Gretel sat on a low stool in her father’s cottage, staring into the fire. It danced and leapt, mesmerising and hypnotising the young woman.

‘Come and eat something, child,’ her father bade, his expansive gesture taking in the fully laden table. An entire suckling pig held her brother’s attention, and a tray of freshly baked breads gave off delicious aromas. But she could not move. When the wind blew from the east, as today, it seemed to her to bring the scent of gingerbread, and it made her stomach turn. The flames seemed to take on the shape of the witch, capering and cackling, yet Gretel couldn’t look away.

‘What is the matter with her?’ muttered her father.

Hansel shrugged, too busy devouring the pig to respond verbally.

‘We are happy now. We have all we need,’ their father insisted. ‘There is no cause for sadness.’

There had indeed been happy times, in the beginning. With the money they’d made from selling the witch’s sweets, they had lived well and rejoiced. Their father had been overjoyed at the return of his children, and they had celebrated; the villagers had come calling with gifts and good wishes for weeks. Everybody wanted to hear the story of the children's triumph.

But Gretel never spoke of her own part in the escape, nor of their long walk home through the pathless and hostile dark forest. No help from the birds this time; indeed Gretel had wondered if the blanket of leaves on night they were lost had been a dream or delusion. Hope and desperation can play with the mind.

And suddenly, staring into the fire, seeing the witch’s form dance crudely, she was transported. Gone was the stool, the table, her father. These were different flames now, purple-tinged, giving off acrid smoke. Gretel was back in the gingerbread house, watching herself push the old woman into her own stove. She heard again the agonised scream, smelt the burning flesh. The self outside herself shuddered, but she was powerless to stop it. The Gretel she had been was ruthless in her time of need, snatching at a moment and stealing the advantage.

She watched her younger self run to the cage, unlocking it and letting out her brother. Hansel was dazed, confused; she had to physically pull him out and chivvy him along. He had become plump, with nothing to do in his cage but eat. Young Gretel, by contrast, was thin and bony after her manual labour.

‘Run!’ she urged her brother. But he insisted they stop and collect as much as they could sell. Eat, more likely, the watching Gretel thought bitterly; she knew they’d arrived home with far less than they had fled with.

She blinked back tears and was abruptly back within herself, looking at an ordinary fire in her ordinary home.