Our story begins in 1487 of the Fourth Age of Valenoth in the kingdom of Taman.

But the whole kingdom is too broad an area to cover in a story this short. From east to west, the ancient and proud kingdom of Taman stretches all the way from the farthest edge of the Great Forest to the foothills of the Broken Crown Mountains. From north to south, it stretches from the craggy shores of the Riven Sea across forest, fen, and field alike to the land of Taer, realm of the Sorcerer Kings.

See what I mean? Our story can’t possibly cover that much ground in twelve or so chapters. So let’s narrow the focus a bit.

There. Within shouting distance from the small town of Alder’s Ford, you’ll find a small, cozy cottage crouched on the edge of the Great Forest. Our story’s proper beginning is there in that small, cozy cottage on a cool, summer’s evening. The sun set hours ago, the stars glitter and gleam, and a sliver of pale, silver moon, cold and hungry, hangs in the night sky above.

The cottage has a grass roof (currently being mowed haphazardly by Fitz the goat), brick and stone walls mortared with dark mud and green moss, shuttered and shaded glass windows with warm candlelight leaking through the panes, a red door with a brass knocker, and a fat stone chimney currently belching purple smoke lazily (yes, you read that right, purple smoke). This cozy abode is owned by a woman named Amelia.

Before we go any further, you should know that in Valenoth, names have meaning, just like they do in our world. My name, for example, means “defender of mankind.” I’m not quite sure I’m living up to that at the moment. But who knows? Stories can change hearts and minds, and we hold on to them when all hope seems to be lost. Perhaps that is a form of defense after all.

Unlike in our world, there are two kinds of names in Valenoth: given names and true names. Given names have meaning, but true names have great meaning and are not lightly shared with others—if they’re ever shared at all. Not everyone knows their true name. And that’s a good thing too.

There is power and magic in such things as knowing true names. True names have the ability to make or break reality itself depending on how they are used, when they are spoken, and to whom they are given. True names are of the language in which magic lives and breathes.

Why tell you all of that? Because it’s important to the story, that’s why! Also, because while Amelia was the name of the owner of the cottage, it most certainly wasn’t her true name. She knew what that was, of course—she was a witch. (You might have already had a sneaking suspicion or two about that from the purple smoke.)

Like all witches in Valenoth, Amelia had the innate ability to use and speak the language of magic, to listen to the song of the world, and to see both the visible and invisible world of Valenoth. She had known her true name ever since she cast her first spell.

Some people assume that witches and wizards are cut from the same cloth of a magic cloak, but the two are as different as oil and water. All practitioners of magic in Valenoth are slightly different in their own unique ways and backgrounds—witches, wizards, sorcerers, warlocks, enchanter, and arcanists . . . they all speak the language of magic, but with different accents and dialects, much like speakers of any other language.

All this to say, Amelia understood the power in knowing her true name and kept it carefully hidden away. She shared it with no one—not even with her eleven-year-old adopted granddaughter Leslie, whom Amelia loved more than anyone or anything else in the whole wide world. There were some things that even bright and inquisitive children, like Leslie, did not need to know. Such as Amelia’s true name.

That was quite all right. Amelia taught and told her adoptive granddaughter a great many other things, such as what she knew about herbology, astronomy, alchemy, knitting, and weaving, just to name a few. And Amelia knew quite a lot about those subjects—and about a great many others as well.

Amelia also taught and told Leslie stories. Old stories about the visible and invisible world of Valenoth. Stories about kings and queens and dragons and wizards and magic from long, long ago. Amelia told some stories about witches as well, but those were ones she mostly made up herself, because everyone else’s stories about witches were horribly inaccurate. Mostly. (Those inaccurate tales often had themes of witches building candy houses in the woods and kidnapping children. They usually ended with the witch meeting a grisly and gruesome fate. Not exactly the sort of stories Amelia wanted her dear, adopted granddaughter hearing.)

Whenever Amelia and Leslie went to the nearby town of Alder’s Ford, they would often stop for a bite to eat in the tavern, and Amelia would tell stories there. She told Leslie that it was important for the townspeople to remember the old tales. People who forgot their history often made the same foolish mistakes as those who came before them. Sometimes they wouldn’t, but even a blind cat catches a mouse every now and then. Telling stories was one of Amelia’s ways of being a good neighbor to the people of Alder’s Ford. It paid to be on good, friendly terms with them.

Yes, there was more to being a witch than just magic. Witches often needed a trade or two that they could use to support themselves and earn a living. Oh, and to pay taxes to their local government. That too.

Not to mention that people in villages, towns, and cities throughout Valenoth were often wary of witches. Mostly because of those horribly inaccurate stories, but also because some witches in real life—like other people in the world—did not use their gifts for good. They practiced dark and terrible arts instead. People don’t need magic to be harsh and cruel and evil. But when those sorts of people also have magic and use it to do dark and terrible things . . . let’s just say it potentially paints every other magician in a negative light.

It was far more preferable for the people Amelia lived by to be able to say, “Oh, Amelia? Wonderful, old woman—she’s been around in these parts longer than any of us! She’s an excellent storyteller, isn’t she? She’s also pretty good with medicine and natural, herbal remedies . . . ” and in doing so, they would avoid the uncomfortable topic of admitting that she was, in fact, a witch.

The townspeople weren’t afraid of Amelia . . . but they were wary of her. The last thing they wanted was to upset a witch. Especially one who lived within shouting distance of their town. As for Leslie . . . well, she wasn’t a witch—not a full-fledged one yet anyway. At most, she was a witch’s apprentice. Leslie could hear the language of magic as it danced along the wind, and she could do some small spellcraft, but she couldn’t control her magic. Not yet. She was still learning.

