It was high summer in Midgard County, West Virginia. Independence Day had come and gone, and more than a week had passed since Bo and Luke’s—Misti-Fae’s Irish Wolfhounds—most recent misadventure at the annual Banana Puddin’ Festival, hosted by the First Methodist Ladies’ Auxiliary of Baldur’s Crossing—but that’s a story for another time.

Junior Jarl’s older sister, Dagma, had come home from Cincinnati with her two girls, Lexi and Livi. Well, a few days into their visit, the twins decided they wanted their “Uncle Junior” to take them camping up in the mountains so they could see the fireflies. For his part, Junior wasn’t particularly keen on the idea. Like many of his dwarven kin, he won’t really what you’d call the outdoorsy type—a day out fishing or hunting was just fine, but come sundown Junior far preferred a bed to a sleeping bag. Still, those two girls had him wrapped so tight round their little fingers that there was no way he could tell them no.

Fortunately for all parties involved, Misti-Fae was extremely outdoorsy and she knew the perfect place for firefly watching: a primitive campsite along Birch Creek, about two-thirds of the way up Valkyrie Pass—a rugged overland Jeep trail that started just north of Valhalla, and ran all the way up to the summit of Raven’s Roost.

So, a few days later, on a warm, languid summer night—with a full moon shining, stars burning overhead, cicadas thrumming in the trees, and the air thick with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and woodsmoke—there was Junior and Misti-Fae sat around a campfire, toasting marshmallows while Dina played a soft tune on her lap dulcimer—Black Is the Color (of My True Love’s Hair). Nearby, Bo and Luke, each about the size of a small pony, snored contentedly beside Misti-Fae’s Jeep, as Lexi and Livi ran along the tree line, squealing and giggling as they tried to catch fireflies in old mason jars.

Just as Junior was about to call the girls over for s’mores, they come racing back on their own. Livi clutching a mason jar to her chest with one hand and holding out a truss of flowers with the other.

“Miss Dina! Miss Dina!” Livi called excitedly. “Look what we found. We picked ’em just for you! Ain’t they pretty?”

“Now hold on a minute!” Misti-Fae said, raising an eyebrow. “How come she gets to be ‘Miss Dina’ while I’m just plain ol’ Misti-Fae?” The question was punctuated with a soft pwhtt as she spat a short stream of dip into her camo mud jug—that is, the handheld spittoon she kept at her side.

“Oh, I think you just answered your own question there, honey,” Dina replied with a playful smirk as she accepted the delicate bundle of flowers. A look of concern crossed her face, however, as her fingers brushed the soft pink‑and‑white, five‑petaled blossoms—but it quickly gave way to a warm, loving smile as she turned to the girls.

“Why, thank you so much, Livi, Lexi. That was very sweet of you two. Junior, Misti-Fae—just look at what these precious angels brought me. Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier example of Mountain Laurel—or, as my Mamaw called it, Rosebay—anywhere around these parts.”

“Rosebay?” Misti-Fae repeated, a note of worried curiosity in her voice as she handed Livi a s’more. “I bet you ain’t, Dina. Rosebay don’t grow on this mountain. Girls, where’d you say you found these again?”

“Growing out of a great big rock right in the middle of the creek!” Lexi answered.

“A magic rock!” Livi added eagerly, pointing toward a shadowed gap in the tree line where the creek slipped into the dark wood.

“Lexi! Livi!” Junior’s tone turned stern. “Didn’t I tell y’all not to go into the woods without one of us with you?”

“Sorry, Uncle Junior,” the girls said in unison.

“Well, I hope you are,” Misti-Fae muttered, assembling another s’more. “These woods are no place to wander alone at night. Wotan only knows who—or what—might be lurking out there waiting to snatch you up. And those pretty little flowers of yours, they look exactly like something she’d leave for y’all to find.”

“Who’s she?” Livi asked, just a hint of fear creeping into her voice.

“Who’s she?!” Misti-Fae exclaimed, hardly believing her ears. “Why, the witch, of course!”

“Oh, you’re just trying to scare us, Misti-Fae,” Lexi said with all the confidence of a child who’d lived her whole life in the big city. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as witches.”

“So you mean to tell me,” Misti-Fae replied, shaking her head, “that flower-growing magic rocks are real, but witches—that’s where you two draw the line? Gods, what are they teaching y’all in Cincinnati?”

“Well, in the girls’ defense,” Junior interjected, “we are Dwarves, Misti-Fae. Rocks are sort of our thing.”

Misti-Fae paused, handing the s’more to Lexi as she considered the point. “Okay, yeah, that tracks. But still—you’re wrong. There are plenty of magically inclined women roaming these hills—human and otherwise.”

Dina poured each of the girls a cup of milk from the cooler as Misti-Fae continued. “Off the top of my head, there’s Grýla the Ogress—one of her Yule Cats guards your Pawpaw’s scrapyard.”

“Mrs. Claws?!” Lexi gasped, her mouth full of gooey chocolate-graham-cracker-marshmallow goodness.

“Yeah, Mrs. Claws. Then you’ve got all the Trollfrau living out by Donar’s Bald. And don’t forget ‘Miss Dina’ here—she comes from a long line of bonafide grannies, each one possessing the cunning and the second sight.”

“And then,” Misti-Fae added, her voice dropping to a low whisper, “there’s the most infamous witch of them all: the Woman Who Walks the Wild, the Witch of the Ridge—the one what makes flowers bloom where they shouldn’t. The one they call… Rosebay Sally.”

And just then, somewhere high in the hidden treetops, a raven cawed.