Whitney Writes…

The dried herb leaves crinkled pleasantly beneath her fingers as she sprinkled them into the shimmering marble basin of her mortar. Picking up her pestle, she began to grind the leaves in a circular, clockwise – always clockwise – motion. It was the most basic task in her routine of potion brewing and spell conjuring, but it was the most enjoyable part for Agatha.

Adding the dry ingredients to the clear liquid already roiling in her clear, crystal cauldron, a puff of lavender steam rose up into the air. The air shimmered in front of Agatha, the sweet scent of Juniper needles and Hyacinth petals swirling in her nose. A low hum escaped her lips as she became further lost in her work.

She had been alone so long in her stone house in her woods, that she often got lost in tasks for hours. A task that could, at times, take her moments, could take her hours at other times. She did not need to fret over keeping track of time, not that she had ever had to fret over that to begin with. Time moved differently in her realm, for witches; it crept along at a snail’s pace. If she were caught up in the hustle and bustle of standard mortal time, however would she be able to perform her spellcrafts to keep the silly humans safe? She would not, that was how. It was that simple.

A hostile chirupping sounded from her work bench, not far from her hand. Agatha glanced over and saw her fire-gecko glaring at her, its spiked brows furrowed in her direction. Alright, she thought, so not quite alone. The fire-gecko – Islette – let out a warble of acceptance. She rolled her eyes at her familiar.

A forlorn-hoot echoed in the window bay across the room and Agatha looked over her shoulder at the snowy-white owl on its perch.

“You as well?” she asked. The owl – Fenrick – hooted again, fluffing his wings, blinking his golden eyes slowly at her. “Clearly I did not mean alone-alone,” Agatha clarified in a huff. “I would be entitled to some peace and quiet, then,” she added under her breath.

Fenrick squawked and Islette scorched Agatha’s pinky finger.

Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “Stay out and mind yourselves, then,” she said haughtily to the pair of them.

Turning a dial on the iron base of the cauldron, Agatha lowered the flame to allow the potion to continue to simmer overnight. After enchanting her favorite wooden spoon to occasionally stir the brew throughout the night, Agatha decided it was time to retire to bed. She opened the window in which Fenrick was perched, allowing him to come and go as he pleased. As for Islette, well, Agatha was never quite certain how the fire-gecko managed to come and go, but she did. That only left Jacques, the black cat. After a thorough search of her downstairs, Agatha could not locate the cat.

Finally giving up, assuming he had managed to escape past her when she wasn’t paying attention, Agatha began to extinguish the lights downstairs. The downstairs filled with a pleasant haze, the smoky scent signally to Agatha’s brain that it was indeed time to rest. The wooden steps creaked as Agatha climbed up them to her bedroom on the second floor. She threw open the circular window on the landing so the smoky haze would not follow her up.

The wooden-shingled roof of Agatha’s stone house came up to a quirky, twisting point, much like a common witch’s hat, though it was off-center. Her bedroom was centered on this point, and the middle of her ceiling rose up into a matching, twisting point. Her four-poster bed was centered on this point, as well, with deep purple hangings descending from the ceiling, enveloping her bed. There were six walls to her bedroom – no one ever questioned the inner workings of a witch’s house – and four of the six were dotted with windows. The windows remained covered at all times, however, for they did not look out onto the surrounding forest in which Agatha resided. Instead, the windows looked out to the four corners of the realm of which Agatha watched over. She thought it a stupid parlor trick, she could feel how her realm was at all times, she did not need to see it. So covered they remained.

Jacques was curled among the pillows of Agatha’s bed. Because of course he was. He had earned the right to be absent from her spellcrafting – barring her working on something big – as he had been with her the longest. His bones were getting weary. It was not common for a witch to lose a familiar, but Jacques had been an old cat when he came to her all those years ago. She watched him stretch in his sleep, his toes spreading far apart, his white nails flexing. Caressing his soft cheek as she passed, Jacques gave a startled little trill of a meow.

After a short time, changed into her nightgown, Agatha crawled into her bed, curling around Jacques. He purred happily, never once opening those emerald eyes.

In the night, Agatha dreamed of strange things. Nothing she could solidly identify, she just knew they made her feel in an uncomfortable way. And she was not certain if it was because of what the things she dreamt of were, or if it was the woman that was watching her. The woman had flaming red hair, skin as pale as ice, and eyes like sapphires. She never moved, never spoke, but she was always facing Agatha and those eyes of hers were always watching.

When Agatha woke in the early moments of dawn, just before the first sun rays reached over the horizon, her skin was damp with a cold sweat and Jacques was sitting at the foot of the bed, hissing towards one of the windows. It felt as though the floor fell out from beneath her when his thought entered her mind, reverberating around.

TRESPASSER!

Jacques hissed again, his back arching, his fur standing up in a mohawk down his back.

Agatha did not need another warning. She threw back the bedcovers, hastily pulled her arms through the sleeves of her dressing gown, and jumped from her bed. Throwing back the heavy velvet curtain of the northeastern window, she began to swirl her hands before her, muttering under her breath, pulling magic from the air. Metallic clinks and clanks sounded from the window as Jacques stalked closer to her, lending Agatha his power for whatever lay beyond.

Shouting the final word of her spell, she threw her arms wide, the glass windows flying open back into the room and a blast of icy air enveloped Agatha. Jacques hissed again, the hiss turning to a howl. She threw up her arms to shield her face from the icy blast.

The wind abated just as quickly as it had arose. There were no further sounds.

Cautiously, Agatha lowered her arms. There was nothing there. She dropped her arms to her sides.

Jacques was still hissing, however.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked quietly, looking down at the cat in concern. He had never been wrong before.

Look, Jacques insisted.

Pulling the fur collar of her dressing gown tighter about her neck, Agatha pursed her lips and sighed indulgently, moving towards the open window with a glance down at Jacques. Outside, in the frigid landscape, Agatha saw nothing. She heard nothing. Snow blew, smudging the line of distant pines, but there was no further movement nor sound.

Down, Jacques insisted again when Agatha was about to move away from the window.

Without turning, so Jacques wouldn’t see, Agatha rolled her eyes. She stuck her head out of the window, looking left, and then right – enjoying the enchantment that allowed her to see the landscape behind her house, the stone sides disappearing around the window – and finally downwards.

“Now you’re just being -” the word absurd died in her throat, she nearly choked on it, as her eyes fell upon the small basket sitting on the rocky ledge below the window. The ledge that would not exist were she not within her house. The window ledge that was roughly ten feet in the air.

The basket was filled with a woolen cloth. Hesitantly, Agatha reached down and touched it, her heart hammering in her chest. It was soft. She pulled it back and her heart stopped entirely.

In the basket was a baby. A baby with a shock of flame red hair on it’s pale head.