There was no tea. Instead Aggie sat him down on a stool and handed him a towel. “For the spores,” she said, then without warning stabbed a claw into his back, tearing free a pair of bulbous portobellos. He yelped in surprised delight. “The towel, Mycal.”

“Oh, sorry.” He held the cloth up to his gills, trying to catch as much of his spore as he could. She continued working at the sizable bloom on his back, and it was all over far too quickly.

“Not a bad haul,” said Aggie as she laid them out on a windowsill to dry. “Do you think you could hybridise the white and black buttons?”

Mycal had finished wiping himself down and was checking the floor for any patches he’d missed. “I can try.” Satisfied that he’d left nothing behind, he stood up and asked, “Does that mean you want me to stay?”

“We can trial it, if you like? It’s very convenient having mushrooms on tap, and you don’t seem like bad company. Honestly it’s been pretty lonely out here since the…well…let’s just say there used to be a lot more witches around here. Those of us left only manage to get together once in a blue moon.”

“Once a month doesn’t sound so bad? We just had Silver Moonday, so isn’t Blue Moonday next week?”

“Yeh, it’ll be nice to let off some steam. We do a different ritual each month throughout the year, and this time it’s the Steaming Man. It can get pretty hectic.”

“That’s nice. It’s nice that you have hobbies. It doesn’t do to just work all the time.”

“Speaking of work…Monkey could use a hand with his daily chores. He’s getting old. Could you do me a favour and help him out?”

Mycal recalled the way Monkey had looked at him on the boat. There was something not quite right about that goblin, but it wouldn’t do to start arguing with Aggie when she had essentially just offered him a place to stay and stable employment. “Ahh…sure.” He looked out the window at where Monkey was splitting wood with an axe. “Is he…right? In the head?”

“He’s a goblin, Mycal. Of course not. But he’s fine so long as you don’t mention the war.”

“Which war?”

“That’s good, stick with that.” She walked over to a shelf and started pulling a selection of live rats from a row of tiny cages. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to brew a potion base for today’s orders.”

As he was leaving Mycal noticed a white door at the rear of the kitchen. “Where does that go?”

“That,” she said, stepping between Mycal and the door, “is nothing. Nothing to worry about at all.” She put a hand behind her back and seemed to be doing something with her hand. There was a yelp from outside. ”Oh, no! I think Monkey’s hurt himself. You’d better go help him.”

* * *

Mycal found he quite enjoyed staying with Aggie. They had settled into a routine that would start every morning with a quick pluck, harvesting the new sprouts that had appeared overnight. Sometimes she would draw it out, taking her time with each bulb. Occasionally she would lead him out into the forest to a gully or a small cave, in the hopes his spores might fertilise some of the more mundane mushroom variants and create interesting new species.

He would send most of the daylight hours with Monkey, learning how to maintain the property and free up Aggie’s time for her potions and other witchly duties. She would often disappear during the day, doing her deliveries or hunting down rare ingredients. He had yet to see exactly how she travelled, always vanishing when he had his back turned or blinked for too long.

Finally Blue Moonday rolled around. Aggie had spent most of the afternoon rifling through a chest of clothing, trying on different outfits while Mycal sat on a stool and offered his assessment of each combination.

“The second black top goes really well with the fourth black skirt. But neither works with the first black scarf. I really like the black boots though.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“The ones with the black laces?”

“No the ones with the black buckles.”

“What about a jacket?”

“Probably something black?”

“With black buttons?”

“Yeh that would work.”

Eventually she was happy with the combination they’d chosen and started working on her hair and makeup. He wasn’t much use there, but enjoyed watching her gradual transformation.

“So there will be other witches at your coven meeting?”

“Almost exclusively. There might be a few warlocks who identify as witches, we’re very welcoming as long as they’re genuine. Occasionally we get some weirdo who is only interested in the after-orgy and probably isn’t very evil at all. We weed those ones out pretty quickly.”

“Umm…orgy?”

“Yeh it’s part of the final Ritual of the Hollow Soul. It’s supposed to connect us to each other and satisfy some of our baser needs. It helps to…” her voice changed, becoming heavily accented and carefully articulated “inure us against dangerous emotional connections, like…ahh…”

“Like what?”

“Let’s just say it stops us seeking out unhealthy relationships.”

“Oh. Yes, you don’t want those.”

