The Witch of Grimoald

Avery remembers the magic. The magic of her childhood. When the animals understood her, and she them. When the wind was the work of a fairy, glancing her fragile skin. The magic of imagination. Where princesses came to life as did the monsters that captured them and the heroes that saved them. The memories of the magic of ignorance... She wishes it were so simple, magic. But simplicity was never a Witch's style.