Violet carried a fish in her teeth, and she did not know where to take it. She was a black cat with a purple collar and a gold bell. She had wanted the bell gone for weeks. Instead she had learned to walk without it ringing. That silence let her cross two blocks to the fish market and steal from a crate. Now she had her offering. She had no den to leave it at. She wanted to be the familiar of the witch who ruled Fren Bog. She had never once seen where that witch lived. The bog spread out ahead of her. Dark earth. Wet roots. Reeds standing in green clumps. Water sat black between them and gave off a cold smell. Violet set the fish on a dry root and looked. No door. No smoke. No path worn by feet. Only mud that would take her prints and hold them. She padded along the edge. Grass grew in thick tufts and hid the ground. Twice her paw sank and she pulled it back. The fish grew heavier each time she picked it up again. She began to think the witch was only a story the pigeons told. Then a butterfly crossed her nose. Its wings were blue on one side and gold on the other. It did not fly like a lost thing. It flew straight, low, out over the reeds, then paused, as if waiting. Violet had hunted enough to know what led and what fled. This one led. She took the fish in her teeth and followed. The butterfly kept ahead of her. It turned where the mud turned firm. It rose where a hidden log crossed the water. Every place it chose held her weight. She understood then that something wanted her to follow. The reeds opened. On a rise of dry ground sat a stone bowl thick with moss. Inside it lay two cooked fish, golden and warm, steam still rising off them. Someone had left them there. Someone close. The butterfly settled on the bowl's rim and folded its wings. Violet stopped. Her own stolen fish hung cold in her mouth. Beside the warm bowl it looked small and gray and wrong. This was the den. She had found it. But whoever cooked those fish had known she was coming, and had answered her offering before she gave it. She set her fish on the ground by the bowl. It was all she had brought. Now it was not enough. A shape moved in the reeds behind the bowl. Tall. Slow. Watching her the way she watched the street. Violet did not run. She sat, the way she always sat, and waited to be seen.

The tall figure watched Violet from the reeds, and Violet watched back. Then the butterfly lifted off the bowl's rim. Its blue-and-gold wings crossed the clearing once and drifted away over the water. Violet understood. The thing that had led her here was done. It would not lead her out, and it would not speak for her. Her cold stolen fish lay in the mud. The warm fish sat in the bowl. She had brought nothing the witch did not already have. She needed a better gift. Something the witch had not made herself. Violet rose and left the bowl. The figure did not stop her. A path of flat stones ran from the clearing, green grass pushing up between them. She followed it low and quiet, her bell silent as she had taught it to be. The stones ended at a lake. Its surface lay flat and clear, ringed by reeds that bent toward the low sun. Violet crouched at the edge and looked. Fish would not do. The witch had fish. She wanted something that shone. She had learned on the street that shiny things made people stop and stare. Maybe a witch was the same. Something caught the light under the water. Violet leaned closer. A round bauble rested on the lake floor, half sunk in silt. Its surface was smooth and bright, striped red and gold, throwing back the sun in broken pieces. It was the shiniest thing she had ever seen. It was also underwater, and Violet hated water. She stepped in. The cold climbed her legs and soaked her belly. She hissed but did not stop. The bottom dropped away fast. She reached with one paw and touched the bauble. It rolled. She reached again and hooked a claw under it. Silt clouded the water. She pulled, and the round thing came loose and floated up. Violet caught it in her mouth. The glass was cold and slick against her teeth. She turned and swam back, three hard strokes, and dragged herself onto the stones. Water ran off her in sheets. She shook once. The bauble stayed in her jaws, whole and bright. She carried it back along the stone path, dripping, and set it beside the moss bowl. Red and gold light slid across its face. It was not fish. It was not food. It was hers, taken with her own claws, and it shone. The figure in the reeds moved. A hand reached out, slow, and lifted the bauble from the ground. It turned in long fingers, catching the sun. For the first time the witch looked not at Violet but at what Violet had brought. Then the hand set the bauble in the moss bowl, beside the fish, and drew back into the reeds. The gift was accepted. But the witch had still not spoken, and Violet could finally accept the cooked fish meal.