~11~
EX POST FACTO

On Saturday, Max was awoken not by Old Tom’s chimes but by an insistent knocking at his door. Lying downstairs on his bedroll, he debated whether to answer. The Shrope trial was that afternoon, and he did not want the day to begin any earlier than necessary.

But the knocking continued. Tossing aside his pillow, he stalked upstairs and flung open the door.

Max discovered a domovoi waiting in the hallway. The little man was dressed soberly in a suit and tie, with gray hair that appeared to have been slicked back at birth. He stood next to a strongbox on a small dolly. Glancing at his clipboard, the domovoi cleared his throat and twirled one end of a waxed mustache.

“Agent McDaniels, I presume?”

“Yes,” said Max, stretching his arms with a pointed yawn.

“I’m Mr. Thaler,” replied the domovoi with a brisk, efficient air. “I am here to deliver your salary. It’s been accruing while you’ve been away.”

Mr. Thaler produced an ornate key and unlocked the strongbox. His legs trembled as he hefted up a large sack that fairly sloshed and clinked with bullion.

“That can’t be right,” said Max. “That’s a lot more than four weeks’ pay.”

Mr. Thaler’s lips tightened as though he’d been insulted. “It is correct to the milligram, Mr. McDaniels,” he said stiffly. “Five ounces of gold per week as per your teaching agreement, plus twenty-five ounces per week as a member of the Red Branch.” The domovoi’s pompous manner cracked as the strain began to tell. “Dear me … perhaps I can deposit this inside and explain?”

Marching into Max’s room, the domovoi slung the bag upon the central table and explained that Rowan’s economy was now tied to gold.

“For one of your wealth, the gold may not be practical,” Mr. Thaler considered, stroking his chin. “In fact, my colleagues and I would like to discuss several investment opportunities with you. There’s considerable wealth to be made in merchant shipping, imports, or the more promising township businesses. Unlike our competitors, my bank has excellent contacts in all four kingdoms, including Zenuvia.”

“What’s Zenuvia?” asked Max.

“Lady Lilith’s realm,” Mr. Thaler explained. “The easternmost kingdom. A most promising economy, and the lady’s advisers understand trade far better than Lord Rashaverak. He fails to grasp that one’s partners must also make a profit.”

“Your bank trades with demons?” Max asked. “You’ve met with Rashaverak?”

“Not directly,” said the domovoi wistfully. “But his senior emissaries, certainly.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Thaler,” said Max, shaking his small hand and ushering him back up the stairs.

“Shall we set up a time to discuss the aforementioned opportunities?” inquired the domovoi.

“I don’t think so,” said Max. “I’m happy to keep it all under my bed.”

This elicited a somewhat surprised glance from Mr. Thaler, but nothing more.

By the time Max had returned to the downstairs table, Connor was already stacking the coins into gleaming towers of gold and silver.

“Would ya look at that?” he said. “You’re bleedin’ rich! All this gold just for a month’s salary?” He whistled. “In a year or two, you’ll be sitting on a downright hoard.”

“Eavesdropping, for shame,” said Max, knocking down a tower of silver coins and shoveling them into Mr. Thaler’s red velvet sack. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Connor allowed, still gazing greedily at the coins. “But swapping your soul ain’t no picnic. I feel like Sir Olaf sat on me.”

The previous day, Connor had given his consent to David, who had removed his soul and exchanged it for another of unknown origins. Max had been banned from the observatory for the duration. Thus, he knew almost nothing of the process other than Connor’s cryptic account that it had been the most terrifying ordeal of his sixteen years.

Given Connor’s past experiences with the Enemy, this was a disturbing statement.

Max had never attended, much less participated in a trial before. An undeniable excitement permeated the orchard and the low hill known as Idunn Grove. The humid air practically buzzed with hushed conversation as lucky observers found seats and the unlucky formed crowded, jostling galleries.

As a witness, Max was seated in the front row, sandwiched between his father and Bob. Although the ogre was dressed in his best suit, he appeared gaunt and grim. Gumming his lips, he looked stoically at the table for the defense, where Mum was seated alongside the haglings and Bellagrog, who had elected to don an enormous barrister’s wig for the occasion. From the plaintiff’s table, Jesper Rasmussen was eyeing the absurd thing, but quickly looked away, once the haglings had taken notice and returned his stare from behind their leather muzzles.

