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Citations & Cinnamon Rolls
(The Hearth and The Hedge #1)
-A Cozy Fantasy-
By
JL WILSON
The forest didn't just grow; it brooded
The trees were gnarled, ancient things with bark like elephant skin and a tendency to move their roots just enough to trip anyone wearing sensible shoes. In the center of this botanical surliness sat the Hut. It was currently resting on it's massive, yellow scaled chicken legs, tucked into a patch of oversized ferns. It looked like a house that had seen everything and was very unimpressed by it all.
Inside, Baba Yaga–known to the local flora as “The One Who Shouts” – was having a morning.
She stood at her stove, a tall, imposing figure in a robe of heavy, midnight-blue silk that had seen better decades. Her hair was a silver cloud,pulled back with a kind of severity that suggested it was being punished. She held a wooden spoon like a scepter.
“I told you,” Yaga said, her voice a rich smoky contralto that vibrated the jars of pickled toadstools on the shelves, “no guests. I don’t care if the Coven is ‘restructuring’. I don’t care if they have a ‘surplus of talent.’ My patience is a finite resource, and I used the last of it on that talking goat in ‘84.”
The Hut creaked. A floorboard groaned in a way that sounded like a shrug.
“Don't take that tone with me,” Yaga snapped, pointing the spoon at the ceiling. “I’ll have your talons filed down to nubs. You’ll be a stationary bungalow by sunset.” A sharp, rhythmic knocking echoed through the door. It wasn’t the frantic pounding of a lost traveler or the polite tap of a village elder. It was upbeat. It had syncopation. Yaga’s eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. “Oh, Gods. It’s here.” She marched to the door and flung it open.
Standing there on the threshold was a young woman who looked like she had been shot out of a magical confetti cannon. She wore a vest of patched velvet, a skirt that seemed to be made of various scarves, a wide-brimmed hat adorned with dried sunflowers and what looked like a very confused live frog. “Hi!” the girl chirped, beaming. “I’m Elara Throne. The Coven said you were expecting me for my…well, they called it ‘re-education,’ but I like to think of it as a creative residency!”
Yaga didn’t move. She leaned against the doorframe, her gaze traveling slowly from Elara’s boots to the frog on her hat, and then back down again. The silence stretched for a full fifteen seconds. “You’re late,” Yaga said firmly. “Oh! The trees kept moving the path, I had to bribe an oak with some singing to let me through.”
“The trees weren’t moving the path to be difficult dear. They were trying to save you. It was a warning.” Yaga stepped back gesturing into the dim, dusty interior of the hut with a flourish of weary elegance. “Come in. Try not to touch anything. Most of the furniture has a temper, and the rug is going through a phase.”
Elara stepped inside, her eyes wide with wonder. He didn’t look terrified; she looked like she was in a candy store. “It’s magnificent! The energy in here is so…dense. Like a very grumpy fruitcake. “I’ve been called worse,” Yaga muttered, closing the door. “I brought a peace offering!” Elara reached into her satchel and pulled out a bundle wrapped in wax paper. As she unwrapped it, the scent of yeast, spicy Saigon cinnamon, and gooey sugar flooded the room. The Hut actually tilted an inch to the left, sniffing.
“Cinnamon rolls,” Elara said, holding one out. “Still warm. I used a bit of sun-flare magic on the dough so they never get cold.” Yaga looked at the roll. She looked at Elara’s hopeful, smudge-faced grin. She thought about her solitary breakfast of bitter tea and spite. “ I suppose,” Yaga said, taking the roll with two fingers as if it were a dangerous artifact, “That if I am forced to endure your presence, I might as well do it with an elevated blood sugar level. Sit down, Elara. We need to discuss the rules.”