She put her hand mirror down and turned to face him. “How do I look.”

“Like a nightmare.”

“Aww, thanks.”

* * *

She left Mycal in the study where he was helpfully packing a travel bag full of potions. Entering the kitchen she saw Monkey and Goblin sprawled on the floor, hands clutching their bloated bellies and surrounded by muffin crumbs. The tray she had baked that morning and left to cool on the bench was completely empty.

“Oh my gourd are you serious?” She kicked Monkey in the side. He groaned and tried to roll away from her, winding up on top of Goblin who wailed pitifully from under him. “You two really are the worst! What the hell am I going to take to share with the girls? I should turn you both into aphids and dump you in the garden.”

Mycal walked in as she was scouring the pantry for something to replace the illicitly consumed muffins.

“Is everything okay?”

“No it’s not okay! These two miserable mop-buckets ate the entire tray of muffins I made for the murder.”

Mycal stared at the two bodies writhing on the floor, mouth-slit agape in what was probably the mushroom-equivalent of horror. “Muffins…for a murder? They were poisoned? Are they dying?!” He knelt beside Goblin, unsure what to do.

“What? Why would they be dying?”

“Because they ate your murder muffins.”

“They did but no, they are not dying! They’re just greedy and stupid! The muffins were for the murder, not a murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“My murder! The murder I’ve spent all day preparing for!” Mycal was backing away from her slowly, obviously looking for a way out. “Mycal, just calm down okay? A murder is a gathering of witches. You know, the party I’m going to.”

“I thought that was a coven.”

“The coven is the group, the murder is the gathering.”

“Ahh…okay…I think I understand.” He let out a small sigh. “So no one is getting murdered? That’s a relief.”

“Oh…well actually yes there will be quite a few. It’s not a murder without some murder, though it’s considered polite to refer to it as sacrifice. Steaming Man, remember?”

“What’s the difference? You’re still killing people!”

“Nooo it’s not like that. I’m not killing them. It’s really fate that kills them, fate and the steam. We’re just there to like…set things up? Giant wicker birds don’t build themselves.”

“Wicker?”

“Like…a woven basket? You have those right?”

“Yes, we do. So…you steam people in giant bird baskets then have an orgy.”

“Orgy first, then the steaming. And before all that we eat and drink and gossip for a few hours, except…” she spun around to face the prostrate forms of Monkey and Goblin, “SOME STUPID IDIOTS ATE ALL OF MY MUFFINS!”

Despite the afternoon sun shining through the kitchen window, it was suddenly very dark. Shadows seemed to unfold from every dim corner and crevice, filling the room with an oppressive darkness that drained all colour and hope from everything it touched. Aggie felt it wrapping around her, heard the crows at the back of her mind getting louder and more insistent, demanding she tear flesh and pluck eyeballs. She took a step toward Monkey, lips curled and eyes flashing with bloody vengeance.

Something moved between her and the defenceless goblin. It was speaking gently, saying her name, offering calming words that she could barely hear through the caws and kraas. A hand touched her shoulder, spongey but firm, and instinct sent her claws lashing out. There was a gasp of shock and pain, but the hand stayed, then another grasped her other shoulder and shook her softly.

“Aggie! Aggie! Stop! Please stop! You’re scaring me!” The shadows retreated for a split second and she saw a funny little face with huge, pleading eyes filled with tears. “Aggie please! It’s me, Mycal!”

“Mr…Mushroom? Mycal?” She shook her head, tried to focus on silencing the crows. The shadows contracted, then she let out a deep breath and the last remnants of darkness flaked away like a peeling rust. Sunlight and colour returned to the small room. “Mycal?” she said again, then noticed his chest. “Oh my gourd! Oh my gourd!” The pulpy flesh had three long, deep gashes running from shoulder to hip, oozing a murky white liquid that ran all the way down one leg and was rapidly pooling on the floor. “No no no! Not again! Oh my gourd I am so sorry.”

Mycal was smiling wanly at her, seemingly oblivious to the horrific wounds. He swayed slightly, then one leg buckled and he fell. She tried to catch him but he was heavier than she expected. He slipped from her arms, hitting the floor with a thud and a whimper. Aggie fell to her knees beside him, unable to stop the bloody tears. They dripped onto the floor, mixing with Mycal’s lifesap and the crumbs of her murder muffins while she cursed herself and every mistake she had ever made.