There was a knock at the door. It echoed throughout the foyer. The matriarch mouse took a deep breath. She opened it to the witch.
“Where is your daughter?”
“Leave. My. Family. Alone.” Her composure was already beginning to shake in the glare of the red eyes of the old crone.
“My son is with her.”
“My daughter would never treat with any of your kind!” Anger gave her words more volume than she had intended.
“Alas, it is too late. The child to be born is ours.”
“What?! That baby is the Savior! My daughter is married! What you claim is outrageous!”
“It is truth. Look.”
The hag held up a mirror. Fleeing from her daughter’s house was a gentlemouse not her wedded husband. He wore the cloak of the gypsies.
“You witch! How can I believe you! This is only a spell!”
“No, my dear. The child is mine.” She quickly took her leave in what seemed like a shadow or trick of the waning light.
Hastily, the distraught mother slammed her door. Her tiny daughter squeaked from around a corner.