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“In the past,” Meg said, “only the upper and middle classes had the cash and time to invest in a space dedicated for sitting around. Living rooms as a space for entertainment and relaxation only started to become more common in the eighteenth century.”

“Eighteenth!” was what Thorn meant to say, but it came out as an intelligible squeak. She had traveled forward at least ten years. Everyone looked at her, and she muttered, “I swallowed a frog.”

The intruders laughed. Even Meg’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“You should have magicked up some gold bars,” Cat Paws said to Thorn. “Then you could afford to put up some partition walls.”

“Actually, she might not be poor.” Meg undid a rope latch and strode across to the walls of drawers. She pointed to Penny-Pincher’s handheld mirror dangling from a drawer knob. “This mirror would have been very expensive in 1690.”

“It cost three pennies,” Thorn said. “And it belongs to someone I turned into a frog.”

As expected, the intruders laughed. But then Skintight Blue Pants solemnly said, “Does the Historical Society seriously think witches existed?”

Meg spoke up. “Maybe not in the way we think of witches in modern books and movies. Maybe they couldn’t turn people into frogs”—she side-eyed Thorn—“or fly on brooms. But we think they believed in magic and the use of potions, as evidenced by the flasks and vials, and the cauldron.”

Skintight Blue Pants pointed to the bookshelf. “Are those spell books?”

“They do contain recipes for potions,” Meg said. “The society tried to re-create some of the potions. Identifying the ingredients was a challenge, but we decoded many of them. Still, none of us has turned anyone into frogs.”

Thorn huffed. “You have to spend years honing your craft first, otherwise your brews are just disgusting soups.”

“Did you go to a magic school?” Hairy Knees asked.

Thorn didn’t understand why everyone found that question hilarious.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. My sister and I grew up living and breathing witchcraft because our mother was a witch.

And she learned magic from her mother.” She was about to tell them how it had taken her several years of practice before she successfully incanted a spell into a brew, but Meg cleared her throat.

“Let’s continue the tour.” Meg unlatched the rope to get to the only separate room in the house.

She pushed the door open. “The original wooden bathtub had decayed, so we had a replica made. And because the Historical Society sometimes holds our meetings in Covenstead, we also fitted the house with modern plumbing. Now all it takes to fill up the tub is a turn of that tap, but back in 1690, the witch had to collect water from the well. The city has sealed it up for public safety.”

Hairy Knees pointed to the bed. “That fits only one. Why call it ‘Covenstead’ if it wasn’t a coven of witches living here but only one spinster witch?”

Meg led the group toward the bed. “We believe this witch had gatherings—possibly other witches from her coven—here. She was a social butterfly.”

“That’s not so lonely, then,” Cat Paws said.

It shouldn’t matter what strangers were saying about her, but Thorn bristled at all the pity thrown her way. “That’s blasphemy.”

“Excuse me?” Meg asked.

“This cottage was her sanctuary of serenity. She hardly had people over, not even other witches. Except another local witch, but only as frequently as once every few years, and Madam Maude was a family friend. And except that one lover the witch had in her twenties, plus that time a determined customer made the trek through Thimble Woods. And I suppose right now, with you intruders.”

Cat Paws gasped with mock outrage. “We’re paying tourists!”

Meg took a step toward Thorn. “And how might you know all this?”

“ I’m the witch who lives here.”

The tourists laughed. Meg didn’t.

Thorn strode toward the front door and violated the rope barriers. Once her kinked hat was snug over her head, she readied her broom. “I’ll show you.”

Meg flared her nostrils. “Please refrain from touching the exhibits.”

Thorn sat sidesaddle on the broom and rose onto her tiptoes.

Nothing happened. Perhaps the old broom needed more of a nudge.

Thorn hopped… and promptly landed back on her feet.

She tried again. Her shoes clacking against the wooden floor sounded like the hooves of a flailing donkey, and every failed launch filled her with dread.

“Have I lost my magic?”

Meg massaged her brow. “Please get off the broom.”

“Let me try again.”

Meg scanned the tourists. “There are only supposed to be six for this afternoon’s tour. May I check your e-tickets, please?”

The tourists waved their cell phones. Thorn continued bunny-hopping with her broom.

Meg’s heels clicked angrily against the wood. “Witch, did you pay for this tour?”