“Rules! I love rules,” Elara said, hopping onto a stool that tried to scoot away from her until she patted it affectionately. “Rule ONE, Yaga began, taking a bite of the roll and momentarily closing her eyes as the perfection of the glaze hit her tongue. She regained her composure instantly. “You do not ‘brighten’ things. My aesthetic is ‘Ancient Malice,’ not ‘Midsummer Parade.’ Rule TWO: the garden is mine. If I catch you planting so much as a daisy without my permission, I will turn you into a very loud cricket.” Elara nodded enthusiastically, her eyes already wandering to the dusty corner where a shelf of jars looked particularly miserable. “Got it. No daisies. What about enchanted snapdragons? They’re great for home security.” Yaga sighed, a sound like wind through a tomb. “It’s going to be a long century.”
Outside, the Hut’s giant chicken legs did a little shuffle of excitement. Inside, for the first time in fifty years, the air smelled like something other than old parchment and damp moss. It smelled like trouble. It smelled like cinnamon.
CHAPTER 2-The Audit of All Evils
The honeymoon period-which had lasted exactly as long as it took to finish the last cinnamon roll-ended at dawn.
Yaga was in her greenhouse, a structure made of ribbed dragon-glass that breathed with the humidity of a tropical swamp. She was currently lecturing a patch of Belladonna on the virtues of silence when a sound pierced the morning mist: the shrill rhythmic blowing of a silver whistle. “Oh, for the love of Tallulah Bankhead,” Yaga groaned, her voice dropping into that baritone gravel. She straightened her spine, a series of audible pops echoing through the glass. “He’s early.” Elara poked her head around a giant, carnivorous fern. She was wearing a pair of bright yellow gardening clogs that clashed violently with the moss. “Who’s early? Is it the mail? I'm expecting a shipment of sentient glitter.”
It’s worse than mail, dear. It’s a man with a clipboard.” The mist parted at the edge of the clearing. Stepping through was a figure who looked like he had been ironed into existence. Inspector Valerious Vane wore robes of a gray so flat it seemed to suck the color out of the surrounding trees. He had a silver stylus poised over a glowing ledger. He didn’t walk; he marched. He stopped exactly ten paces from the Hut’s left talon and blew the whistle again. “Baba Yaga! Known associate of the Unregulated Wilds!” Vane’s voice was thin and nasal, like a mosquito with a law degree. “I am here for the bi-annual Assessment of Penitence and Magical Containment. Lower the domicile!”
The Hut, usually quite terrifying, seemed to take one look at Vane and decided to play dead. It groaned and sank onto its haunces, the porch hitting the dirt with a dejected THUD.
Yaga stepped out of the greenhouse, Elara trailing behind her like a colorful tail. Yaga folded her arms, her stern gaze settling on Vane with the weight of a falling wrecking ball. “Valerius,” Yaga said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I try to avoid lying before my second cup of tea. What brings you to my neck of the woods? Besides a lack of hobbies and a desperate need for a tailor who understands human proportions?”
Vane didn’t flinch, though his stylus twitched. “Violation one: Hostile greeting. Violation two: Insulting a Coven official’s vestments. That’s a three-drachma fine, Yaga.” He turned his gaze to Elara, his eyes narrowing behind price-nez glasses. “And this must be the Thorne girl. The Coven’s little ‘Chaos Project’. I see you haven’t been transformed into a toad yet. Yaga, you’re slipping.” “I’m pacing myself,” Yaga snapped. “She’s currently in charge of cinnamon rolls. If I turn her into a toad, who’s going to handle the glaze? You? You look like you find sugar ‘subversive’”. Vane stepped out onto the porch, his boots clicking on the wood. He began to circle the Hut, tapping the walls. “Structure seems…sentient. Non-compliant with the Static Housing Act of 1402. And what is this?”
He stopped in front of a window box that Elara had installed an hour ago. It was filled with “Giggling Marigolds” that were currently softly tittering at the sight of his hat. “Unlicensed flora,” Vane muttered, scribbling furiously. “Yaga, this is a place of rehabilitation. It is meant to be a desolate, soul-crushing environment conducive to reflection. This…this is practically a bed and breakfast.” “It’s a work in progress!” Elara piped up, stepping forward with a beaming smile that Yaga knew was a tactical mistake. “I’m Elara. Would you like a tour? I’ve just started a compost heap that recites poetry!”