Dressed in a judge’s robes, Ms. Richter sat behind a dais that had been placed at the foot of a tree planted by Rowan’s first class. A dozen jurors occupied a box to her left, selected from a pool of faculty and adult refugees. With a bang of her gavel, Ms. Richter began the proceedings and read from a prepared statement.

“This trial shall address allegations made by Mr. Jesper Rasmussen of the Frankfurt Workshop against the Shrope family, consisting of Bellagrog Shrope, Bea Shrope, and Bellagrog’s children, who shall be known as Haglings One, Two, Four, Five, Six, and Seven.”

Bellagrog cleared her throat and said, “If it pleases the court, you may strike Hagling Six from the proceedings, Your Honor.”

“And where is Hagling Six?” asked Ms. Richter, peering over her glasses.

“Er, Hagling Six is in-dis-po-sé,” replied Bellagrog, easing back in her chair and shrugging amiably.

“Indisposed, my beak,” Hannah shrieked from the stands. “You ate her!”

“Order,” said Ms. Richter, banging her gavel to stifle the subsequent chatter. “Hannah, must we remove you from these proceedings?”

Hannah said nothing, but merely shook her head and reclaimed her seat with a dissatisfied grimace.

Bellagrog stood and gestured angrily at the goose. “The defense moves to disqualify this jury on the grounds that they’ve heard damaging hearsay regarding hags and haglings.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ex post facto, Your Honor,” exclaimed Bellagrog, pounding the table.

“How does ‘after the fact’ apply here?” inquired Ms. Richter.

“Habeas corpus, then!”

“Bellagrog,” said Ms. Richter, rubbing her eyes. “If your defense will consist of random legal terms presented in nonsensical fashion, the court will appoint an advocate for the Shropes.”

Bellagrog scowled and settled back into her chair. “I talk for the Shropes.”

“Very well,” said Ms. Richter. “Then let’s have the plaintiff’s allegations.”

Mr. Rasmussen’s advocate—an imposing man in a gray suit—stood before the jury and pointedly glanced at his pocket watch. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said in a tone that suggested they were all old friends. “This trial is one of courtesy, not contentious deliberation. It should require little of your valuable time, for the facts of the case ring as clear as Old Tom’s chimes. Five weeks ago, my client was abducted, assaulted, and on the verge of consumption by the defendants. We have motive, we have eyewitnesses, and we have the ignominious and well-documented history of hags.…”

“They’re finished,” Max whispered, gazing at Bellagrog and Mum, who appeared small and almost shrunken at the defendants’ table. When the man had finished his statement, Max half expected applause. But he did not expect it from Bellagrog.

“Bravo, bravo!” said the hag, smacking her hands together. “Ain’t you a pretty talker? That was a fine little story you just told. But that’s what it is, ladies and gents, a story. Now, we all likes our stories, and I might not be such a slick talker as this prancing gent, but I’m here to tell the truth about a man what drank too much wine and fell into a wee bit of trouble. We got witnesses, too, so don’t you all rush to judgment like you’ve been rushing to Mum’s cooking the last forty years.…”

Bellagrog stepped aside so each juror could have a clear view of Mum, who was sprawled pitifully across the table. “That’s right,” she continued. “A hag what gave over forty years of service shouldn’t be exiled just ’cause some drunk outsider gets the creeps from ‘scary old hags.’ Heck, I get the shivers every time I get a gander of his shiny bald melon, but you don’t see me pressing charges!”

At this, several jurors actually stifled laughter. Max realized that Dr. Rasmussen might have a greater battle on his hands than he had anticipated.

When called to the stand, Jesper Rasmussen delivered his account in full. Every word was true, but Rasmussen spoke with such unmistakable arrogance and self-righteous indignation that several jurors actually frowned. Seeming to sense this, Bellagrog pounced during the cross-examination.

“You don’t really like Rowan, do ya?” she inquired.

“Of course I do,” Rasmussen retorted. “And I fail to see what that has to do with my abduction.”

“Really?” said Bellagrog, consulting her notes. “Did you or did you not refer to Rowan as a ‘magical petting zoo’ in Ms. Richter’s very own office?”

