You Call Me a Witch Like It's a Bad Thing

The sheer indignation raised by the name of a pastry is enough to make the vampire snort, leaning over the counter and enjoying a luxurious blend of herbal tobacco and rose petals. Cerise had mentioned the significance behind each ingredient, but the thought had admittedly gone out of her head. “I have not. It sounds delicious though. You must tell me where you’re finding such delicacies in this condiment-adverse country.”

The memory of the cronut’s sugary exterior still echoed on her tongue, although the witch genuinely had not thought to bring any to share. Something about Valerie and her complexion made Cerise think she would prefer more bitter tastes, like dark chocolate and the like. But if she was curious enough, it wouldn’t hurt to make another trip to the bake shop...

WHITE QUEEN

You are the White Queen. The Queen is the most powerful piece on the board, meaning you are strong in some aspect of your life. Physically, emotionally, mentally, one of these is your strong suit. The queen can move anywhere she wishes upon the board, meaning you have your hands full with all the different tasks and choices in your life. Just be careful not to overwhelm yourself. For all your poise and status, your position will surely crumble under the weight of your pride.

TAGGED BY: borrowed from @pryceism​​

“I had the most delightful little treat today- a combination of a croissant and a donut, filled with creme. Now, the mortals call it a Cronut, but I think that sounds absolutely abhorrent. All the ingenuity went into the baking process, I suppose. Have you tried one?”

    Her predicament was certainly not to be envied, bereft of her usual stores and means in the aftermath of having been wronged so grievously. He could sympathise with her plight somewhat, and he offered a pensive hum in recognition for her particular conundrum. It was tempting to extend a further offer of help in that regard, though he had the discipline to remind himself that he was not in the business of retributory charity. As it was the culprit was long beyond the borders of this island; there was not much he could do about this personally, given that.

         “I have heard of such a thing.” Arthur nods in ready understanding, after only a momentary pause in thought. His memories were not so consumed by rust for him to have forgotten certain fundamental laws encountered over his long history; contractual interaction of a romantic foundation utilising emotional currency reminding him somewhat of the inclinations of the leannán sídhe. He has encountered witches engaged in similar trade before, and this freely proffered knowledge certainly does ring a bell or two. 

           Marriage then, joined with the keenness of youth and a healthy degree of inexperience. A courtship of seven years was perhaps not so long in the grander scheme of time, but were she to be a very young witch the resulting consequence would make quite the degree of sense. Young love, specifically, and all the available threat of thoughtless abandon. The narrative rather writes itself, and once more that sentiment of sympathy emerges in him. To have been burned so terribly while in the throes of youth was never a kindly experience. 

         “Quite the potent intention indeed.” Arthur finds himself quick with agreement, partaking in his tea to punctuate his stream of thought, before returning the cup to its secondary duty of warming the cradle of his palms. An error in judgement she may have indulged in, however the weight of fault lay solely with the thief in question. “I cannot claim to know the manner of these events, though it may have been that he was masking his intentions with some method of his own; perchance already immersed in matters of the occult to have slipped your notice as such.”

           Rather the serpentine opportunist, if so. His actions would endeavour to fit the profile, in any event. In the aftermath of his idle speculation, Arthur brought the cup closer to his chest and lay his elbows gently upon the armrests of his chair, switching the cross of his legs as he continued to speak. “Forgive my candor, but it would seem to me as though you may have been punished by your order for the loss? Or at the very least, denied support in your heart’s recovery.”

“Have you really,” Cerise mused at the inkling that Arthur had heard of witching law before. Her tone wasn’t accusatory or incredulous, more curious. She could not adequately discern of what constitution the man was, though he did have a timelessness about him from what little ambient strangeness she could sense. He didn’t seem to be of the witching lot, perhaps something more native to this realm than another. If he did have any modicum of experience with her nature, then he would understand how deeply the matter vexed Cerise.

“Human lives are so short anyhow,” she said, “I will admit I had expected to outlive the sod and then reclaim my heart. It has a physical nature to it when presented thusly, and I might have been able to just... you know, pop the thing back in. I don’t know.” The witch grumbled a bit and then took her cup back up to her lips. Saying it out loud, Cerise realized how foolish it had all sounded. Granted, apart from Brindille and her former male associate, she didn’t have too terribly many people to talk out loud with, regarding magical matters

She shook her head, “Alastair was... painfully boring when we met. Sweet, and he seemed sincere. I suppose that is part of what intrigued me- a man that had no connection to the tangled weave of magic. But after seven years he must have felt... well, let’s just say there was a power imbalance between the two of us.” Cerise sighed and took a significant mouthful of tea, if to busy herself from having to finish that thought.

