the mushroom circle and laid out the contents of her bag. A blade, something fragrant that seemed to be slices of freshly baked chocolate cake, and a wee white object. A bone. Perhaps a tooth.

I watched her perform the ritual. A sacrifice. Her moves were desperate, but polite. I respected her devotion towards her task and the spirits of the forest.

Her hands were steady, almost surgical. It was her method that was wrong. She lacked the wisdom of the forest and of her craft that could grant her wish.

I knew she'd come after each solstice, performing the same rite year by year, with no success. Eventually, it would break her. I couldn't watch her grief eating her away like an untreated wound. After all, it was my forest, my source of power. I felt responsible for everything in it— the girl included.

Before the summer ended, I let her see me. She was probably warned about me by her family. The dark witch of the Veilwood forest. The villagers whispered about me. I consort with devils and spoil milk through the fence; they were my favorites.

Though, they had nothing to fear, I let the folks believe whatever they wanted. I didn't need them to survive, and thus they granted me peace. Fear is a hedge that trims itself. Only a few, brave souls sought me out, and those who did deserved my help.

I had to be clever here. Not to scare her away, but to pique her interest so she would come to me. I had to let her catch a glimpse of my silhouette; I even crossed on the other side of the fields once after foraging, just so she could see me.

Weeks passed, and the girl was only watching me from afar, but I knew well that wild things can't be tamed immediately. They need time to get used to the presence of the unfamiliar, then their curiosity will guide them toward it.

And she had that strange wildness in her eyes, sharp from hunger and determination. It required a patient, delicate process, almost like catching a butterfly.

The first time the girl came to me, she did not knock. Children who belong in the forest rarely do. They stand at the edge of the yard and wait to be noticed, like foxes deciding whether hunger is worth the risk.

"I was told you know the rules," she said as I stepped out of my cabin. I still remember the hay-like scent of drying chamomile in the air.

She surprised me. People who make it this far ask for spells. A love charm, a potion to get rid of unwanted pregnancy, or a token for luck. Only the serious ones ask for rules. The ones who have nothing left to lose.

Her hands were stained with crushed berries and something darker. Blood, dried into the folds of her skin.

“Who taught you to draw a circle like that?” I asked.

“My sister,” she pressed her mouth strongly together as she said that, until they looked like a thin white line. That worried me more than her tears would have.

She thought magic was in the words. In dramatic action. That blood was powerful because it is blood. It is not. It is powerful because you offer a piece of yourself, with clear intent. She didn't know any of this.

Someone had to teach her. So I opened the gates and invited her in for a hot brew. Skullcap, lemon balm, and freshly picked nettles to soothe her nerves.

"Bargains are law, not just granted wishes," I broke the silence eventually. It didn't escape my attention how a flock of tree sparrows gathered by the window, picking on the wooden frame while she was there.

The girl nodded, staring at her dusty shoes, like they could give her strength to answer.

"What's your name, child?" although I already knew.

"Marie, ma'am."

"You can call me Estelle."

Fairy bargains are tricky, and what she wanted required more than just breaking a deal or making a new one. At first, I refused to help her.

From that day on, Marie kept showing up at the end of the yard, waiting for me to notice her. She followed me like a clumsy vixen, learning how to lurk in the shadows.

She became bolder by the day. Circling closer, hiding almost within reach behind the trees.

"There's a lot to learn before you could take on your task." I addressed her one day.

She stepped out from the cover of a large oak. "I can learn anything."

"Anything, but not everything," I corrected.

That day, she became my apprentice. She showed up by the fence in the morning and only left for lunch and before dinner. Nobody came looking for her.

She was quick to learn. Within a few weeks, she could tell the time by the scent of the blooming flowers and predicted the weather by small changes in the wind. She learned the name of every insect, flower, and herb.

She knew a lot about the mystical nature of the forest already. It was time to learn more. But the summer faded, and Marie had to return home. I gave her homework: wrote a list of books she could borrow from the library and study the forest creatures, folklore, and tales. I told her how to practice casting the circle, protection spells and simple divination.

The following June she returned thinner but brighter with determination.

“I practiced everything you told me,” she handed a thick journal over, full with her notes about her experiences and observations. It was like an unofficial grimoire.

I sent Marie to collect some herbs for me, while I flipped through the pages. She was precise in her practice, maybe a little too much. Hope and obsession often walk hand in hand.

