From Diary of a Village Witch

I can't stop thinking about Maigret Black's grandson.

I can't help her. Him. I cannot. It's not allowed and, more to the point, it's not possible.

Witches are tied to their territory. It's a fact. We gain strength through those ties. Without Dis, without Bruney, without the bees ...

There's Pishek, of course. I brought her with me. The others came later, from the lands around the cottage. They lend me strength and focus; buttress my workings to increase the effect; share insights that I'd otherwise miss.

But more to the point, witches do not practice the craft in the territory claimed by others.

It's a rule. Not so much a rule, but understood.

I mean, witches aren't as territorial as ... say ... wizards. And no one is as touchy as a sorcerer. Which proves my point because a town like Rivermark surely has a wizard overwatching the town witches. And even if it doesn't, how can I compete with ... with however many witches there are?

I've never been a town witch. I apprenticed with my village witch; was examined by Academy officials at my home village; and then came here when this post fell vacant. I don't really know anything about craftwork in a town. Or a city.

There has to be someone there to whom Maigret can appeal, right?

If I went ... not that I'm likely to but ... I suppose I could just ...

I have a goodly store of honey that I was planning to send to market. I could take it myself. Tom Trader usually transports it for me. I could go with it. Maybe visit Maigret, assuming that she's gone back to her son's home?

And if the lad has been cursed with the evil eye, it's a simple matter to ...

No! I shouldn't. I couldn't. And I shan't.