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“I do not want him to hurt you,” I sob.

“I will do my best to stop him from hurting any of us, but you must be brave and obedient.”

I nod, tears dripping from my chin.

Reaching out, our mother presses her palms to our cheeks. “My beautiful girls, I love you.”

The knock on the door breaks our tender moment.

Inhaling sharply, our mother whispers, “He is here. I will deal with him. You stay here.”

She steps down off the ladder, snaps her fingers, and the wood shatters into kindling. Another wave of her hand and the pieces scamper into the hearth. Raising her head, she gazes at us, eyes glimmering with tears and then whispers under her breath. A wall forms over the opening to the loft, enclosing us in utter darkness and shielding us from view.

“Agy,” I whimper.

“Shh,” she answers.

A moment later, a wisp of light forms in the air, revealing Ágota bent over a small tin cup filled with water. It is always kept on a shelf over her bed. I assumed it was for when she grew thirsty during the night, but now I see I was wrong. Reflected in the water is not her face, but our mother standing near the door to our cottage. I crawl forward to stare at the image as it becomes clearer.

Smoothing back her hair, our mother hesitates as an even more demanding rap on the door reverberates through the cottage. I can feel the force of the knock vibrating through the walls and into my bones. My mother stretches out her fingers, crosses her middle and index fingers swiftly and the elaborate spell under her feet glows briefly. I gasp, for all of it is bright red. The magic recedes into the earth.

Satisfied, our mother opens the door.

I had heard stories of a goat-legged, horned man from the villagers. I am disappointed that the devil looks nothing like they described. Tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and very fair-skinned, the man on my mother’s doorstep looks more like a prince from the fanciful stories old women like to tell small children. I have never seen a man dressed so finely. Clad in black and crimson, his doublet is embroidered and his cloak edged with dark fur. The chaperon on his head is artfully arranged on his golden curls with the end dangling jauntily over one shoulder. His smile is radiant and it is difficult to believe he is the devil. Yet, behind him, crawling on all fours, is a hideous creature with a smashed face, gray skin, and long black claws. It perches behind the man and glowers at my mother while drool falls from a mouth filled with sharp yellow teeth.

“The alp,” Ágota whispers.

“Viorica, at last,” the devil says.

His voice is faint for I am hearing it through the walls.

“I denied you before and I do again,” my mother says sternly.

With a charming chuckle, the devil says, “But you must change your mind. I have come all this way and not without some difficulty. I never expected you to flee to Germany.”

“Which is why I came here.”

“You weakened yourself being so far from your own land in the futile hope to escape me and yet, here I am.”

“The alp found me, I see.”

“Plucked your image from the dreams of the village women,” the devil answers, smirking.

“Clever.”

The devil gazes past our mother into our home. The ripples in the water caused by Ágota’s trembling hand distort his image, but I can see his displeasure with our humble cottage.

“How you have fallen, Viorica.”

“Just as you once did,” my mother replies in a curt voice.

“I do not live in squalor.”

“It suits my needs.”

“Playing the village witch instead of claiming your exalted title among the witches. How disappointing, Viorica.”

“My world is no more. Its corpse lies in the shadow of this one. The titles of that world are meaningless in this one.”