John William Waterhouse The Magic Circle

John William Waterhouse The Magic CircleJohn William Waterhouse PandoraJohn William Waterhouse Lamia
wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but it was a damn good word all the same.
She sealed it with candle-wax and put it on the dresser. She could leave it for the carrier to take when she went into the the kind of voice the Creator had probably used. Whether there was magic in it, or just headology, it ruled out any possibility of argument. It made it clear that whatever it was talking about was exactly how things should be.
The breeze shook the tree gently. Esk sat on a branch idly swinging her legs.
She thought about wizards. They didn't often come to Bad Ass, but there were a fair number of stories about them. They were wise, she recalled, and usually very old and they did powerfulvillage tomorrow, to see about a new kettle. Next morning Granny took some pains over her dress, selecting a black dress with a frog and bat motif, a big velvet cloak, or at least a cloak made of the sort of stuff velvet looks like after thirty years of heavy wear, and the pointed hat of office which was crucified with hatpins. Their first call was to the stonemason, to order a replacement hearthstone. Then they called on the smith. It was a long and stormy meeting. Esk wandered out into the orchard and climbed up to her old place in the apple tree while from the house came her father's shouts, her mother's wails and long silent pauses which meant that Granny Weatherwax was speaking softly in what Esk thought of as her "just so" voice. The old woman had a flat, measured way of speaking sometimes. It was