Emma May stayed two nights at grandmother Orwell's house. She decided she enjoyed feeding the chickens, which were in fact not chickens at all. There might be more to grandmother's house than all the world outside it, and more to grandmother than all the people Emma had ever met. Such was the girl's fascination that she unleashed a bombardment of questions, severe enough to cause the old women seek shelter in the kitchen.

"We will keep these secrets from your mother, won't we?" grandmother Orwell said as she lay plates upon the table. "She wouldn't understand, or want you to visit again if she knew that you've been feeding my daemons."

"Your what now?"

Emma soon sat at the table with the daemon egg beside her plate. She rolled it carefully back and forth over the oak, watching the spines bend gracefully without breaking. Old bony fingers like claws wrapped around Emma's shoulder as grandmother hovered behind her chair.

"Why are you afraid of me?" the old woman whispered hoarsely into Emma's ear.

Emma jumped so badly that she pricked herself upon the egg. She marveled at her fingers, feeling instead of pain, a relaxing intoxication radiating from the small hole in her hand. Her finger bled gently, but felt like warm underwear fresh out of the dryer.

"I'm not afraid of you, grandmother. I like things I don't understand."

"You do?" Grandmother's wrinkles stretched, animating in excitement. She placed a plate of roast potatoes and garlic that smelled better than home.

"I enjoy a mystery like I enjoy looking at food before I eat it," Emma said, flexing her little fingers in anticipation. "I know I'll understand soon enough, and I know I’ll enjoy understanding it when I do."

"There are some mysteries which will never be understood. Will you enjoy those too?"

"I don't believe those exist," Emma said primly. "And even if they did, you couldn't prove it couldn't be understood tomorrow after a full night's sleep."

"People are afraid of me," grandmother sighed. Next she brought links of thick sausages and sauerkraut, steaming the air with rich invitation. "I don't explain myself because I wouldn't be understood even if I did. That makes me mysterious, fine so be it. And that makes them afraid; why should I care? I think the postman — the nice Asian man with the goatee — he seems to think I'm a witch. Can you imagine?"

"Quite easily," Emma said truthfully. "You do wear an awful lot of black. And you did say you had, daemons, is that right? Fire and brimstone, sort of thing?"

"You have one too now, so be careful with that egg. And that doesn't make you a witch either. Anyone can have a daemon," grandmother huffed.

Emma considered this, and found it reasonable. "You don't, um," Emma began, faltering. She poked the sausage with an adventurous fork.

"I do not eat the daemons, no," grandmother said patiently. "There are wishes inside the eggs. If you raise them carefully and let them hatch, then the daemon inside will grant your wish from gratitude at being let into the world. It's a sort of summoning, you see. I’ve wished for all sorts of things over the years. Got me out of my second marriage, a daemon egg. Of course they do have a wicked sense of humor, so you have to be very careful you are wishing for exactly what you want."

"I don't think I could do that without telling mom.”

Grandmother allowed her wrinkled face to melt into her hands. She let out a long sigh. "You're right. Of course, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. What could a little girl possibly want with a miraculous wish. Not when you could get in trouble with your mother. I would hate for the chance to discover the hidden magic of the world to interfere with your education, or your chores. Speaking of which, don’t forget that while you are here you will also be doing the dishes. And if you don’t like my daemons, then I am sure I can find lots of less mysterious everyday chores that need doing as well.”

“I do like them though!” Emma insisted. “I’ve never liked anything so much which might want to eat me, ever since I saw the tigers at the zoo. But like the tigers, maybe a daemon is better to visit than to have as a pet.”

Grandmother was furious and wouldn’t speak for the rest of the evening. She went to bed early and left Emma to do all the dishes by herself. Emma didn’t complain, although she was more hurt than she admitted. She liked the idea of Grandmother thinking she was special. She wanted to do things that her mother wouldn’t have done, to be braver than her she ever was. And one day when she had a daughter, no doubt named Esmeralda or something equally curious, then she hoped her daughter would learn to be braver than her. But not too brave, Emma decided thoughtfully, as people who are too brave get eaten first.

Lying awake that night on the hard, narrow, guest bed, Emma looked up at the wooden rafters and wondered if she made a mistake. What would she even wish for, if she got the chance? If it wasn’t from a daemon, then she might have wished for a new friend at school. But what sort of friend would a daemon give her? Not a very nice one, she decided, which was good because nice friends were so boring. Anyway, if they were so great at granting wishes, then why did grandmother seem so miserable all the time? Maybe grandmother really was a witch. It wasn’t right for children to visit witches alone, but then again it must be right to visit your own grandmother.

