A hazy scent of honeysuckle and lilac drifted over the large basement kitchen of Abigail Selby’s home. She bustled back and forth between two large kettles, dropping a splinter of coyote bone in one and distractedly stirring the other before turning toward the highchair in the far corner and pulling a face.

“Oh, okay, kiddo,” she said. “We need to wipe that face.”

The toddler screeched as she approached, turning his face away as she scrubbed his chin and upper lip, clearing away the remnants of the barbecue chicken he was eating for lunch.

When she finished, she pulled his tray away and the two-year-old slid down onto the floor. As he started to take off at a run for his room, Abigail knelt and tugged his hand. “Slow down, bud. Be careful.”

The boy repeated her words solemnly. “Be carefuh.”

That would do. Abigail let him go, watching him scramble up the stairs to go play with his fleet of construction vehicles. She glanced down at the long, scaled figure that was draped around her neck and left arm, and whispered, “keep an eye on him, please, Mal.”

The snake wound its way down to the floor and followed Damian without hesitation. The serpent was Abigail’s bull snake familiar, whom she had named Malachy. At about seven feet, he was large for his species but still able to take up a relatively small amount of space when he wanted to. His back was adorned with saddles of dark color that dripped down and faded into a granular white underside. Abigail had known him since she was twelve, and he was her closest friend.

Content that her son was in good hands, figuratively speaking, Abigail continued her brewing. She had been commissioned to create potions for two customers this weekend, and she wanted to finish them soon so she could enjoy the rest of her Sunday. The more complex potion was a protection spell, requested by a woman whose family had been threatened by Josef Kane, a local crime lord believed by many in Abigail’s coven to be a werewolf. Abigail’s spell would make the drinker undetectable to Kane – it was a specialty of hers since she began her for-profit spellcasting venture. Many of her customers were battered women and children escaping violent home lives, referred to her by nearby shelters.

The other potion, which was technically simpler to brew but decidedly less pleasant to have in the house, was an aid to quit smoking. Its odor was something reminiscent of raw onions.

Abigail labored for another hour before her attention was torn away from her work by Damian, who had dragged his jacket downstairs, chanting “Outside! Outside! Outside!” She scooped him up and set him on the counter to put his jacket on.

“If we go out you have to do what Mommy says,” she warned. “If not, we’ll have to come back in.”

“Okay,” Damian agreed solemnly.

Malachy gripped Abigail’s leg and coiled around it, securing himself on the rim of her boot. She reached down with her free arm and offered him a more stable perch. He gladly made his way up her arm and draped himself loosely across her shoulders.

“Sorry for making you babysit,” she whispered to him.

It’s fine, Malachy said brusquely. She felt rather than heard his words inside her head. He listens to me better than you anyway.

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Snakes aren’t expressive creatures, but his cheeky tone rang loud and clear. Abigail rolled her eyes and carried them both up to the back door, which opened out onto her slightly unkempt backyard. Her late husband’s father usually stopped by to mow the lawn, but he had been out of town this week, so the grass had been allowed to grow. Abigail secretly preferred it this way, but she knew better than to argue with Greg Selby when he offered his assistance.

It had been eight months since Abigail’s husband, Brendan Selby, had passed, and she was just starting to regain her old routine and sense of self. Brendan had succumbed to a brief and brutal illness, and the shock of it had left Abigail in a state of frozen grief for several months. Damian had been the only thing keeping her grounded, his need for his mother was her tether to reality. Her responsibility to him was her drive when otherwise she might have let herself drown.

She had finally started her spell work again just recently. Brendan had left her with enough money to get by for a while, but it wouldn’t last forever, and the work took her mind off the piece of her that was missing.

Her business was underground, but even so there was plenty of demand for the type of bottled magic she offered. Hardly anything she made was life changing – tonics to increase energy, good luck charms, sleep aids… But she couldn’t cure the uncurable and she couldn’t grant one’s dearest wish. She did what she could and charged accordingly. 

She grew and raised nearly everything she harvested for ingredients. Her home was really more of a small farm, with several species of animals roaming the property. Some of them she raised as potential magical companions – litters of barn kittens were spirited away from their nests and bottle fed a mixture of milk and a familiar potion, until they transformed into a more sentient version of themselves. She’d also been known to gather from the wild; common targets were fledgling crows and owls, near-weaned coyote and fox pups, and of course, she was always on the lookout for a clutch of snake eggs.

Some of the animals she kept were harvested for the magical properties of their flesh and bones. Game birds strode about the property at will until she needed them; she also raised piglets and the odd goat or two. Her laundry room was home to four large Tupperware bins which housed roaches, isopods, and crickets. She also had a small office where she had crammed as many reptile enclosures as she could fit. Chameleons, skinks, anoles, a pair of red-footed tortoises, and various amphibians were housed here.

Caring for this menagerie was a full-time job in and of itself. She did the bulk of the maintenance in the early hours before her son was awake, and anything she didn’t get to had to wait until his bedtime. She had friends who would watch Damian here and there if she fell behind, and a local vet tech student who she paid to care for the animals if she was ill or away, but she preferred the busy life she had cultivated for herself.

She gazed after Damian and smiled faintly as he plopped into the dirt with his tiny plastic excavator. Malachy wound his way along and lifted his head up, a little living periscope poking out of the grass. Abigail knew he was probably not enjoying the nippy weather, but he loved the little boy in his own way, and would never allow anything to happen to Damian.

After about ten minutes of play, Abigail heard a knock coming from the front of the house. Content that her serpent familiar would entertain Damian for a few moments, she hurried around the front of the house to see the commissioner of her latest brew – the protection spell – standing on her porch. She hadn’t noticed Abigail coming around the corner; she looked tired and impatient.

“Hey, Ida, can I help you?” Abigail asked brightly.

“We got a message last night,” Ida replied. “From Kane. He says he knows I came to you for help, and if we try to use your spell, he’ll come after you.” Her face was a mixture of pain and fear. “I can’t put you and your little boy in that position. I’d like to pay you for any work you’ve already done and end our arrangement.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “Ida, please, it’s no trouble. I’ve dealt with worse than Kane.” She tried to sound encouraging but was not sure if she succeeded. “Come on, it’s almost ready anyway. I’d hate to let it go to waste. Why don’t you come in for some tea while it simmers?”

Ida sighed. “Oh, I don’t know…”

Abigail smiled and took the older woman’s arm, intending to steer her inside. “I insist.”