Bratchwitch stuffed the kidnap-goods in her hag grab-bag, a small sack patched with babies' quilts. Her square wooden clogs thumped out the door after her sister's shinier shoes, and with muttered infernalities of "Cattlewarts and chewskins!", Bratch pulled the long black broom free of the entryway clutter where the straw had stuck. The sisters now wore similar dresses, but where Higgens' was clean, Bratch's bottom was smeared dark with dissection gunk.<br/><br/>"Don't you gnash about my rags, witchiggin! My knuckles twitch for rain and if it don't come in time, I'll wash in a trough and plaguey up some cows on the way." The witch pulled her tattered autumn shawl from where it hung orange and brown on the fencepost, and wrapped it over her shoulders. "March and scuttle time, youngling!" the witch said as she opened the gate, although the sisters never agreed which of them was older.