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There was another clock hanging in the guest bedroom. Emma watched it by the moonlight, staring absentmindedly for several minutes before realizing there were no hands on the face at all. She drew the blankets up to her chin and shivered slightly in the warm summer night. Whatever she decided about the egg, Emma knew there were too many important mysteries here to leave them buried. She would make an effort to play along better and humor grandmother tomorrow so she wouldn’t be offended again. She would learn everything she could, and pretend to believe even when she didn’t, and pretend to agree even when she thought grandmother was out of her mind. She would ask about the clocks, and what she kept in the other rooms, where the demons came from, and why they wanted to be here, and how grandmother met them, and what she had wished for, and…

And a thousand other dreams which never came to be. Emma must have fallen asleep, because she was woken not long after by the sound of a shrill bird flying into the sun and bursting into flames. Sitting up in bed and listening, Emma realized groggily that her mother must have returned early. Still in her pajamas, the girl opened her door a crack and peaked through to hear what the fuss was about.

“Your mother changed her mind. Flighty bird.”

Grandmother stood nearby in the hall. She was in her nightgown as well: the first black nightgown Emma had ever seen, although very tasteful in black lace trim. Mother was as Emma saw her last, except for the maniacal energy which possessed her, pacing back and forth down the hall. She lit up at once upon seeing her daughter.

“Don’t you want me to visit grandmother anymore?” Emma asked passively.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” her mother replied in agitation. “Of course you can visit, whenever you like. Only we should have done a better job planning. I forgot about your school project that you need to finish this weekend with the paper-mache. You’ve got all your supplies at home. And your dad’s conference is next week, and he wants to spend time with you before he leaves, and of course I have a million things to do, but I know you’ll help… and…”

“If your mother really wanted you to stay with me, you would have done it before now,” grandmother interrupted gruffly. “Get your things, Emma, it’s a long drive. All of your things, mind you.”

She put a particular emphasis on this last part. Emma stared into her eyes — almost invisible and black buried deep within the folds of her face. There was still so much she wanted to ask, but now there was no chance. Grandmother’s face softened, as if in understanding.

“For a girl who loves mysteries, you will have to discover the joy of the questions with no answers, or be driven mad by them,” grandmother added enigmatically.

“I will find an answer to everything, and shall go mad anyway,” Emma declared cheerfully.

“This. This is exactly the sort of nonsense I was talking about when — ugh.” Emma’s mother ran her fingers through her black hair which looked like a stampede of elephants had already passed through. “I’m sorry, it’s late, we need to go. Hurry Emma, get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you in the car.”

Emma was fully dressed, standing in her room, staring at the egg. It sat on her bedside table, promising everything but answers. Emma could still feel the warmth in her hand where the spine had pricked her. If it was poison, then it was already in her veins, no doubt in her heart, working its magic on her in peculiar ways. What if she needed an antidote? What if she didn’t want to become like her mother, always fretting over normal life and having no room left for the hidden magic of the world? In that moment, Emma was sure she would regret not having the egg more than she would regret keeping it. After all, she could always destroy it and throw it away before it hatched if it ever came to that.

The car parked outside began to honk. Emma took a deep breath. She tried to put the egg into the front pocket of her hoodie, but the spines caught on the fabric and wouldn’t go in all the way. Taking care not to prick herself again, Emma took off her sweatshirt and wrapped the egg in it, hurrying into the night after her mother.

In the backseat of the car, hoodie on her lap, Emma looked out the window to see grandmother Orwell standing on her front steps. She didn’t have the porch light on, but Emma thought she could see something with black scales wrapped around her neck like a scarf. Sinuously twisting, not around but inside out and back again, turning over through and glistening beneath the moon. Then they were gone, driving down the dirt road and back to a world of rules, and books, and real and make believe, with a hard line drawn between. Emma felt like she wanted to cry without fully knowing why, ashamed and proud of the secret she kept from her mother, wrapped snuggly in her hoodie.

When Emma got home, she put the egg into a shoe box in her closet and hid it beneath a pile of old sweat pants. She resolved not to take care of it or let it hatch, but just to keep an eye on it, and study it. Next time she saw grandmother again, she’d be able to prove that she could keep a secret, and that would be enough for the witch (who was not a witch) to tell everything she wanted to know about the chickens (which were not chickens).

Exactly three days later, mother received a phone call which reduced her to a nervous fit. She sat on the floor of the kitchen with her back against the stove, crying for almost ten minutes before Emma could get a word out of her. She’d tried to call her father for help, but he was on his trip, and wasn’t answering.

Grandmother Orwell was dead. The doctor said she had a stroke, caused by a blood clot in an artery which led to her brain. There was a high dosage of a substance in her blood which the doctor had yet to identify, but he said it was likely due to an unusual reaction from her combination of medications.

Emma said nothing with her lips. She said nothing with her eyes. And she wished her heart said nothing too, but could not make the wild thing be silent. It was grandmother’s heart which beat within her chest, dancing to music only she could hear, whispering secrets only she knew. Now Emma had a secret of her own: one she would jealously guard against all the world who would dare to tell her magic was not real.