She brought her usual offerings with her. She unpacked everything, hands cleaner than the year before. She was almost ready, but one ingredient was still missing. I had to make sure she got it before she performed the ritual again.

"Desperation. Anger. Hate. Shame. These are not part of the ritual. You have to understand something important, Marie."

She stared at me without a word, so I continued. "The spell that took your sister worked because everything was aligned perfectly. The intent was crystal clear, the sacrifice grand. We can not recreate the exact same environment for the ritual, but we can create a new one. For that, you need to learn to pour yourself into it. By offering a piece of yourself. Not through blood, but through a piece of your soul."

I could tell she didn't understand.

We had about four weeks left until the day of the ritual. Marie had to dig deep in herself to find the missing ingredient. Her love for her lost sister provided enough energy to make the spell work, but the fæ would need something more. An offering they can't refuse.

I did not yet know whether what she'd find would be what the fæ would consider sufficient. Only after she performed the ritual again, will we know the answer.

The days passed by, and Marie practiced every day. I could feel the energy growing inside her, like she was drawing in down from the waxing Moon itself.

Finally, the day arrived.

Marie laid out her offerings in the middle of a mushroom circle. The same as each year—a blade, fresh brownies, a spring of thyme and a milk tooth. Where did she get those from, I always wondered but didn't ask.

She cast the circle the way I taught her. She cleansed the space burning sage, defined the boundaries with sea salt, moving clockwise. She called on the five elements, then asked for the blessing of the Sturgeon Moon before stepping into the circle thrice.

I watched her from my usual place, in case she needed intervention. But the ritual alone had to be performed by her alone.

Then she started.

I couldn't hear her reciting the words from where I was hiding, but she must have done it right. The wind picked up the moment she placed all the offerings into a bowl—sugar, thyme, bone and blood. She spat behind her right shoulder, and looked up to the sky. Wind blowing her silken hair, the mushroom circle lit up, as if electrified.

My heart skipped a beat. "It's working!" I whispered to myself in awe.

The wind didn't stop. It was raging. It blew the leaves off the trees and circled around Marie, enclosing her in a protective orb. I couldn't see her anymore. The wind was so strong, it almost blew me away.

When the air cleared, Marie was still in the circle. Alone. On her knees— trembling, her fist clenched so hard I could see her knuckles turning white, her muscles jumping beneath her skin. Her face was covered by her hair, but I could see her tears dripping to the ground.

I hesitated to reach out to her. I wanted to give her time.

“Marie,” I said at last.

She turned—but not toward me. Toward something else. As if she was listening to something.

I stepped forward, but a voice reached me.

“Marie!”

Her aunt came stumbling through the brush, skirts torn by bramble, breath sharp with panic. She must have followed her trail from the house. I always wondered if they knew what she was doing out here and let her or they simply didn't care.

Marie looked at her with fury in her eyes, which turned to fear within a second.

The woman grabbed her by the shoulders. “What have you done now? Talking to yourself again—alone in the woods—casting spells and whatnot.”

Her eyes lifted then—and found me.

People expect witches to look like their fears. I rarely disappoint them.

She pulled Marie closer, protective and accusing at once.

“This has gone too far,” she said—not to me, but maybe about me. “All this forest nonsense. All these… practices. It has been years, Marie! Nothing will bring her back.”

Marie began to cry then, like someone woken mid-dream.

“It almost worked,” she whispered. “I heard her voice over the veil.”

I had heard nothing.

But I had felt something. Was it her little sister, Elisabetta? Was it the fæ folk? Or something else? I couldn't tell.

The aunt led her away without another word. Marie twisted once to look back—not at me, not at the circle—but at the empty air above it, as if expecting to find something or someone suspended there.

The circle remained unclosed.

I closed it myself and thanked whoever was listening.

Ritual is not a key. Spells don't always work, not even in the most powerful hands. We might not see results yet, but the energy created here is never lost.

It is transformed, and only time can tell what has begun to feed off of it. And sometimes, not getting what we want might be the biggest blessing.

This story is part of a series called "The Veilwood Tales". A collection of short stories about Marie and Elisabetta— two sisters separated by the veil of a faerie realm, each story was inspired by Vocal challenge prompts.

Thank you for reading these stories and the kind support and encouragement I received from so many of you to keep writing these stories. ❤️ It really means a lot to me!