Recipe for disaster

Small feet pattered up the steps to the country cottage. The little girl breathed in the morning air, trying to catch her breath as she reached the oak door. Her
denim-covered knees were caked in mud, and grass stains were painted across chubby little forearms.

With an adorably clenched fist, she knocked. Then she waited. Then she knocked again, this time louder and faster, her impatience becoming evident. Soon enough, she heard the limping gait of Old Margery approach the door.

The door creaked open, and a pinched face framed in wiry grey curls poked out. She looked down at the blonde child, but not much because the old woman was not that much taller. The little girl gave her a toothy grin.

“Hiya, Old Marge!”, she exclaimed, and began stepping forward to enter the cottage.

Old Marge stuck out her hand. It was a bony hand with gnarled nails, and quite intimidating, making the little girl stop immediately.

“It's not a good time right now. You can’t come in”.

The girl looked down dejectedly, realizing for the first time the purple smoke that was pouring from the open door and pooling at her feet.

“But I brought those special flies!”, she protested, pulling out the emerald dragonflies she had spent all morning catching.

“Thank you dear, but maybe come back tomorrow. Run along now!”.

Before she could begin to formulate any further retorts, the door had already begun swinging shut.
In the last few moments, the little girl could have sworn she saw the origin of all that smoke; a large pot, which was taking the place of the coffee table where they usually had their tea.

The girl turned round and ran down the steps, eager to enjoy the rest of her morning.