Houdini’s Sister

There’s always the girl who understands locks and a bone-toothed comb, the one who crawls under the table, crams into the mouse hole, the one who gives the witch the wrong directions. There’s always the girl who knows the language of rabbits and convinces one to let her ride astride, the girl who can live on breadcrumbs and fog, who clings to the giant’s boot until he gets tired of stumbling around the kitchen, looking for a cooking pot, and falls asleep. There’s always one left, the one who cuts off her hair to make a rope (if that’s what it takes), the one who talks the blue-bellied salmon into carrying her across the river, the one who takes the diamonds of her tears and sells them for a good pair of boots.