The kettle hung over the fire, close enough that the thick contents slowly boiled.

Blup. Blup. Blup.

It was actually a rather irritating noise, but not much to do about it if the contents were to be properly cooked.

Blup. Blup.

She sighed and stirred the contents. There’d be hell to pay if the whole mess burned.

Blup. Blup-up. Blup Blup.

In stories, when apprentices were left alone to tend a fire and the item over said fire, it was something interesting, like the salmon of wisdom or a love potion or something like that. So what did she get? A potion that was supposed to cure male baldness. Ugh.

She wasn’t even sure if the potion was to be drunk or applied topically. If it was the former, she was pretty sure that she’d suffer with baldness before downing this batch of putrid green vileness. I mean, who really used eye of a newt anymore? And she just knew that when they ran out, she’d be the one dredging the lake looking for replacements newts.

Did they even use any other part of the newt? Or just the eye. Seemed hardly fair to the newt to have to give up his life just so some fat old guy could get his hair back.

But wait, did newts regenerate? Maybe she’d have to pluck newt eyes from newt eye sockets and then throw the things back into the lake.

She shuddered at the thought of that. “‘Settle down and marry,’ they said. ‘Who wants to marry a working woman?’ they said. Why didn’t I listen to them?” she muttered.

But of course she knew precisely why she hadn’t, and as boring as stirring this damned potion was, it was far better than marrying young and growing old before her time. She was going to be an independent woman. A woman who depended upon no one except herself for her living. And if she had to live with some old hag to achieve that, so be it.

As if drawn by her thoughts, the old hag in question opened the door and came in.

Of course she wasn’t really old. Nor was she a hag. But Mary liked to pretend the witch was an old hag. Because it felt more traditional. I mean really, who expected a witch to be blonde and buxom and to have half the young men of the village following her around every time she went out the door.

Mary had a sneaking suspicion that a portion of the baby-not they made was being used by her mistress rather than being sold.

“How are we doing today?” Even her voice was chipper.

“Fine Mistress Jones,” Mary replied, staring intently into the pot.

“Oh come now, how many times do I have to tell you, call me Carol!”

“But it just seems wrong!” cried Mary.

“Why?” said Carol. “You’re not much younger than my sister. And truly, ‘Mistress’ is just so last century!” She laughed brightly as she took off her cloak and hung it on an empty peg by the door. “I think you’ve spent entirely too much time sitting over the fire inhaling Mr. Rozinski’s hair tonic. Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air, and then we’ll start on dinner.”

“Yes Carol,” said Mary. She stood up, then walked over to the door to put on her shoes. Carol insisted they not wear shoes in the house. When Mary asked to be her apprentice she was expecting strangeness, but not this kind of strangeness.

“Don’t forget your bonnet,” said Carol. “The sun’s no good for your skin!”

And with that Mary closed the door on the sunny yellow cabin, took a deep breath of fresh air, and decided that maybe you didn’t have to be all ugly and dress in black to be a witch, but she was damned if she was going to dress in pink like Carol.