Vane recoiled as if she’d offered him a plague rat. “Poetic compost. Level five contamination. This entire sector is a disaster. Yaga, if this inspection does not improve, I’ll be forced to issue a Desiccating Decree. We’ll strip magic from this soil until the only thing that grows here is sand and disappointment.” Yaga’s eyes flashed a dangerous, cold violet. She stepped into Vane’s personal space–a move that made her significantly taller than him. “Listen to me, you glorified filing cabinet,” she rumbled, the air around her beginning to smell like an approaching thunderstorm. “You can cite my porch. You can fine my furniture. But if you threaten my woods again, I will bake you into a pie so bitter even the crows won’t touch it. Am I making myself clear? Or do I need to find a way to say it in ‘Bureaucrat’?”
Vane paled, but he stood his ground, his stylus trembling over the ledger. “Threatening an Inspector. That’s…that’s a big one, Yaga. A very big one.” “Put it on the tab,” Yaga said, turning her back to him. “Elara, fetch the tea. The ‘Quiet Down’ blend. The one that makes people’s vocal chords go limp for an hour.” “Coming right up!” Elara chirped, though she shot a sympathetic look at Vane before disappearing inside. As Yaga watched the Inspector begin to measure the diameter of her favorite oak tree with a silver tape measure, she felt strange, unfamiliar warmth in her chest. It wasn’t just anger. It was the way Elara had stood by her side. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the girl bustle about the kitchen. “She’s going to be the death of me,” Yaga whispered to the Hut. The Hut creaked in agreement, then subtly shifted its weight to drop a large, wet glob of moss directly onto Inspector Vane’s shoulder. Yaga smirked. “Good girl.”
CHAPTER 3- The Tea of Total Tactical Failure
If there was one thing Baba Yaga hated more than paperwork, it was performative hospitality. But according to the Coven’s bylaws, an Inspector had to be “offered sustenance and a seat of repose” or the eviction could be fast tracked. “Sit,” Yaga commanded, gesturing to the heavy oak table that looked like it wanted to bite Vane’s knees. Van sat, perched on the edge of the chair as if he expected it to catapult him into the forest canopy. He placed his silver ledger on the table. “I expect a full accounting of your daily rituals, Yaga. And none of that ‘communing with the void’ nonsense. I want timestamps.” Elara emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray with the grace of a circus performer. “Here we go! Peppermint-Nette tea and a fresh batch of ‘Peace-Pipe’ Scones.” I don’t eat ‘Chaos Food’, Vane sniffed, looking at the scones suspiciously. They were dusted with a shimmering powder that seemed to hum. “My blood pressure is perfectly regulated by the Coven’s Department of Health,” Vane retorted.
Yaga sat across from him, sipping her tea with the practiced elegance of a silent film star. “Drink the tea, Valerius. Your voice is hitting a frequency that’s making my windows vibrate, and I’d hate for the glass to shatter in your face. It’s so…messy.” Vane took a tentative sip. His eyes widened. “This is…remarkably potent.” “It’s an old recipe,” Yaga said, her eyes twinkling with malice. “Usually reserved for those who talk to much at funerals.” As the tea began to take effect, the “cozy” atmosphere took a turn for the surreal. Elara’s nature magic was sensitive to the “vibe” of the room, and right now, the vibe was “Extreme Irritation.”
Suddenly, the “Peace-Pipe” scones began to emit actual smoke. Not burnt smoke, but thick, colorful clouds that smelled like childhood memories and old libraries. “Violation!” Vane sputtered, though his voice was becoming increasingly high-pitched. “Unsanctioned…hallucinognic…baked goods!” He tried to stand up, but his robes had caught on a splinter from the table. As he tugged, the table–which was, as Yaga warned, temperamental–decided it had had enough. It bucked like a bronco.
