Most witches’ cottages had some unique quirk or other about them. Some had giant chicken legs with which they could roam the swamps and forests, or were infested with sentient furniture and dancing rodents. A few were made of candy to lure unwary children, but that was less common nowadays and considered to be in poor taste. For Aggie, the truly unique and bizarre thing about her cottage was the utter normalcy of it. It was so normal that a human could probably live there comfortably for quite some time without ever realising they were in a witch’s abode. So long as they stayed out of the basement. Even Aggie stayed out of the basement.

Her morning had been the usual rat race. She picked up the winner, snipped off its tail, and tossed the wriggling appendage into her cauldron. The rest of the rat she tossed to her goblin assistant Monkey. Her pet monkey, Goblin, dropped from the rafters and tried to snatch it away, but Monkey was already cramming it into his mouth.

A few more ingredients went into the pot. Mandrake julienne, yolk of a rabbit’s egg, salt and pepper to taste. She huffed as she realised she had no eye-of-newt. The last delivery from the Jungle Continent had messed up her order and contained only an entire jar of Olms, a type of eyeless salamander with absolutely no magical properties. One of Monkey’s dried gecko snacks would have to do.

While the mixture simmered she went outside to tend the herb garden gardeners. The little sentient stickmen had been doing a fine job, but they required regular pruning to keep them in line. Something about imbuing them with life had given them unhelpful ideas about fairness and freedom, and if she didn’t cut them down regularly they were bound to rebel, or worse, they might form a union. Everyone knew sticks were harder to break when they were bundled together.

After stripping the little creatures of their budding will to resist, she went back inside. The broth was smelling deliciously terrible and most of its contents had stopped moving. She ladled some into a bowl and set it down at the kitchen table next to her tea. There was nothing exotic or disturbing about the tea, just hot water, a few leaves and a spoon of bloodhoney.

While she enjoyed her breakfast, Agrathea thought about the day ahead. There was always so much to do. Unlike your average vampire or necromancer she didn’t have thralls and zombies to do it for her. It would be nice to have a little help, even if it meant sacrificing some of her independence and a few innocents. She had Monkey of course, but he was getting old and they’d never really overcome the language barrier, particularly since she’d cut out his tongue. At a signal from her the goblin took away her dishes and trundled off to the river.

She looked at Goblin, hanging from the wall with his tail wrapped around the horn of a ram skull. “Maybe I should stop working so much and take a trip somewhere? Or spend some more time with the coven? Maybe one of the girls knows a nice eligible warlock!” Goblin said nothing, as usual. Agrathea sighed. She took a seat at her writing desk, slipped on a silver ink-claw and reviewed her to-do list, striking out some items and scribbling extra notes.

Second hour – wash feathers

Third hour – potion prep, garden

Fourth hour – curse review

Fifth hour –deliveries and shopping. Abagail 2 x Cough Syrup, 1 x Plant Growth. Newts!

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Sixth hour – lunch with Nightshade

Seventh hour – bottle new orders. Cyril 1 x Slipperiness, 1 x Hardness

Eighth hour – walk Goblin

Ninth hour – free. Reactivate Sinder profile?

Tenth hour – dinner and scry

Eleventh hour – spank Monkey

With another sigh, this one much deeper and longer, she opened a drawer and removed a sheaf of papers. She flipped through them, meticulously ticking off each and every curse that was still in effect, making notes along the way and occasionally marking one for removal. It was a tedious job but good records were necessary. People were so litigious these days, you couldn’t just curse someone without justification, and you had to have it in writing or else the mobs would accuse you of all sorts of nonsense.

She was nearly finished when she looked out the window and saw Goblin returning, dragging something grey and lumpy behind him.

* * *

Mycal gagged as the foul liquid was poured into his mouth.

“Swallow it!”

He obeyed, forcing himself to take a sip. It trickled down his throat and a wonderful warmth spread through his frayed and fish-bitten body. He could feel his mycelium thrumming with new energy, the invigorated fibres starting to thread his torn flesh together. Other strands dug down into the soil beneath him, drawing up vital nutrients and sucking up as much moisture as they could. New tissue grew to fill out the damaged areas so quickly that he forgot the terrible taste of the potion and gulped the rest down eagerly. It was like magic.

“It’s magic,” said the voice, and there was something familiar about it. The potion continued its work, and within minutes he felt a new pair of eyes sprout in their sockets. He opened them carefully, the world a blur as the fresh tissue struggled to focus. There was a face looking down at him, rimmed with dark feathers. A beautiful face with dark lips and diamond eyes. He gasped.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was icy cold, colder even than the river after his skin had been eaten away by the trout and salmon. In all his daydreaming about what might happen if he actually found her again, Mycal had never considered that she might not be happy to see him. Indeed, she seemed decidedly unhappy, possibly even hostile. All those old stories about witches came flooding back and he briefly wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake in seeking her out. But she was so pretty.

“I…ahhh…we…” he stuttered, trying to think of something to say as he slowly sat up and looked down at his restored body. “How did you do that?”

“I said it’s magic. Now what are you doing here?” He’d never really thought about what he’d say if he found her, assuming it would just come to him when he needed it. Now she was here in front of him, tapping her foot, hands on hips, and it certainly didn’t look welcoming. She might even be casting another curse. Curse? Curse! Yes! Ask about her interests! That was a good opening.

“Sooo…did you curse me?”

She visibly flinched and her voice jumped an octave. “Whaaat? Nooo…” She waved a hand dismissively. “Is that why you’re here? You think I cursed you? That wasn’t a curse. Not a real one. I mean…technically maybe some elements of the spell could be interpreted as a curse, but really, it was a blessing, right? If anything I did you a favour.”

“I thought witches don’t do blessings?”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what would you know about witches, huh? You couldn’t even talk to me when we met. Anyway I just saved your life! Grateful much?”

“Oh…yes. I…ummm…thank you. That was very kind of you.”

She tossed her head, looking away from him. “Yeh, well, that potion was meant for a customer.”

“I can pay! I brought mushrooms!” He reached down to his hip pouch and found it was gone. “Oh…I must have lost them in the river…ahh…but if you give me a few days I can grow some more!”

“Not everything is about mushrooms you know?” She looked back at him. “If you want to return the favour, there’s only one ingredient I need to make a replacement. Do you know what a Minotaur is?”

Mycal nodded slowly. “Yes, of course I do. But how am I supposed to kill a…”

“You don’t have to kill anything. I just need its dung.”

He looked at the empty potion bottle.

“It was a Potion of Plant Growth. Best not to think about it too much.”

“Ahhh…thanks. I won’t.” This wasn’t exactly how Mycal had hoped their meeting would go, but he’d take what he could get. “Do you have a bucket?”