Dr. Rasmussen glared at her and gave a reluctant nod. “I may have said that … but I didn’t mean it,” he added pointedly to the jury. “I was upset.”

“Do you always say things you don’t mean when you’re upset?” asked Bellagrog.

“No,” said Rasmussen. “Again, I fail to see the relevance—”

But Bellagrog smelled blood in the water. She cut off the engineer with a cheerful shrug. “Let’s move on, then,” she said. “Let’s talk about the Workshop, eh?”

Dr. Rasmussen pursed his lips but said nothing.

“Were you, until recently, the director of the Frankfurt Workshop?” inquired Bellagrog.

“Yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “And I’m proud to say that I have been reinstated.”

“Congratulations,” drawled Bellagrog, rolling her eyes at the jury. “And as the head of this organization, can you testify whether or not it displays live creatures as museum exhibits?”

“Well, yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen. “They’re either humanely euthanized or placed into suspended animation. This is really a service of the first biological importance. For example, we might clone a specimen whose species is threatened by extinction.”

“Oh, I see,” said Bellagrog. “So you’re doin’ it for them, is ya? Does they come willin’?”

“Of course not,” replied Rasmussen, glancing at his fingernails. “Even a flea possesses an instinct for self-preservation.”

“Is you comparing hags to fleas?” asked Bellagrog.

“No,” said Rasmussen quickly. “What I meant was—”

“Oh,” interrupted Bellagrog. “So this is just another case where ya don’t mean what ya say?”

“No!” shouted Rasmussen, smacking the podium in frustration.

“Temper, temper,” cooed Bellagrog. She consulted her notes as though reading a transcript. “I believe you were telling the jury how ya kidnap or kill living creatures and display ’em against their will.…”

Once Dr. Rasmussen had been excused from the witness stand, Bellagrog strolled back to the defendants’ table and idly sipped an iced tea while the haglings climbed up on Mum, clinging to her patchy gray suit like so many bats. Catching Max’s eye, Bellagrog winked as though victory was just around the corner. While Bellagrog returned to her notes, Max arrived at a painful realization: With Rasmussen discredited, Max’s testimony might well determine the verdict.

“Bellagrog’s too crafty,” whispered Mr. McDaniels. “Stick to simple answers or she’ll twist you up in knots.”

Overhearing this, Bob gazed down at the McDanielses and fixed Max with a sad blue eye. “Stick to the truth,” he said. “The truth leads to justice.”

Max nearly flinched as his name was called. Making his way to the witness stand, he became painfully aware that hundreds of observers had flocked to Idunn Grove and that even the Manse’s slate roof and balconies were crowded with onlookers. Taking his seat, he saw Julie sitting in the front row with a press pass. She seemed to look through him; every aspect of her posture and expression suggested a professional reporter attending to her beat. As he was sworn in, Max took a deep, steadying breath.

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” said Rasmussen’s attorney with a sympathetic smile. “You’re very close to the hags, aren’t you? I’d wager this trial has pulled you in two very different directions.”

Max nodded, glancing at the defendants’ table. Bellagrog was eyeing him curiously while Mum had nearly disappeared beneath the table, succumbing to either anxiety or the weight of her clinging, glaring nieces.

“Mr. McDaniels, you will have to speak up so the quills can transcribe your response.”

“Yes,” said Max, speaking into a magicked brass contraption that amplified his hoarse whisper.

“Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, this young man’s testimony is all the more devastating to the defendants,” the attorney continued with dramatic flourish, launching into a series of questions that painted the hags in a horrific light.

What was the purpose of the hags’ Sniffing Ceremony? To ensure that they don’t eat the students. Had Mum, in spite of this, attacked students in the past? Yes. Prior to the night in question, had Mr. McDaniels ever feared for Dr. Rasmussen’s safety among the hags? Yes. Why was this? Because the Workshop had their cousin Gertie on display and they’d sworn revenge. Had the witness found Dr. Rasmussen in an enormous kettle far off campus? Yes. Did it appear the hags were going to eat him? Yes.

The next question, however, stumped Max.

“Had the hags been singing a song?” asked the attorney.

“Uh … yes?” said Max, wrinkling his nose at the memory.

“Do you remember its lyrics?” asked the lawyer coolly.