       The sweet tooth was certainly undeniable, Arthur thinks to himself with a small quirk in his lips. Nevertheless he waived the offer with a gentle shift of his hand, returning it to the dainty handle of his teacup as he moved to partake of the beverage once more. Allowing for the almond notes to settle upon his tongue as he entertained her - more than understandable - response to news of Mr. Quitely’s untoward ventures following the theft of her arcane power. ( He did hope the tea had not spilled on her person, it was sure to scald at this temperature. ) 

          “Nothing is expected of you necessarily; as stated I am not here to launch accusation nor to lay blame, merely to confirm the nature and origin of this man’s magick.” That it had at source been borne from a witch was now all but affirmed, it was the specific nature of this original power - and that of the initial transaction, that yet eluded him. He would endeavour to reach those answers, too, by the end of this conversation. 

           “Whether you take up action in the interest of retribution is the realm of your business, of course. My personal duties end at providing adequate information for my colleagues to best combat the threat that now plagues their home.” Speaking these words aloud he realised that really his investigation ought to move rather to the contract made with the demon in question where it came to Mr Quitely’s current reach of paranormal aptitude, though given this witch was at present taking residence within these borders he felt pressed to at least first gain better understanding of her circumstance. 

      His following lines of inquiry would seek to achieve just that.

     “If you do not mind me asking, what was the nature of your original transaction with Mr. Quitely?” His line of vision drifts down to fall upon the traditional finger used for engagement rings upon her left hand, her prior freely given insight lending him the confidence to pursue that train of thought. “I am led to understand it may have been of a romantic nature…?”

The witch’s skin prickled at the knowledge that Alastair was out there doing goodness knew what with her magick at his disposal. A proper bastard he turned out to be, and the worst part is that the elders were blaming her for her own mistakes, and Cerise could not even petition the witch realm for aid. If not for her own sake, then it would have been most prudent for the council to do something about the mortal running about and making pacts with fiends.

“Nothing much should be expected of me,” she muttered. “I have been attempting to track the man but I barely have the resources for proper retribution. Not what he deserves, at least. And then there’s the matter of my strength versus the likes of a demon, if your... observations prove accurate.”

It wasn’t that she doubted the man, especially knowing he was not of the mortal persuasion, but Cerise always left the possibility open that all those who existed outside the bounds of witchery were likely to misunderstand the situations at hand. Quite a lot of dramatics with that elder lot.

“The nature?” Cerise looked down at her hand as Arthur’s eyes trained on it. Her feelings, or whatever echoes of sentiment were left in her, had grown cold. “Bah, it was a marriage, or some romantic notion. Truthfully, we were engaged to be wed after near to seven years of courtship, but having no proper dowry or family fortune to my name, I thought it might be a meaningful gesture to present him with my heart- now, mind you, a witch’s heart is not the self-same beating, bloody mass in a mortal’s chest cavity. They have a sense of...” She wound her hand in a circular gesture as she tried to coax the words from her mind.

      “It must feel stifling; but fortunate, then that she should at the very least find herself in a form she does not find disagreeable.” Arthur offered with a measure of sympathy, contemplating the discomfort such an existence may otherwise experience in being locked to a form they could not even so much as take comfort in.  A prison their own body would become, as opposed to a rather inconvenient holding room. Fortunate then that this was not the case here, though it did lend contemplation as to how long this state of affairs may remain so for Brindille. 

       “Much obliged.” Arthur expressed as he took the cup into his hands with a degree of care befitting his role as a guest in this house, fingertips curling gently around the delicate body of china as he lent further into his chair. Force of habit has him drawing his thumb idly against the decorative elements painted onto the cup’s curving surface, probing its contents for magical elements: there are none. He lifts the brew to his lips and draws a modest sip. Sweet, though he does enjoy the nutty elements in here. 

       Lowering the teacup back into the bowl of his palm, Arthur offered his compliments on the tea before politely engaging with the retelling of their various shared travails. The information shared with him begins to paint him a certain picture; a recent arrival to this realm, the envy of a mortal for her power, a subsequent arrangement possibly revealed for trickery. He feels as though he can now formulate an educated hypothesis on what transpired here, now came the testing phase. 

        “Quite simple, really. This former acquaintance of yours has been found at the centre of a dangerous movement wielding magicks for their own benefit on the continent. A colleague of mine called for my assistance, whereupon I was able to source a single hair that permitted use of a rudimentary tracking spell that would follow the history of the energies attached.” Arthur pauses briefly to take another sip of his tea. He found himself gradually warming to the flavour. 

       “There seems to have been a third party of demonic origin involved in the intervening transaction, but suffice it to say that trail eventually led me to the supposed origin point of this illicitly obtained arcane power: your doorstep.”

“Oh, she finds just about everything disagreeable,” Cerise laughed, “But it’s part of her charm.” Surprisingly, the ferret did not protest this- in a way, she was an extension of the witch herself, but not simply a conjuration. Not fully a creature either, not as a mortal would understand it, but that was the oddity of taking magical tradition into another realm. At least the ferret was cute and versatile enough to provide some usefulness to the woman. Brindille could have been trapped as a newt, or perhaps a spider, or any other number of forms.

“If you find the tea at all disagreeable, I have some sugar,” she added with a small wave of her fingers as she leaned back with her own cup, resting her head against the plush upholstery of the chair’s tall and regal back.

Cerise was not at all surprised to hear that Alastair had been mucking about and getting his name out there- the bastard had myriad options to cause trouble once in possession of her heart (really, did the elders have to be so dramatic? it really lessened the impact of their messages). But she sputtered as Arthur explained, nearly spewing tea as she had dangerously tipped the cup to her lips at just the inopportune time.

“Surely you are joking! The fool went and brought a demon in on the transaction? Whatever power that beast gave him wasn’t worth a feather compared to what my heart can do in the right hands,” she groaned, setting down the cup of tea on a nearby surface before she threw the damn thing. Cerise ran a hand over her face. Alastair was so keen to take her heart and then he goes and sells it to the highest bidder? Figures that he couldn’t unlock her magic for himself and had to make an even worse deal with it. “Fortunate you found a single hair then, hm? Damn. Damn it all.”

Brindille was making her best attempt to fall asleep in the witch’s lap, though was disturbed by this outburst.

     A small quirk of his lips had suggested a faint hint of humour with regard to her smart remark, though he had refrained from further comment. A small perk of one brow in her direction had signaled his intrigue in the discourse that had followed: it seemed his offered expository information had, by and large, been unnecessary then. Still it had been worth putting to voice, he feels the air somewhat cleared between them for it. The turn towards self-deprecating commentary had been less expected however, and he feels the need to clarify his stance there. 

       “It would hardly be appropriate for me to cast judgement having only just stepped over the threshold. You have been most accommodating thus far, and for that you have my gratitude.” Always made proceedings run a little more smoothly, especially where more complicated matters such as these were concerned. Honestly speaking, she could hardly be faulted for a faltering manner, given her present circumstance. 

        Her continued assurance invites an appreciative hum from him all the same, and he finds himself lending idle thought to what notes might leap from her brew; it may depend on how long she had lingered here in the mortal realm, how long it had been since she was last home. An inquiry worth chasing if he were to gain a better understanding of the situation here, though he would get to that point briefly.

        “Your familiar, I presume? I recognise the signature.” Arthur explains himself duly, offering the little creature a brief, flitting smile. He had always been fond of the concept of an eternal companion, one bonded with you in a manner that extended far beyond the pithy constraints of physical threat and biological mortality. An indubitably charming notion. “I imagine you have shared in one another’s company for quite some time. When was it you both first arrived in the mortal realm?”

“I am no stranger to casting- be it judgement or otherwise. I would completely understand, though I appreciate your gentlemanly approach nonetheless,” she said. There was still plenty of time for her to be unaccommodating, depending on the tone the conversation surrounding Alastair would take. Cerise found it unnecessary at this exact moment to assure him that she was in fact incapable of using her magic to charm someone’s opinion of her for better or worse- best not to expose any more of her vulnerabilities here.

“My overly familiar, yes,” the witch said to the sound of an irritated squeak from the ferret in question. “She didn’t always look like this, though I have not heard any particular complaints about the form she takes. Granted, Brindille and I would both prefer to have access to our full powers, but we are doing our best with what we have available to us.”

Cerise finished with the kettle and poured two servings of tea (might as well suit herself, if she was to be conversing- social, even) into bone china cups delicately painted with purple patterns of the moon’s waxing and waning. She had since shattered the matching spoons, but she doubted the man would be so concerned. “Here,” the woman said, proffering one of the cups to her guest before gathering her skirts and sweeping into another seat opposite Arthur. Brindille’s head picked up for a moment and then lowered upon realizing Cerise had not brought anything for her.

     A courteously humoured hum sounds briefly in his throat, before he duly follows her inside the humble abode. There was at once a quaint air about the place, an atmosphere rife with withdrawn mysticism and adorned with accompanying trinkets to serve that self-same purpose. With a mild sense of disarray to the placement of various items here and there, he was led to believe there was a natural indication of troubled sentiment at hand in this place. It was not that he expected a semblance of order and organisation from one of kind, rather that this assessment slotted nicely into the profile he had begun to build for this case. To lose one’s magic was an awful variety of personal calamity to have to suffer, a part of oneself stripped from the bone as readily as blood might be drawn. 

     In his mind he would thank her for the courtesy shown to him; she had suffered an assault, of late, and to extend an invitation so readily to another visitor cloaked in mortal man’s guise was no mean gesture. In practice he keeps the sentiment to himself, wise to the pride of witches and all manner of supernatural kin. He would not draw attention to an act of abuse against her person within the walls of her home. Rather he continues to distract himself with the character of the place, the dancing dust shimmering in the form of gossamer veils draped from shafts of softened sunlight that filtered into the room, the blush of rich colour and steepened hues that touched the bodies of each furniture piece. An assortment of herbs. A collection of books. And of course, the tell-tale cauldron lined with soot that spoke of recent activity. This most certainly was a witching den. 

         “You may call me Arthur.” He offers without further elaboration. ‘Twas bad practice to hand out one’s full name and address to one who practiced abilities in the arcane; regardless of any presently diminished status for these. He takes the seat presented to him with a grateful nod, before sitting down and habitually crossing one leg over the other and lacing his fingers together upon his lap. “I cannot claim to know this jeweler I am afraid; tea would be splendid, thank you.”  

          Arthur allows the request to breathe a moment, before continuing their conversation on an incidental basis: eager to brush at least one matter from their minds early. “I am not of human disposition myself despite all appearances, so if we could kindly dispense with any usual inclinations and customs reserved for mortals that would be most appreciated. Otherwise, I would be happy to know how I might refer to you in turn.”

“Oh, I may, may I?” Her tone was less acrid than it had been before he stepped into the home, though her lighter humor still came off incredibly dry. Cerise was not quite in a hostessing mood, but she wasn’t a complete monster. In fact, she was morbidly curious as to what trouble Alastair had gotten himself into (might have been easier to list the crimes he had not committed) and perhaps as to why the witch council had not deigned to step in on anyone’s behalf. “Well, Arthur, let me get working on that for you.”

She could have tea made in an instant, but she considered it a frivolous expenditure of energy, although faster tea would mean faster conversation, and all the better for the witch to return to... whatever she had been doing prior.

Cerise raised an eyebrow at his comments. Not human? That might explain the uncertainty of his aura, more than mere indifference towards her. Most sentient beings, whether or not they were mortal, had the capacity for these emotions, although admittedly she hadn’t encountered many in her time here. Most witches and their kin were skilled at disguising their true feelings, guarding their hearts by necessity. “If you are suggesting that I might... attempt to charm you by unnatural means, I would say that I am wounded you don’t find me charming enough on my own,” she said with a hint of a smirk spilling over her lips. “No, unless you are suggesting this attempt at hospitality is proving tedious, which I will grant you. I am not myself as of late.”

      She bids him not to pay the creature much mind, though its unique nature and admittedly somewhat restless disposition do make that request difficult to adhere to. He would almost be tempted to confirm his supposition with regard to its role in matters here, as well as invite discourse with the entity directly, were it not for the fact that common courtesy would rather see that he respects the request otherwise made of him. Perchance at a later point in their conversation, then. 

      He directs a polite, accommodating smile back in the witch’s direction before nodding curtly to reconfirm his offered information. Rhetorical questioning aside, he would rather state every notion plainly here, and leave no room for misunderstandings between them. It was a terrible business to have to repair relations with any manner of fae, one always seemed to have to work twice as hard for half the good will once the damage was done. And so Arthur maintains his own respectable airs, not seeking to lay blame where he had never believed it due.

      “You shall not see any accusation from my person, rather I am inclined to believe we share the same cause in this regard. One of general animosity towards this mutual acquaintance of ours.” A shared sentiment established, bestial companion included, he tilted his head slightly in grateful acquiescence to her implied invitation. He was cautious of presuming much regardless of what had seemed to him an open offer, leaving to her the decision on whether to lead him inside. “I would find this course most agreeable, yes. If it is of comfort, I do not aim to tarry.”

     He would not keep her from her business, much as he had his own to attend to elsewhere. A few simple questions, perchance a spot of tea and he would be on his way again with what he hoped would be a valuable measure of information. This would be the intention, at the very least, were he not to be offered distraction by way of idle discourse on the arcane arts. It had been some time since he had been hosted even for an afternoon occasion by one so intimately tied to that realm.

“Hah! Animosity is a word for it.” Cerise had yet to be otherwise social today (or much this week, come to think of it), and so her conversational skills were not exactly as sparkling as those times when she clearly wanted something from someone. Witches always had a different way of understanding emotions than their mortal counterparts, but a witch without her heart had little to no conversational compass at all. Empathy was a powerful thing.

No wonder she needed to steal it from others to sustain her magicks.

“You may choose not to tarry due to lack of comfort, but come in,” she said, throwing the wooden door open wider to beckon the gentleman caller inside. Sunlight filtered across the threshold, and motes danced in the bright beams as Cerise moved deeper into the cottage. The home was strangely decorated (if the witch’s clutter was actually placed with purpose) though it was not wholly unpleasant or in a state of disrepair. It simply seemed that as of late she’d taken less of an interest in minimal organization.

Cerise released Brindille to the floor, and the ferret quickly skittered towards a plush footstool she claimed for a favorite. The interior of the home was surprisingly colorful, despite several browning flowers in cheerful ceramic pots. In the furthest corner, a splintered wooden broom rested in the nook between a chair and the wall. Nearby, a stone fireplace was dotted with dried herbs in jars, and a light dusting of soot ringed the black iron cauldron suspended therein. Shelves of books flanked the living room, containing in equal measure actual volumes of spells and histories as well as trinkets like crystals and talismans of a sort- these are what she had brought with her from the witch world before her banishment, certainly hard to compare to any one mortal culture. A large spider had taken up residence on the ceiling and by its expansive web, it would seem the witch had come to an agreement with it.

At one time in the past, this home might have been much cleaner and perhaps much livelier with magic and animate movement, but in her current state, Cerise was preoccupied with conserving her power- weakened spells were almost more embarrassing than foregoing magic altogether.

“I suppose,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder at the stranger, “I should ask who you are that you should have some business with Mr. Quitely. For your information, I haven’t seen him in several years. Oh! If you know the jeweler from whom he got the engagement ring-”

Cerise moved to scoop Brindille’s footstool out of the way of the man, offering him the matching seat that hosted several mismatched pillows.

The unmistakable squeak of some sort of rodent creature does admittedly catch his attention in that brief interlude, lending to him several educated guesses on the potential source. Regardless there is not time enough to dwell on his suppositions before the wooden door creaks open to reveal an unfamiliar face regarding him from the resulting gap; certainly a bearing one could call bewitching, though that in itself was hardly of surprise to him. His whole life had he bartered, dealt and dallied with fae of myriad natures and origin; such an encounter was no more strange to him than an engagement with the local grocer. That a witch may bear features with which she could draw in unsuspecting locals to one disagreeable fate or another was a tale as old as time.

“Potentially.” Arthur answers, honestly. A skittering motion near her feet momentarily redirects his focus - aforementioned source. As he suspected, that entity most certainly was not merely a kept house ferret. Symbiosis permeated the air like a thick malaise, merging unseen energies as a river converges two streams that feed it. Though its current runs with languid impotence, as though sapped of volume and momentum, the remaining trickle toiling through the landscape pebbles and mud that once painted the riverbed with limpid waters. As though the once eager spring set proudly at its source had since run dry. A burden that would seem shared between these two vessels, and the pieces slowly begin to fall into place. 

“I am here regarding a matter you might hold with pertinent interest, on behalf of a party currently experience grievance with one Alastair Quitely. I understand you may have some familiarity with the name?”

The man didn’t seem familiar to her in the least- for one thing, he seemed to have a touch more dignity about him than most of the folk in the nearest town. Perhaps closer to the urban centers of the country, with a bit of wealth to him. Those types rarely made their way to her, but on the odd chance they did, it was usually for some sort of spell or potion or boon. Cerise certainly wasn’t in a position to turn down a customer, but she didn’t exactly have the greatest variety to offer.

