#witchly

               “The Master was very excited to hear that you had accepted his request.” The man went on, a polite smile sketched on his face.

               “I’m sure he was.” She rolled her eyes.

               “He has been looking forward to your visit for a long time. It will be a welcome distraction from the Madame’s condition.”

               “Condition?” She asked, voice monotone, as she internally cursed the very concept of small talk.

               “The Madame is quite… sensitive to illnesses. This time she has worried herself into a fever.”

               “Has she always been like that?” Tamsin eyed the painting leering at her from the wall.

               “Since I have been here, yes.” The man stopped and opened the door beside them. “Sir, Witch Grey is here to see you.”

               “Perfect! Send her in!” Tamsin gave the butler a polite nod and stepped inside. She immediately regretted it. The warped sight of hexed and cursed tomes and books turned her stomach, nausea creeping up her throat.

               “Witch Grey! It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you!” The Master of the house (Mr. Hayden? Payden?) reached out for a handshake and Tamsin wanted to puke. The ring on his hand was leeching his soul, its metaphorical fangs sunk deep into his flesh.

               “It’s good to meet you too.” She took his hand, gave it one shake, and let go immediately. The ring snapped at her fingers. “I am here for what reason?”

               “It started as a curiosity about your craft. However, my wife has recently fallen ill and the doctors have no idea why.” Mr. Layton (?) turned and sat on one of the sofa chairs. He scooped up his glass, filled with something amber, before gesturing to the chair in front of him.

               “Your butler told me about that.” Tamsin sat on the edge of the seat before slipping a thin box out of her pocket. “He believes that it is simply stress from worry.”

               “Yes, that is what the last doctor told us. They prescribed bedrest and fever medication a week ago, but her condition has only worsened. You smoke?” Mr. Landon (?) blinked at the thin pipe she took out.

               “No.” The pipe began releasing a thin line of smoke that ringed around her. “Where is your wife now?”

               “Upstairs in bed.” Mr. Pandon (?) frowned as the smoke started filling the space.

               “May I meet with her?” Tamsin held the pipe like one would hold a pencil.

               “She’s very sensitive to things like cigarette smoke.” He eyed her pipe.

               “Oh, no worries. This isn’t tobacco.” She stood up, the pipe still in her hand.

               Mr. Pendon (?) tried to protest politely for a moment before giving up. He led her up the flight of stairs, his frown deepening as more and more smoke trailed around his home. He opened the door to the master suite with a sigh.

               Tamsin felt a forlorn kind of anger fill her as she took in the poor woman in the bed. She was dressed in what looked to be a lace nightgown with a large golden necklace fixed around her neck. The thing looked like it would have been a piece of art in the early 1800s, but now it looked gaudy as hell. What was particularly enraging, however, was the curse gorging itself on her energy like a man given a feast after eating gruel all his life.

               “Who gave her this necklace?” Tamsin asked, perching on the side of the bed.

               “It was my anniversary gift to her. She loves it.” Mr. Pembon (?) puffed up in pride.

               “Madame?” Tamsin smiled down at the woman. “Could we talk?”

               The woman mumbled something unintelligible.

               “Oh, Penny.” Mr. Penbrook (?) sighed. Tamsin frowned and placed a hand on Penny’s forehead.

               “Mrs. Penny, could we talk?” The woman’s eyes opened.

               “Braydon?” Her breath wheezed.

               “Penny!” The Master (Braydon! Of course!) rushed over. Tamsin shifted so he could see her better.

               “Mrs. Penny, how long have you had this necklace on?” She met Penny’s eyes.

               “Since it was given to me.” Penny’s voice was warbled and rough.

               “Have you ever taken it off?” Tamsin shifted to avoid Braydon’s ring as he grabbed at Penny’s hand.

               “No.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “I didn’t want to.”

               “Hm. That would be the spell controlling you.” Tamsin eyed the curse biting at her throat. “I know what is hurting you, Mrs. Penny. Do I have your permission to remove it?”

               “Yes.”

               The necklace didn’t like being removed.

               The metal screamed the second she touched it, lashing out at her with claws bared. As soon as the curse sunk its fangs into her fingers smoke exploded out of the pipe Tamsin had placed in her mouth. The smoke curled around the curse with a ferocity alike to a parent protecting their child. The smoke surrounded the curse and smothered it back into the necklace, dulling the scream. A second later Tamsin had the necklace off and wrapped in a handkerchief.

               “Wh-what the hell?!” Braydon had crouched over Penny’s stomach when the smoke had leapt at her.

               “Thank you, Shane,” Tamsin whispered as the smoke trailed around her. “I will be taking this as my payment.”

               “My necklace?” Penny’s voice shook, the sound stronger already.

               “Yes. If you want some advice I’ll take that ring too, sir.” Tamsin waved at Braydon’s hand.

               “What?” He growled.

               “Braydon.” Penny mumbled. After a second he took the ring off and dropped it in the handkerchief.

               “Magical folk never give away their charmed artifacts. Those are passed down from Mentor to Apprentice. Any ‘magic artifacts’ you would find in antiques stores or flea markets are cursed. Your ‘collection’ is cursed.” Tamsin folded up the handkerchief. “I suggest you get rid of it.”

               She stood up and stretched, ignoring Braydon’s pale expression.

               “Our transaction is complete. I will see myself out.” She made her way to the door. “Goodbye.”

               As she made her way out the smoke followed her. Every corner it had found its way into was cleared of any trace of it. She waved off the butler and left without a backward glance.

               She smiled when a weight settled itself around her shoulders. Her pipe stopped smoking.

               <He probably won’t do it.> The cat around her neck purred in her ear.

               “True, obsessive people rarely give up what they see as theirs.” She put her pipe away. “Hopefully she leaves though. She deserves better.”