“Not really,” said Max. “I was focused on trying to put out the fire and get Dr. Rasmussen out of the pot. I remember something about ‘Rasmussen stew’ and ‘revenge is a dish that’s best served hot.’ It rhymed.”

“Sounds like the hags were having fun,” the attorney suggested with a knowing leer. “It sounds like a particularly cruel, premeditated crime.”

“I guess.” Max shrugged.

“No further questions,” said the attorney, striding to his seat. “Incriminating testimony from the defense’s dear friend. I think the court has heard all it needs to hear.…”

“Oh, I might have a question or two,” interjected Bellagrog.

“By all means,” said Ms. Richter. “Your witness.”

Bellagrog adjusted her pants and swaggered toward Max like a prizefighter. She wagged a finger as though Max had been a very naughty boy.

“Those were some pretty nasty things you had to say about the Shropes, young man.”

“I’m just reporting what I saw,” said Max, slouched and miserable.

“Was you coached by the plaintiff?” inquired Bellagrog. “Did Dr. Rasmussen and his lawyer fella tell you what to say?”

“No …,” said Max hesitantly. Bellagrog spoke with such casual confidence that Max knew something—some haggish trick—was just around the bend.

“I see,” she said. With a puzzled frown, she stroked her chin. “But then how could you possibly know what happened if you wasn’t there?”

“What are you talking about?” Max snapped. “Of course I was there!”

“Oh, I’ll concede that a Max McDaniels was there on the night in question, but how can we be sure it was this Max McDaniels?”

The plaintiff’s attorney immediately objected while the crowd burst into excited chatter. Standing at the judge’s bench, Ms. Richter cracked the gavel several times before anything resembling order was restored. She glared at Bellagrog, whose face remained open and innocent.

“The defense will clarify what it means and cease making a mockery of this court,” said Ms. Richter.

“Will do, Your Honor, will do,” Bellagrog promised, waddling back to her table and snatching up her papers. “I’ll ask the witness if Max McDaniels visited the Frankfurt Workshop last year?”

“Yes,” replied Max.

“And while Max McDaniels was in the Frankfurt Workshop, did he willingly surrender three drops of his blood to the Workshop in exchange for some fancy contraption?”

“Yes,” said Max, somewhat defensively. “I had to in order to get Bram’s Key.”

“Of course Max did,” said Bellagrog. “The Max McDaniels I know is a heroic, noble boy. Which is why we can’t let a lying imposter like you sully his good name!”

“Explain yourself, Bellagrog,” said Ms. Richter, before Rasmussen’s attorney could object yet again.

Bellagrog grinned broadly, revealing two full rows of crocodile teeth. “The defense asserts that the Workshop has cloned the real Max McDaniels. The defense asserts that this witness is an imposter planted by the prosecution to further their case. The defense asserts that the testimony of this false, coached witness should be stricken from the record. And finally, the defense asserts that the real Max McDaniels must be in terrible danger and we should abandon this silly case to find Rowan’s hero!”

Max sat, dumbfounded, while Dr. Rasmussen’s attorney stood and issued a stunned objection.

“Whatchoo objectin’ to?” thundered Bellagrog, wheeling on the man. “You said yourself that the Workshop kidnaps living things so you can clone ’em! How can you say that this is the same Max McDaniels from the night in question? Huh? Answer the question, ya blubbering man-thing!”

Dr. Rasmussen’s attorney turned helplessly to his client. Jesper Rasmussen grimaced as though he’d chewed something profoundly unappetizing. His revulsion changed to a dark, murderous glare directed toward the crafty hag, who beamed expectantly. Whispering in his attorney’s ear, he subsequently slouched and stared at his shoes.

His attorney stood and cleared his throat. “My client has informed me that this young man cannot be a clone of Max McDaniels, because he can attest that the McDaniels clones are all accounted for.”

Even Bellagrog looked shocked.

The news spread through the vast audience like a tremor whose aftershocks were a sibilant hiss of disapproval. Max could not believe what he had heard—far off, in some Workshop laboratory, there were clones of him. He glanced across at Julie, but she was white-faced, frantically scribbling on her notepad. Every other reporter was doing the same.