And so, the townspeople and their children weren’t quite sure what to make of Leslie. They’d been trying to figure that out for eleven years now, ever since Amelia had walked into Alder’s Ford one day with a baby girl cradled in her arms and no explanation as to where she came from other than to say that her name was Leslie and she was Amelia’s granddaughter. And that was that.

The townspeople finally decided that it was best and safest to treat Leslie as though she were a full-fledged witch and be respectful to her . . . but not friendly. They didn’t allow their children to play with the witch’s granddaughter. Over the years, whenever Leslie went into town and the children saw her, they avoided her like they would a terrible plague. As I’m sure you can imagine, not having any friends to call her own made Leslie feel quite lonely.

But enough backstory for two of our characters. The story awaits in Amelia’s cottage. Let’s go inside, shall we? While it is normally rude to enter someone else’s home without knocking—especially a witch’s home—I think we can make an exception, seeing as this is a story. But if you’d feel more comfortable, you’re more than welcome to knock.

The inside of Amelia’s cottage looked very much like the outside: quaint, cozy, and comfortable. The front entryway with a coat rack and umbrella stand led into a living room and kitchen. A couch crouched in the living room, facing the stone fireplace. Bookshelves filled with leather bound tomes lined the walls on either side of the fireplace. The pleasant smell of burning wood filled the air thanks to the purple fire dancing in the hearth. The kitchen contained a table with two chairs, a counter and cabinets, a spice rack that smelled of freshly crushed herbs, and just about everything else you’d expect to find in a kitchen.

Down a narrow hallway were two bedrooms. One bedroom held a bed with bright blankets, pillows, and a stuffed bear that was no longer played with. Shelves lined the walls, full of assorted baubles, shiny rocks, and odds and ends that other people might have called junk but a young, eleven-year-old girl called treasure. The other bedroom held a single bed with one, somewhat lumpy pillow and a knit blanket with autumnal-colored yarn, a short dresser, and a nightstand that sometimes scuttled and scraped about across the floor, bumping into the walls in the middle of the night.

As it belonged to a witch, Amelia’s cottage also held secrets upon secrets. Even its secrets’ secrets held secrets. There were also several other rooms which I have decided not to describe for you—mostly because Leslie, one of our protagonists, has never seen them. They were the two places in the whole cottage where Leslie’s grandmother forbade her to go. She was not yet ready to open those red, oddly shaped doors and discover what was inside.

In short, Amelia’s cottage was a witch’s cottage through and through, but perhaps not what you might have expected her home to look like. (Oh, and the only candy was in a jar on the counter, in case you were wondering. It wasn’t used to create any part of the structure of the cottage itself.)

Appearances can be deceiving, and things don’t always go the way we expect. That’s true of life and stories alike. It’s certainly true of this story. Remember that.

Warmly tucked beneath her many brightly colored blankets, a young girl with pale skin, a smattering of freckles, and an unruly mess of flame-red curls was doing anything but sleeping on that cool summer’s evening. Leslie was wide awake. That’s because she was waiting for a bedtime story from her grandmother.

Her grandmother sat on the edge of her bed, absentmindedly smoothing out the topmost blanket. She had long gray hair that she kept in a half-bun, and suntanned, weatherworn skin. She was thin but not frail. There was a strength in her that came from hard work and perseverance—a strength not visible but felt all the same by those around her. She, too, was waiting. That’s because she was thinking of a story to tell her granddaughter.

Stories told at bedtime had been their nightly tradition ever since Amelia first brought Leslie home to live with her. At first, the stories were whispered while the old woman held the newborn babe, rocking her, lulling her to sleep. They were stories about the sun, moon, and stars—about whatever came to mind really. Amelia rambled—whatever it took to keep the baby sleeping. As the child grew, the stories grew with her. They took shape and formed plots around characters. Some stories were made up. Others were true. (Amelia believed strongly in giving her adoptive granddaughter a rounded storytelling experience as well as a good education.)

Amelia decided that tonight’s would be a true story. With some creative, storyteller’s embellishment.

“Tonight, I’d like to tell you the true story of the girl who fed the moon.”

Leslie’s eyes went wide, and she sat up in bed, pulling her blankets closer. “She fed the moon?” the young girl gasped. “Is that even possible? How did she do that? Grandma, you’ve never said anything in our astronomy lessons about being able to feed the moon—I’m sure I would remember something like that! Are you sure this is a true story?”

“Hush, now, child. I’m telling you a story. There’ll be time for your many questions later,” Amelia said, but not crossly. Indeed, the corners of her mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile. She wasn’t surprised that her granddaughter asked her four questions before Amelia even had the chance to answer one. That was just how Leslie was. Always asking whatever came to her mind in the moment.

“Sorry, Grandma. Please continue,” Leslie said, sounding only slightly sorry. She pretended to lock her lips and throw away the key.

“Right. Well.” Amelia pursed her lips, fighting back that smile. “Where was I? Ah, yes—the true story of the girl who fed the moon. This is a very old story, Leslie. It’s been around since the world was young.”

“Whoa, really?” Leslie forgot that she had locked her lips and thrown away the key. “It’s that old?”

Amelia nodded, not surprised by another interruption. “It is.” The old woman leaned closer to her granddaughter. “Many of the best stories are. Would you like to hear this one?”

As Leslie nodded excitedly, Amelia finally smiled. “Very well,” she said. The old woman took a moment to collect her thoughts and then began her tale.