You can tell from these that Aiken is no Joani-come-lately with regards to enchantment, rich and buttery prose, and the sheer old-fashioned pleasure of storytelling. But Aiken wrote many books of original short stories - among them, many ghost stories I'm not familiar with at all - and A Small Pinch of Weather is one of a series of these.
Few of these stories are of that crude trend of equipping witches with vacuum cleaners. The Cost of Dark - where a foolish king gambles away all the dark from his side of the world to a crafty enchanter, and his daughter must gallops to the brink of death to win some back - could pass for a tidied up bit of Grimm or Andersen. Along with some of the other stories in this book, its modern qualities are subtle - the artful shaping of a metaphor, or an enlightened attitude to gender (as in The Boy Who Read Aloud) - but generally I can't get too worked up about these stories. The energy of a fairy tale, for me, comes out of its rawness, its seriousness, its sadness. The Cost of Dark will never be as worth my time as The Goose Girl , with its curious brutality.
Most of Aiken's stories do, in fact, trespass on the twee - but in her more unusual stories (the greater majority of the book) her prose is fantastically nimble and breathlessly witty. She has a subtle and instinctive knowledge, possibly inherited from her father, Conrad Aiken, for the rhythm and music of a voice. It happens in the narrator's voices and the voices of characters, and in those rhythms the fantastic becomes surreal, uncanny, comic. The absolute best, genuinely funniest of the stories are those about the Armitage family - I hadn't realised, before reading this, that such a series existed - and these have something of the character of Tove Jansson's Moomin stories, along with the mannered yet manic tone of E. Nesbitt's short stories, her stories' most obvious heirs.
In these, Mark and Harriet are more than at home with magical beings - they have a pet unicorn, and Home Economics classes are liable to concern prussic acid and love potions - but remain difficult to really impress, and capable of dealing with anything. Perhaps they're like the children of the early seventies, blithely inhabiting a world of technology that is wonderful and disconcerting to their parents - or just any reader of fantasy, who will take a flying carpet in their stride, and need it to be woven out of the beard of a mischievous druid for it really to register.
And in these stories, there is a wonderful physicality to the magical beings and happenings - the phone you might use to ring up and speak to the trees in the orchard stands with a little portico over it, in case of rain - the moon, if you shoot it out of the sky, is like a silver penny the size of a nursery table - and this reaches a crescendo in The Serial Garden, a wonderful swirling together of love story, ghost story, and magic realism, the story of an enchanted cereal packet.