“Your Honor,” continued Bellagrog, “the defense moves to dismiss the case, as the plaintiff can’t prove that this particular boy was ever present at the scene of the alleged crime! Bwahahahaha!” she cackled, dancing a victory jig before Rasmussen’s table.

“Order!” cried Ms. Richter, banging her gavel. “Order! The defense’s motion is denied, but Mr. McDaniels’s testimony shall be stricken from the record and the jury will disregard it. The witness is dismissed.”

Bellagrog practically swooned with delight as Max left the stand. She did not seem to hear as Ms. Richter offered a few choice words to Dr. Rasmussen and his attorney before informing them that she would now handle the questions. Only the mention of her name brought the hag from her dreamy-eyed reverie.

“Bellagrog Shrope, the court would like you to take the stand,” said Ms. Richter, pointing the gavel at her.

“Oh,” said Bellagrog, her smile fading. “As you like.” She grunted as she squeezed into the witness stand, her bosom resting comfortably on the table.

Narrowing her eyes, Ms. Richter leaned down from the judge’s bench and interrogated the hag. “Bellagrog Shrope, do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Sure thing.”

“Did you swear a vendetta against Jesper Rasmussen?”

“Yes,” said Bellagrog. “And rightfully so.”

“Just answer yes or no, please. And did Bea Shrope, you, or your offspring abduct Mr. Rasmussen on the night in question?”

“Absolutely not,” Bellagrog said, thumping the stand by way of exclamation.

“And did you intend to kill, cook, and eat Mr. Rasmussen?”

Bellagrog recoiled as though mortally offended. Reaching for a handkerchief, she blew her nose and fought back tears. “In that precise order?” she asked innocently, dabbing her eyes.

“In any order, Ms. Shrope,” responded Ms. Richter.

“No,” sniffled Bellagrog pathetically.

“So, Ms. Shrope, you assert that you and your family are utterly innocent in this affair?”

“I’d swear on me nan’s tombskull.”

“Thank you, Ms. Shrope. You are excused,” said Ms. Richter dryly. “The court would now like to hear the testimony of Ms. Bea Shrope.”

Mum glanced up from the defendants’ table, bleary-eyed and beaten. “Really, Ms. Richter … do I have to? Can’t we just leave it at Bel’s word?”

“We are anxious to hear your account, Mum, and we need it for the record. Please take the witness stand.”

With a sigh, Mum shuffled to the stand and was sworn in. On the witness chair, she looked like a withered bulb of garlic. Sipping gratefully from a glass of water, she managed a sad little smile, resigned to the question that would follow.

“Mum,” began Ms. Richter, “are you innocent or guilty of the allegations made here today?”

Long seconds elapsed while Mum sat and stared at the glass of water.

“Answer the question, Bea,” said Bellagrog, striking the match for her victory cigar.

Mum did not look at her sister, but instead gazed past Bellagrog at Bob, whose upright, attentive posture had not changed throughout the long afternoon. When their eyes met, the ogre’s stern face softened and a single tear made a slow, steady descent down his cheek. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement before the mask of stoicism returned. With trembling hands, Mum again sipped her water and spoke in a low, pitiable croak.

“I’m guilty. We’re guilty on all charges.”

Silence. Even as the words left Mum’s lips, Max turned his eyes toward Bellagrog. For a moment, the enormous hag merely gaped while her match burned to her fingertips. Tossing her cigar aside, the hag gripped the table and seemed to swell like some nascent geological disaster.

Ms. Richter’s voice was calm and compassionate. “Is this your final testimony, Mum? You are aware of what this could mean?”

“Yes, Director,” said Mum heavily. “If Mum wants to be a reformed hag, she has to tell the truth. Even if it means she can’t live here no more. We did everything Rasmussen said, and if ya gots to know, I’m not very sorry. He deserved it.”

“Understood,” said Ms. Richter. “Bellagrog, is there anything else the defense has to say? If not, the jury will adjourn to render a verdict.”

For a moment, Max thought Bellagrog would conjure another argument, right her ship with the same wily ingenuity she had demonstrated throughout the afternoon. But the hag was speechless; her beady eyes bulged like boiled eggs as she glared at her sister in the witness stand. The pressure mounted until it finally burst in an eruption of froth and spittle.

“TRAITOR!” she thundered, stabbing an accusatory finger. “Yer violatin’ the code! Yer violatin’ Hag Law, and for what? A toothless ogre? Human laws what forbid vendetta?”