“Woah!” Elara cried, lunging to catch the teapot. She tripped, falling directly into Yaga’s lap. The world seemed to slow down. For a second, the stern facade cracked. Yaga caught the younger witch instinctively, her strong, ring adorned hands steadying Elara’s waist. Elara was flushed, smelling of cinnamon and wild rain, her eyes locked onto Yaga’s. “Nice catch,” Elara whispered, breathless. Yaga’s voice was a low, dangerous hum. “You’re a hazard to my health, Elara Throne.” “Is that a citation?” Elara teased, her face inches from Yaga’s. “It’s a warning,” Yaga rumbled, though she didn’t let go. The moment was shattered by a POP.
They both looked over to see Inspector Vane. The “Peace-Pipe” scone had finally done it’s work. The Inspector wasn’t angry anymore. In fact, he wasn’t doing much of anything besides staring at his own hands with an expression of profound spiritual discovery. “My fingers,” Vane whispered, his voice sounding like it was underwater. “They’re just…meat-sticks for the soul.” Yaga sighed, finally releasing Elara and smoothing her robes with a sharp tug. “Wonderful. You’ve turned the High Auditor into a philosopher. Do you have any idea how much paper that creates?” Elara grinned, adjusting her hat. “Look on the bright side. He’s stopped writing citations.”
Yaga looked at the Inspector, who was trying to hug a floor lamp, and then at the radiant, chaotic girl in front of her. She felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth–a real one. She quickly suppressed it. “Clean up the tea, Elara,” Yaga said, though the gravel in her voice had softened. “And for Gods sake, give the man a cushion before he hurts himself. I may be a witch, but I’m not a barbarian.”
CHAPTER 4- The Iron-Clad Decree
The aftermath of the “Philosophical Scone Incident" was not the peaceful morning Elara had hoped for. By noon, the spiritual fog had lifted from Inspector Vane, and in its place was a cold, crystalline fury. He didn’t scream–which Yaga knew was much worse. He simply sat at the kitchen table, wiped a smudge of “soul-meat” grease from his glasses, and signed a parchment with a seal that glowed like a dying ember. “A Deforestation Squad?” Elara’s voice hit a panicked soprano. She was hovering over a tray of wilting lilies that seemed to be dropping in sympathy. “You can’t be serious! It was just a scone!” “It was an assault of a Coven official with a Class-A Hallucinogen, Miss Thorne,” Vane said, his voice flat as a tombstone. He didn’t look at her. He looked only at Yaga, who was leaning against the hearth, her arms crossed, looking remarkably like she was planning a murder. “Under Section 8 of the Arcane Land Management Act, this ‘Sentient Wood’ is hereby declared a public nuisance and a biohazard. The Iron-Clads will be here by sunset to clear-cut the lot.”
“The Iron-Clads?” Elara turned to Yaga, her eyes wide. “Who are they?” “Think of them as lumberjacks with no souls and magical chainsaws,” Yaga rumbled. Her expression was grim. “They don’t just cut trees, Elara. They sever the Ley lines. They’ll turn this forest into a parking lot for the Coven’s new summer retreat.” Vane stood up, tucking his ledger under his arm. “You have six hours to vacate the premises. The Hut will be dismantled for parts. I hear legs make excellent bridge pylons.” He marched out the door without a backward glance. The Hut shivered, a low, mournful creak vibrating through the floorboards.
“He can’t do this,” Elara whispered, her hands trembling. “The trees…the whispering brook…they’re alive. They’re FAMILY.” Yaga walked over to her. For the first time, she didn’t lead with an insult. She placed a heavy, warm hand on Elara’s shoulder. The silk of her sleeve brushed against Elara’s cheek. “Listen to me, child,” Yaga said, her voice dropping to that resonant, comforting deepness. “The Coven thrives on order. They think that because they have a stamp and seal, they own the earth. But they’ve forgotten one thing.” Elara looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “What?” “They’ve forgotten that nature doesn’t file appeals,” Yaga smirked, a slow, predatory grin that would have terrified a lesser woman. “And neither do I.”