Before Thorn could retort that they should pay her for exploring her house, from somewhere outside, Bandit yowled.

Thorn dropped the broom. She dashed out the front door and down the porch steps around to the side of the cottage.

There, she found Bandit trapped in a metal cage. But as she approached, she saw that he was taking his imprisonment very well. He was slurping up fish from a can.

“Did you lose one of your lives?”

If I did, it was worth it. This is the best food I’ve ever had. How come you don’t feed me like this?

“Maybe because its stench could wake the dead.” Thorn couldn’t see any wounds on Bandit.

She sighed with relief, more for herself than for him.

On his best days, he was rather insufferable.

On his bad days, he was practically murderous, even if she explained to him that she was trying to tend to his injuries.

“Bandit, something went wrong with the brew.”

That cat better get out of that trap before he comes back. The voice was not the raspy meow of Bandit, and it came from behind and above Thorn.

There were two cats, a ginger and a gray, sunbathing on the roof. Bandit was so obsessed with the food, he didn’t even glance at these usurpers of his territory.

“Before who comes?” Thorn asked. The trap looked like it had been triggered to shut when a gluttonous cat was lured inside by the bait.

The ginger cat sat up, eyes sharp with curiosity. Meanwhile, the gray cat slunk behind his friend and said, She understands us. What is she?

“A witch. Have you never met one?”

The orange cat answered her. Only on Halloween.

Those ones can’t talk to cats. And they don’t do magic, except for disappearing candy in record time.

I heard there used to be many of you witches, a long time ago.

Now there’s only a small number left, so small I haven’t come across any. Have you, Pepper?

No, me neither , Pepper said, still hiding behind his friend.

“What happened to us?” Thorn asked, thankful for the geniality of the cats. Unless they had food, Bandit treated strangers as if they were flatulence—invisible and disgusting.

The orange cat licked his paw nonchalantly. Pointy hats and curly shoes went out of style eons ago, except on Halloween. But anyway, if that greedy cat is your familiar, you’d better remove him before the mad scientist comes.

“ Scientist? I’ve never heard of that word.”

He traps the cats, takes them away, performs experiments, and returns them… different.

“What do you mean?”

The orange cat got up and did a big stretch.

Like my friend Pepper here. He used to be my nemesis—territorial and fearsome.

Then one day the mad scientist took him.

When Pepper came back the next day, he didn’t chase me away like he used to.

Old Pepper would have challenged your white cat to a duel.

But new Pepper is a lot nicer. And a lot lazier.

He’s no longer interested in mating. Another strange thing is, the tips of his ears used to be pointier than your hat. But one has been chopped off.

The tip of the gray cat’s left ear was indeed gone. But so was the orange cat’s.

Pepper said softly, The mad scientist caught Pumpkin shortly after, too.

I don’t remember much about it, though. Pumpkin flopped over to warm up his belly.

Thorn realized that the roof was bathed in sunlight, and it dawned on her why it had been especially bright inside the house.

The fig tree outside was dead. Not a single leaf on its sad and dry branches.

But this was only a drop in the ocean. In her worry for Bandit, she hadn’t noticed till now that the other trees around the cottage were gone. Correction: The forest was gone.

It was now a park. Intruders everywhere—people running in circles, walking dogs, and riding strange vehicles with two wheels. Some were lackadaisically hanging about the river, which now lay in clear view and was dotted with boats bigger than any Thorn had ever seen.

Her stomach churned. Her first reaction upon learning she had time-traveled was excitement at her accidental achievement, but the reality of it all was now crashing upon her.

It had been quite discombobulating when she’d once misplaced her favorite ladle and had to use a different one.

Adapting to this , all these changes all at once, would be hell. “Pumpkin, what year is it?”

The year I finally caught a fish in the river. The year I got fed five times in one day.

“In numbers. Is it 1708? Or 1751? Or…”

Cats don’t count the years , Pumpkin said with an air of superiority. We live till we use up all nine of our lives.

Thorn felt like a piece of earthenware crisscrossed with cracks. Any moment now, she might shatter. “Can you at least tell me what century it is?”

Pumpkin craned his neck to look behind Thorn. Someone was approaching. He’s still here.

Pepper pointed his ears forward. The mad scientist.

Behind her, a voice, soft and calm, said, “It’s the twenty-first century.”