“Bellagrog!” exclaimed Ms. Richter. “You have been a wonderful hand in the kitchens and during reconstruction of the campus, but please stop while you have some dignity.”

“Dignity?” roared Bellagrog. “I’ll show ya dignity! Ain’t no court o’ fools proclaiming judgment on Bellagrog Shrope! My daughters and me will be on the next ship bound for Blys! Keep yer judgments and sanctimony. You can even keep your precious Mum, the bloody traitor. Oi! Come here, my pretties!”

Instantly obedient, the haglings clambered up onto Bellagrog. Oblivious to the haglings’ weight, Bellagrog swept her documents into a floral handbag and stormed out of the proceedings, cleaving a path through the startled onlookers.

“See you at the party!” she bellowed, and disappeared into the throng.

Ms. Richter watched her go, impassive, then turned her attention to Mum, who clung to the defendants’ table as thought it were a life raft.

“Would you like to bypass this verdict and join your sister on the next ship, Mum? Or would you like to hear the court’s verdict, even though it might mean punishment or exile?”

Max could hear Mum’s muffled sobs as she wept against the table.

“I wants to stay, Ms. Richter,” she sobbed. “Mum can be good. Bob will help me.”

“Very well,” replied Ms. Richter. “The jury will adjourn and make its decision.”

While Ms. Richter led the jury away, Bob sat next to Mum at the defendants’ table. The ogre spoke softly to her, coaxing her head off the table, whereupon she blew her nose on his lapel.

“Why is she getting all the pity?” Rasmussen demanded. “Has everyone forgotten that I’m the victim here? She should be shipped off like the others.”

“You keep your mouth shut, Rasmussen,” warned Mr. McDaniels, half rising from his seat. “Max has saved your hide more than once, and you’ve got the nerve to clone him like he’s some … some … I don’t know what! What are you using them for? He’s got a right to know!”

“I apologize for that,” said Rasmussen awkwardly. “I never meant for something so sensitive to become public knowledge in such fashion.” He looked at Max in direct appeal. “I’m grateful for your honest testimony, young man. You told the truth and I appreciate your loyalty.”

“If you’re so grateful, then why don’t you turn over those clones?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

“I—I don’t have that authority,” stammered Dr. Rasmussen, looking surprisingly earnest. “If it were up to me, I would consider it, but my colleagues …” He made an apologetic face, shrugging as though such a thing were clearly out of the question.

“A weasel to the last,” scoffed Mr. McDaniels. “So, is the Workshop building an army out of my son?”

Max grimaced as every reporter within earshot eagerly recorded the exchange, the volume of which was steadily increasing. Dr. Rasmussen’s face darkened as he apparently swallowed an initial retort. Recovering his dry, arrogant footing, he merely replied that such a matter was classified and turned his back to them.

Despite his best efforts to focus on Mum and her impending verdict, Max was deeply shaken by Rasmussen’s talk of clones. Could one clone a person with Max’s heritage? Could Old Magic be replicated in a test tube?

But as the jurors returned to take their seats, all other thoughts fell away. Bob nudged Mum and the hag stood to face the jury. Blinking away her tears, she arranged her stringy hair into two scraggly halves and smoothed her topknot. Rasmussen leaned forward in an expectant frown as the jury foreman—a middle-aged Mystic—stood and read the verdict aloud.

“In the matter of Rasmussen versus Shrope, the jury finds the defendant, Bea Shrope, guilty of all charges levied against her, and hereby sentences her to exile.”

There was a gasp. Mum clutched Bob’s arm and shut her eyes.

“However,” the foreman continued, “in light of the defendant’s honesty, her genuine remorse, and the severe provocation preceding the crimes, the jury has elected to suspend the sentence and place Miss Shrope on probationary supervision for a period of five years.”

With the exception of Hannah and Dr. Rasmussen, the crowd applauded the verdict. Max stood and cheered with the rest while Ms. Richter declared the proceedings closed. Mum, however, continued to stand at attention, maintaining a rigid, confused silence. As the jurors filed out of the box, the hag risked a glance at Bob.

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

“It means Mum can stay home,” replied the ogre, stroking the hag’s greasy head.