The Handmaid's Tale: A Narrative Fiction

“Oh, you have always been wiser than the rest, Master,” one of the witches whispered, with what appeared to be tears of delight trickling down her cheeks. “That’s why there is no greater honor than serving under such a clever leader.”
The shadow ignored the comment and continued to mutter as he returned to his seat. “I’m sure those two uncooperative beasts in the dungeon hid it someplace. Hmm, if I could only get them to talk and tell me where. Or if perhaps . . . no that wouldn’t work. Well, then again, you never know. Maybe it would.” The shadow turned and pointed his twisted finger at a witch cowering in the corner.
“You there. The one with the sweet face. Circe, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Show me you can do more than just sit there and

“Go on,” the cloaked figure insisted. “I don’t have all night.”
“Yes, Master. I believe we need to find someone they trust who could slip in and convince them to say where it’s hidden. Then they could grab it for us.”
“Hmm . . . Of course. Yes, very good, very good indeed. That is precisely what I was thinking. There’s only one problem,” he hissed with such ferocity that some of those around the table sat back, afraid they would become the focus of his fury. “Who?”
“It’s been locked away for a hundred years. So many have tried to get through and persuade them to tell us where it’s at so we can snatch it back, but there’s no one who can slip through the glass,” a witch on the other side scoffed. “Maybe Circe thinks she’s special and has the power to change her own heart.”
The witches burst into laughter. “Oh, let me wave my wand and—Poof. Sweet Circe is perfect,” another said, which made the rest of them, laugh even harder.
Circe’s face turned deathly pale as her dark, tortured eyes drifted around the room. “I’m not talking about me,” she said, pointing at the crystal ball in the center of the table. “But there is one.” Everyone gasped and all their eyes were upon her. “Look, he can slide through