Inside Esther’s shop the air was a deliberate cloying, grassy scent that stuck to the back of the throat. She liked to keep customers a little disorientated. The more uncomfortable they were, the more they believed, the more they believed, the more they bought. She kept the place fastidiously clean, the grime and cobwebs were merely aesthetic. It was what the customers expected from a ‘witch’, and Esther was all about the illusion.
She leaned back in her chair, watching the street outside. It had been a slow day so far. A young mother had come in for a child’s sleeping ‘potion’ (milk, brandy, and colouring to make it look special). An hour later the chief constable’s lackey had stopped by for some ‘magic’ truth serum (distilled from nightshade plants. Unpleasant enough that it would certainly get anyone talking).
Yes, she thought, not very exciting. Not very exciting at all. It felt like her brain was turning to sludge.
A figure, bonnet low, passed by. Esther’s stomach grumbled. She sat up in her seat, interested now. Her stomach was very shrewd. The figure walked by again, this time slowing down to glance through the window. Esther pulled a lever under the counter, and the front door creaked open. The figure jumped back, and Esther chuckled. That always fooled them.
“Come in my dear.” Esther called.
She watched them step hesitantly in. Now that they were closer, Esther was surprised to see it was the baker’s young wife. Her dress looked too big for her, and under her bonnet her skin was pale. The young woman hurried over, glancing behind her at the open door.
Someone doesn’t want to be seen, Esther thought. She pushed the lever again discreetly, and the door swung shut.
“Madeline, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”
Madeline sniffed, rubbing a hand across her face. Her sleeve slipped down her arm slightly, and Esther caught sight of dark red and purple bruises on her skin.
“It’s…it’s my husband,” Madeline began, her voice hoarse.
Anger flashed through Esther, and it took all her composure not to offer the poor girl a nice big sword and a shovel. That wouldn’t do, she thought, the villagers would riot without their bread.
“I can’t cook nothin’ right,” Madeline said, tears dribbling down her cheeks. “Have you got a spell or summit to make me better?”
“Not a spell,” Esther said, an idea forming. “But I do have a curse. If it works, he will be your creature to command. Set him to work, and he won’t lay a finger on you again.”
Madeline bit her lip, and Esther fancied she saw a flicker of hope in the poor girl’s eyes.
“You’d just need to get him to take the toxin- I mean, the powder.”
The young woman shook her head, face dropping. “It won’t work, he won’t take nothing I make for him.”
Esther cursed inwardly.
“I do make him his cups of tea.”
“Sugar?”
“A spoonful.”
“Perfect,” Esther said, grinning. Chemicals and reactions buzzed bright and clear through her mind like electric eels. Now this, she thought, is going to be fun.
Author bio:
Freya Norley is a student and writer from Bath, UK. They won the Arkon Flash Fiction Prize in 2018 and have been published in AdHoc Fiction Competition and Bath Spa University's magazine, SpaLife. Find her on twitter @FENorley.
Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash