The cellar of the abandoned hardware store smelled of damp cardboard and old iron, which Drusilla found deeply comforting. She sat crosslegged on a dusty rug, humming a tuneless little lullaby as she sorted through her pockets.
A pile of small, peculiar treasures grew beside her knee.
"There now," she whispered to a particularly shiny button. "Don’t you cry. The dark things are sleepy today."
With a soft giggle, she scooped up her haul into the hem of her velvet skirt and skipped upstairs. It was time to feed her flock.
In the library, Giles rubbed his temples, squinting over a crumbling Latin grimoire. A shadow fell across the page.
He looked up to see Drusilla peering down at him, her head tilted at an impossible angle, like a doll with a broken neck. Eyes gleamed with manic affection.
"Drusilla," Giles said cautiously, "Is there… can I help you with something?"
Without a word, Drusilla reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, jagged stone with a perfectly smooth hole straight through the middle, and dropped it right on top of the Latin text.
Giles blinked at it. "A hagstone?"
"For the peek a boo witches," Drusilla murmured, patting the back of his hand with cold, fluttering fingers. "So they don't suck out your good eye while you're reading your scary stories. Keep it in your waistcoat, old man. Or the little grey men will wear your socks."
Before Giles could formulate a single syllable, she spun around on her heel and fluttered away, her dark skirts whispering against the floorboards.
Giles stared at the empty doorway, then down at the stone. He sighed, picked it up, and slid it into his pocket. "...Right then," he muttered to himself
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