Soft as Sweetbread: A Fairy Tale Gone Bitter

My sister had always had a soft heart—soft as sweetbread.

She wept for the old witch despite everything. Maybe because of everything. I held her while she cried, both of us covered in soot and ash, her fingers blistered from pushing closed the oven door.

She was quiet after the tears. She trailed behind me through that house sugar-encrusted, by caramel-covered beams and gingerbread steps. I sought out our travel-stained garments, gave her the worn kirtle she knew. She dressed silently.

Even when we discovered the treasure in the attic—bolts of silk, coins, trinkets, gold—she barely blinked. She nodded when I asked her to help carry what we could. Maybe it would be enough. Enough to buy freedom from the cruelty of our stepmother.

"I do not want to go back," she said.

It was the first thing she'd spoken in hours.

"I don't want to go back to them."

"Neither do I," I replied, watching the witch's cottage shrink behind us. "But where can we go?"

She gnawed her lip. Finally, she nodded. "You're right. Wait—there's something in the kitchen."

"The kitchen?" My blood ran cold.

"She thought I never paid attention," she said. "But I did. I know which potions might come in useful. Even if we don't use them, we can sell them."

I let her go on ahead alone. She moved with unfamiliar confidence, as if she'd been there before. She returned with a dozen vials hidden among silks. "Let's go."

There was no trail this time, but she led us through the forest with unnatural certainty. When I asked her how she knew the way, she only said, "I know it now."

That was the first time I felt fear. But she was still trembling too, and I could not allow her to see mine. I tried to make her smile, sketching a picture of a life built on the witch's stolen riches. I got a ghost of a smile. But the forest was cold, and we soon sat together beneath a twisted tree.

By sunrise, she was standing in front of me. She spoke less and less as we neared home, and there was something different in her walk—more sure, more subdued.

Our father's hut came into view.

She ran.

I did too.

Our father tore open the door, his eyes full of tears. He pulled us into his embrace, weeping, murmuring prayers and apologies.

He told us that our stepmother had taken ill soon after we vanished—hadn't left her bed in days. "Perhaps she'll perk up to see you," he said hopefully.

We spoke not a word.

"I know I failed you," he went on, his voice constricted. "Losing you in such a manner. it's unforgivable."

"Losing?" my sister said pointedly.

He winced. ".Yes. Losing."

She stood up from the table. "We'll see her."

I followed her to the stepmother's sickroom. I could scarcely stand to be near the woman. Yet my sister—my soft-hearted sister—knelt and stroked gently at her forehead.

"Here," she whispered, holding one of the witch's vials to the woman's lips. "This will help."

I moved to stop her, but she raised a hand—steady and commanding.

The next day, our stepmother was wide-eyed and radiant. She pretended to cry, thanked God, and called us "her darlings." I wanted to scream.

"We have to celebrate," she said. "What do you want for dinner?"

"Sweetbread," my sister replied.

I stared.

She smiled at our stepmother, and my stomach froze. "You're still recovering. I'll prepare dinner."

I could've stopped her. We could've run. But my sister's eyes met mine, and I froze. She wasn't asking. I nodded anyway.

The smell of sweetbread filled the house. It was too much. My sister sliced their portions, dripping honey over their plates. "We can always get more," she said with a careless laugh.

Our father hesitated. He saw something in her—something new.

"Eat," she said.

They did.

The stepmother first, choking softly. Then the father. Color drained from their faces, confusion twisting into horror.

"You… " the stepmother gagged. "You little witch…"

Our father pleaded. "I didn't want to! She made me!"

My sister was cold. "You let her."

Their convulsions shook the table.

I buried my face in her shoulder. She held me until it was done.

Then we rose, collected our bags, and stepped out into the world growing dark.

"You're afraid," she said.

"Yes," I whispered.

She squeezed my hand.

"You don't have to be," she said. "I'll protect you."

She's always had a soft heart.

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