“What are we going to do?” “We are going to give them a ‘Nature Walk’ they’ll never forget,” Yaga said. “Elara, I need your chaos. All of it. I want you to go to the garden and tell the vines that guests are coming. Tell the snapdragons to sharpen their teeth. And for the Gods sake, go find that ‘Sentient Glitter’ you were talking about.” Elara’s face transformed. The sadness vanished, replaced by a spark of pure unadulterated mischief. “You mean…I have permission to ‘brighten’ the woods?” “Go wild, Pussycat,” Yaga said, using the nickname for the first time. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting. If they want a clear-cut forest, they’re going to have to get past the management first.” The next four hours were a whirlwind of magical preparation. Elara ran through the woods like a forest fire in yellow clogs, whispering to the roots and singing to the briars. Yaga stood on the porch of the Hut, her arms raised, chanting in a language that sounded like tectonic plates shifting. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold, a low hum began to vibrate through the ground. It wasn’t the trees. It was the sound of heavy, metal boots. The Iron-Clads appeared at the edge of the clearing. They were ten feet tall, suites of empty armor powered by cold, blue fire, carrying saws etched with runes of destruction. At their lead was Vane, looking smugly satisfied.
“Proceed,” Vane commanded, pointing his silver stylus toward the Hut. The first Iron-Clad stepped forward. It didn’t get far. A thick, thorny vine–bright neon pink and smelling faintly of Elara’s favorite perfume–shot out of the dirt and wrapped around the machine’s leg. “What in the–” Vane started. Suddenly, the air was filled with a sound like a thousand tiny bells. A cloud of Elara’s sentient glitter exploded from the canopy, coating the Iron-Clads in a shimmering dust that immediately began to jam their gears with the power of positivity. The machines started to jerk and twitch, their saws emitting bubbles instead of sparks.
Yaga stepped to the edge of the porch, looking down at the chaos with the bored detachment of a woman watching a mediocre play. “Valerius,” she called out over the din. “I think your toys are malfunctioning. Perhaps they’ve developed a conscience? Or perhaps they just really hate your tie.” “Desist!” Vane screamed, waving his ledger. “This is an obstruction of justice!” “No, dear,” Yaga rumbled, her voice carrying over the clearing like thunder. “This is a private party. And you’re not on the guest list.” Elara appeared beside Yaga, her hair a mess of leaves and her eyes glowing with green light. She reached out and took Yaga’s hand. YAga didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed Elara’s fingers, and together, they felt the pulse of the forest–a massive, rhythmic heartbeat that surged from the soil, through the Hut, and into their joined palms. “Now!” Elara shouted.
The ground didn’t just shake; it bucked. The Hut let out a roar–a sound that was half-chicken, half-dragon–and stood up to its full, terrifying height. The Iron-Clads, blinded by glitter and tangled in aggressive marigolds, were swept aside like tin cans by a single swing of a massive, feathered leg. Vane fell backward into the patch of Giggling Marigolds, which immediately began to tickle him mercilessly. “Get out,” Yaga said, her voice low and terrifyingly calm. “Before I decide that my compost heap needs a new philosopher.”
Vane scrambled to his feet, his ledger ruined and his dignity non-existent. He turned and bolted into the dark, followed by his sputtering, glitter-covered machines. Silence returned to the woods, broken only by the soft tittering of flowers. Elara leaned against Yaga, her head resting on the older witch’s shoulder. “We did it.” Yaga looked down at the girl, then at their joined hands. She gave a short, dry laugh–a realization kind of laugh, knowing she’s been won over. “Yes,” Yaga said softly. “We did. Now, let’s go inside. I believe you mentioned something about a victory batch of cinnamon rolls? And Elara?” “Yeah?” Yaga looked at her and smiled. “Keep the glitter. It actually…suits the place.”
CHAPTER 5- The Lanai of the Woods
The morning after the Great Glitter Siege was unnaturally quiet. The Iron-Clads had left behind nothing but a few discarded gears and enough magical residue to make the squirrels glow in the dark for a week. Inside the Hut, the air was thick with the scent of fresh yeast and brewed chicory. Yaga sat in her high-backed chair, watching Elara move through the kitchen. The younger witch was humming–something upbeat and slightly off-key–while she slathered a thick, pearlescent glaze over a fresh tray of rolls. “You’re doing it again,” Yaga said, her voice a warm, dry rumble. Elara paused, wooden spoon mid-air. “Doing what?” “Being relentlessly cheerful before the sun has cleared the canopy. It’s unnatural. It’s provocative. It’s making the tea feel insecure.”
