The Red Witch

By Christine Frost

A restless teen who coveted a posh lifestyle, Elena hated that her village was known for the legend of the infamous Red Witch. Mocked by the upper class who made the Red Witch into a touristy attraction, Elena soon learned how deep her connection to the legend was.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Frost
• Release date: Feb 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458193544

Christine Frost

Before finding her calling as a digital strategist, Christine Frost's nomadic career spanned beer and mead brewing, marketing for a record label, and book editing at a university. She received a master's in literature and creative writing from Harvard Extension School, and has written four novels, with several short stories appearing in journals and anthologies. An avid cook who has collected more recipes than she can cook in a lifetime, Christine blogs about how food is portrayed in fiction at SavoredWords.com. She loves to scout out the best coffee shops in Boston.

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The Red Witch

Christine Frost

Copyright 2011 Christine Frost, Her Raven Domain Productions

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She always watched from a distance. Up in the trees, from within the shadows, she was always safely concealed. For many years, distant observation satisfied her curiosity. Perched on a swooping branch at the edge of a villa, she considered the objects of her study. Elena sat casually on the branch, her hands pressing into the thick, grooved bark and swung her legs back and forth. And she watched them.

Nearly everyone in the village worked for them, as maids, nannies, and groundskeepers in a vast spread of villas and resorts. The village was poor. There were a few, well-appreciated and generously paid, who served as the middle class. But for the most part, the rich residents from Mexico City and tourists who came to Santa Barbara del Sur had a constant supply of indentured servants to tend to their every need.

The village was crouched by a lake. Humble single-story homes clustered together, with veins of dirt roads separating the families into dusty sections. She avoided home as much as possible.

From the tree, she watched the activity on the elaborate villa. The sun always seemed brighter but kinder on the rich side of town. Maybe it was the vibrant colors of paint on the villas, the sparkling pools and pale flagstone paths that connected the abundant acreage. She knew many of the people who worked there. The villa was owned by a politician from Mexico City. His children were impossibly spoiled, his wife imperious and demanding. They lounged by the pool. The wife barely glanced at the servants as she snapped her fingers in the air to summon them. Elena huffed from her perch, indignant. They don’t even know our names half the time. They point and give us orders as though we’re dogs. They deride us and we just take it because we have to, because what else would we do? What possibilities do we have when we have so few options to begin with?

The youngest children sat near the