I made straight for the witch's cave, and threw stones into its clattering darkness till she came out.
I said you'd catch him, she remarked, leaning on her stick as if we were resuming an interrupted conversation. I never said you'd keep him. There's no spell long enough for that.
I threw another stone; it went wide. She didn't flinch.
Your sisters were here, pleading for you, she said.
My eyes widened.
They sold me their hair. She let out a snort. It was their idea; it seemed to make them happy. They've woven it into
a shawl to keep me warm this winter.
I stared as she pulled the dark covering closer around her shoulders.
They asked me to bring you home, she went on, and give you back your voice.
I tried to speak but couldn't.
She came a few steps closer. I don't have your voice, you know, she said softly. You do.
The flints were digging into the inside of my fists.
Your songs are still out there on the clifftop, hanging in the air for you when you want them. She paused, searching my face. Wish to speak and you will speak, girl. Wish to die and you can do it. Wish to live and here you are.
I don't understand, I croaked at last. My throat hurt.
She yawned. Your silence was the cost of what you sought, she said; it had nothing to do with me. What would I
want with your voice? The music you make has always been in your own power.
Then why did you take my sisters' hair in exchange?
She smiled wickedly. People never value what they get for free. Having paid so dearly, your sisters will treasure you
now.

(Emma Donoghue "The Tale of the Voice" in "Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins")