**Diary Entry**
On the third day, the fingers began to twitch. The movement started at the very tipsthose red and fleshy, like the cap of a fly agaric but without the spots. Then, the grey parts stirred, and by midday, the fingers were writhing along their full length. No bones insidejust hollow tendrils taking advantage of their freedom. One by one, they stretched toward the edges of the pot, grasping at the rim. Emily smirked. Amusing, really, that shed chosen a pot shaped like a human head. Almost as if it were thinking, flexing its own wrinkled surface.
The fingers stopped exploring and stilleda fly buzzed toward the window. Wings flickering, it landed on the floral-patterned curtain and scuttled downward, probing the fabric with its proboscis before flitting to the glass. The fingers tensed, afraid to startle it. The fly crawled onto the red tip of one finger, tasting it before creeping further down.
The reaction was instant. The red tip snapped shut, crushing the fly. The buzzing ceased with a crisp crack. All seven fingers knotted into a fist and hunched against the soil in the pot. The fungus now looked like a grey brain threaded with red veins.
*”Food for thought,”* Emily muttered under her breath as she pulled a small cauldron from the hearth. The beef broth had just begun to simmer.
***
She ladled out a bowl, stirred it with a spoon, and inspected itgood consistency, decent smell. Scooping a spoonful, she poured the hot broth over the pot. The fingers shuddered eagerly, drinking in the meaty liquid through the veins between them. Emily stepped back from the windowsill to watch. The fingers trembled, then burst open from the tips. Grey stalks unfurled into crimson petals lined with tiny suckers. A fully bloomed mushroomred as a flowerlay stretched across the clay head.
Emily smirked to herself, lifting the pot. One tendril reached for her finger, but she clicked her tongueand it froze.
*”Thats right,”* she whispered, carrying it toward the open cellar.
Something stirred in the dark pit. She hurled the pot inside. A muffled squeak, then a wet *splat*.
Returning to the hearth, she hefted the cauldron. The thick, damp wool cloth slid slightly in her grip, the cast iron scorching her fingertips. Thick, murky liquid poured into the cellars belly, met with eager, slobbering gulps.
She set the cauldron aside and lit a lantern, holding it aloft. Mushrooms along the cellar walls squirmed with grey fingers, unfurling into red, petal-like tendrilsfed by the broth, brewed from Grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, Emily dragged the bed back into place, iron legs scraping the floorboards. She checked the mechanism, smoothed the quilt, and draped a curtain over the pit beneath.
A crisp white tablecloth spread over the table, steaming dishes from the hearth set upon plates. The floor gleamed from scrubbing, oil topped up in the lamps. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh frock, Emily pinched her cheeks for colour and peered out from the cottage.
A rider in gleaming chainmail approached from the crossroads stone. How splendidperhaps today, she would wed! And if the suitor proved unsuitable? Well, the cellar always had room for more.
The groom halted right at the porchand Emily, the hereditary witch, beamed at him, all teeth.