With Brindille climbing around her feet, eager to perhaps meet the stranger, the witch could do nothing but sigh and reach down to scoop the beast into her arms. Cerise cradled the familiar a bit firmly, as if to bid the creature to stay put. “Pay her no mind,” she said with an airy breath of exasperation. Thankfully, Brindille seemed content to lounge in her arms, the agitated squeaks calming to quiet.

“Ah, is that what you understand?” Cerise’s back stiffened at the name, wondering where Alastair was running about to cause someone to come looking for her. That the man was causing grievances was little surprise to her- a mortal taking a witch’s heart (never mind that it was freely given at first) and making deals with a devil did not exactly give an air of confidence in any matter. No benevolence to be found in his newfound magic, or else he might have simply directed Cerise’s own talents in a productive manner. She drew her lips together into a tart line but did her best to soften herself for the stranger calling.

heorte.

— Wiltshire, July 1831 —

Es ist ein Problem, Arthur. Er ist einen von deinen, Sie werden eine gewisse Verantwortung übernehmen müssen.

        Although it could have been worded with a diminished degree of condescension regarding his person, he could not deny the truth in Roderich’s evaluation. Further to the point there had always been a naturally occurring expectation that he ought to offer insight regarding any supernatural source of grievance for those in his association less able in the realm. He could also hardly begrudge the request for assistance from that household, given their recent tragedy. One could say he even owed them the favour, given their admirable conduct during the wars on the continent. Still a favour this was in fundamental nature, his own thoughts rather preoccupied with his recent appointment by the Admiralty to a consulting position with an expedition due to depart in September. A long voyage away from the tempestuous trifles of home could serve his constitution well, he could hardly find it in him to deny… 

         Regardless, he had at present found himself out here in the country for other matters; those that necessitated a differing frame of mind. Certainly a nostalgic one, he considers as he waves his coachman off and addresses the quaint little cottage before him. Thick shocks of ivy crawling up uneven layers of cobbled stone, the hum of bumblebees busying themselves with the sweet kiss of fresh nectar, vibrant petals bathed in the luminescence of radiant sunshine. It all made for a rather picturesque scene, almost as though something from an old fairytale. Rather fitting, if his central hypothesis and its accompanying theories conjoined with material reality. This encounter would demand of him a certain measure of tact, and no small degree of patience if he were to assume the situation correctly. He’s not as young as he was, once: the years have been long since he last embroiled himself in the whims of fantasy. 

         With this thought idly percolating in his conscience, Arthur raised and succinctly tapped the metal knocker against the door’s wooden surface. Twice. Before standing attentively in place, bedecked and looking somewhat the part of a distinguished gentleman who may have taken a wrong turn on the road to his countryside estate. 

                     “Pardon the intrusion. Is there anyone here?”

A dry spell, she had told her usual customers, who were disappointed with the summer’s paltry yield. This would have been infinitely more truthful had there been any spell involved at all, but she was quite out of luck in that regard as well. A damn and downright embarrassing shame, as Cerise found herself considerably disadvantaged without ownership of her heart.

How was she supposed to have known the elders were serious regarding the effects of losing one’s heart, and to a mortal no less. They had always seemed so... dramatic. Grandiose. And perhaps more shameful still, if the lack of viable product were not to do her in, then the change in public sentiment seeing that the girl had lost an engagement to a rather kind man would seal her fate. Whose fault, they could not say for certain, but that did not stop the village gossips from making their most uneducated guesses.

She saw the way their hearts changed for her- some taking on this horrible slate grey hue, which she suspected was some form of pity. She’d never tried to distill pity into anything usable, partway between sadness and disdain. In a desperate move, she had resorted to harvesting the admiration of some of her more noteworthy clients simply to make a water charm to keep the plants in her garden from drying out in the summer months. But losing the respect of a few dedicated clients in exchange for magic was better than losing everyone as her herbs curled and browned (tending sensitive witching herbs was more frustrating than she cared to admit- her green thumb had all but been lopped off at the knuckle).

And poor Brindille, you’d think the poor creature was going to be trussed up and skinned for her fur, the way she moped about the cottage, limp like a faded rose. The familiar wove between Cerise’s feet as she skirted to the door, surprised by the sudden rapping at the wood. Another disappointed customer-in-waiting, likely. The witch (could she even rightly call herself such?) swept her foot to brush the ferret aside, the act of which was met with an indignant squeak. Brindille was as much tied the missing heart as the woman, their combined magic severely stifled. And they were both miserable company.