Elara laughed, walking over to hand Yaga a steaming mug. “I’m happy, Yaga. Vane is gone, the Coven has gone radio-silent, and the Hut actually let me pet its beak this morning. I think we’ve officially moved past the ‘hostile tenant’ phase.” Yaga took the mug, her long fingers brushing Elara’s. She didn’t pull away immediately. “The Hut is a sucker for a compliment and a high quality buffing wax. Don’t let it go to your head.” The two sat in a comfortable, heavy silence. It wasn’t the silence of two strangers, but the companionable quiet of two people who had just survived a bureaucratic war. “You know,” Elara said softly, looking out the window at the vibrant, chaotic garden they had created, “Vane was right about one thing. This isn’t a place of penance anymore.” Yaga raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what is it, then? A commune of wayward gardeners?”
“It’s a home,” Elara said, her gaze shifting from the window to Yaga’s face. “My home. If you’ll still have me.” Yaga set her tea down on the table with a deliberate clack. She stood up, her tall frame casting a shadow in the morning light. She walked to the door and flung it open, stepping out onto the porch–or as she had started calling it, the Lanai. “Come here,” Yaga commanded. Elara followed, standing beside her as the Hut gave a contented little wiggle, settling its weight into the soft moss. “Look at this mess,” Yaga said, gesturing to the woods. The trees were draped in Elara’s enchanted vines; the brook was singing a song about a handsome trout; and the Giggling Marigolds were currently trying to start a wave. “It’s loud. It’s colorful. It’s entirely too sentimental.”
She turned to Elara, her expression softening into something vulnerable, something Yaga rarely showed but felt. “I’ve spent a century making sure no one wanted to stay here,” Yaga said, her voice dropping to a low, velvet hum. “And then you walked in with a hat full of frogs and a tray of sugar, and you ruin my entire reputation in a weekend.” Elara reached out, tentatively taking Yaga’s hand. “Are you mad?” “I’m exhausted,” Yaga admitted, a small genuine smirk playing on her lips. “But I suppose…if I have to be exhausted, I’d rather do it with someone who knows how to make a decent glaze. And someone who isn’t afraid to tell a Coven Inspector to shove his ledger where the moon doesn’t shine.”
Elara beamed, leaning her head against Yaga’s shoulder. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “Don’t get used to it,” Yaga grumbled, though she draped an arm around Elara’s waist, pulling her closer. “Now, about those cinnamon rolls. If they are cold, the deal is off.” “They’re perfect,” Elara whispered. “Just like the view.”
EPILOUGE
A month later, a small, official-looking bird arrived at the edge of the woods. It carried a tiny, terrified scroll: A formal apology from the Coven Council and an inquiry into weather Baba Yaga would consider a seat on the Board of Ethics. Yaga read the scroll while sitting in a new rocking chair Elara had charmed to never squeak. She didn’t even look up. “Elara!” she called out. “Yes, Pussycat?” Elara shouted from the greenhouse, where she was currently teaching a rosebush how to hum jazz. “The Coven wants to know if I am interested in ethics.” Elara popped her head out, covered in dirt and grinning. “What are you going to tell them?” Yaga took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. She picked up a quill, scribbled three words on the back of the scroll, and handed it back to the bird. “What did you write?” Elara asked, walking over and leaning against the porch railing. Yaga leaned back, looking perfectly at peace in her vibrant, noisy kingdom.
“I told them,” Yaga said, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. “‘Go bake yourselves.’” Elara laughed, the sound echoing through the sentient trees. The Hut let out a joyful squawk and began to trot toward the sunset, carrying its two witches deeper into the woods where the only citations ever issued were for being “excessively cozy.”
THE END