Married Life!
By the third day, the fingers began to twitch. Movement started at the very tipsthose plump, red ends that looked like the cap of a fly agaric, only without the spots. Soon, the greyish parts followed, and by noon, the whole length of them was writhing. There were no bones inside, and the tendrils took full advantage of it. One by one, they swayed in the flowerpot, grasping at its edges. Emily smirkedamusing that shed chosen a pot shaped like a human head. It almost looked as if it were thinking.
The fingers stopped exploring and frozea fly had landed on the windowsill. Fluttering its wings, the insect crawled down the floral-patterned curtain, tasting the fibres with its proboscis before hopping onto the glass. The fingers tensed, afraid to flinch. The fly crept onto the red tip of one, testing it before inching further down.
The reaction was instant. The red tip snapped shut, crushing the fly. A brittle crunch silenced the buzzing, and all seven fingers knotted into a fist, pressing into the soil. The fungus now resembled a grey brain threaded with red veins.
“Food for thought,” Emily muttered, pulling a small pot from the stove. The meat broth had already begun to simmer down.
***
She ladled a bowlful, stirred it, then inspected the consistencyjust right, and the smell was decent, too. Scooping a spoonful, she poured the hot broth over the flowerpot. The fingers trembled eagerly, soaking up the meaty liquid between their veins. Emily stepped back from the windowsill and watched. The fingers shivered, then burst open from the tips. Grey tendrils unfurled into red petals lined with tiny nodules inside. The fully bloomed fungus sprawled like a crimson flower atop the clay head.
Emily chuckled to herself and lifted the pot. One tendril stretched toward her finger. She hissedit froze.
“Thats better,” she whispered, then carried it to the open cellar.
Something stirred in the dark pit belowshe hurled the pot inside. A muffled squeak, then a wet slap echoed back.
Emily returned to the stove and hefted the pot. The thick, woolen rag in her hands slipped slightly, the cast irons heat seeping into her fingertips. Thick, murky stew sloshed into the cellars depthsanswered by grateful, wet smacks.
Setting the pot aside, she lit a lantern and shone it into the cellar. Fungi on the walls shifted their grey fingers. One by one, they bloomed into red, petal-like tendrils, drunk on the meat broth brewed from her grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, Emily dragged the bed back into place, its iron legs scraping the floorboards. She tested the mechanism, smoothed the covers, then draped a cloth over the pit beneath.
A crisp white tablecloth covered the table, hot dishes from the oven laid out on plates. The floor gleamed from scrubbing, oil replenished in the lamps. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh one, Emily pinched her cheeks for colour and peered out from the cottage.
At the crossroads, a rider approached in gleaming chainmail. How splendidperhaps today, shed finally marry! And if the groom proved unsuitable well, the cellar always had room for more.
The suitor stopped right at the porchand Emily, the hereditary witch, smiled at him with all her teeth.
