Evita woke up with a startle. She had dreamed of a gigantic green snake coiling around her to keep her still, while venom dripped from its fangs onto her forehead. Far be it from her to ignore an omen as clear as this one, she immediately got up with barely a sigh, her long black braid swishing behind her like a whip with each step.

  “My cards…” she muttered, still drunk on sleep. They always liked to hide from her when she needed them most, especially during the night. They valued their beauty sleep and Evita knew to leave them undisturbed until they deemed it acceptable to reappear. But this was an emergency. A witch always knew when something or someone was trying to communicate with her, and a witch was also very aware that one should never ignore the communicator lest they became angry and swore vengeance upon her and her family. Other than that, it just wasn’t polite.

  The sky was clear and blue when she opened her bedroom’s window to let some light in. Evita groaned and scrunched her eyes half closed; she had closed her shop at six in the morning last and judging from the sun’s position in the sky it was barely noon. Too early to be awake, too late to fall asleep.

  “Either you come out or I’ll make you come out.” She said in what she thought was a menacing manner, which it would’ve been, if she hadn’t been interrupted by a particularly forceful yawn. The witch sighed and kneeled down to look under the bed, “Must you do this every ti- Ow!”

  The mischievous deck of cards had let itself slip and fall on her head, accidentally of course. Tarot cards weren’t alive in the traditionally human and boring manner of living, but they were sentient just enough to wreak havoc and mayhem on the unfortunate souls who stumbled upon them. Massaging the part that had been hit and lamenting the warm comfort of her bed, she picked up the aforementioned deck and, lowering herself down onto the wooden floor, set to shuffling it with practiced agility.

  “Let’s see,” she said, “Is there someone trying to talk to me?”

  The Fool jumped out.

  “Hilarious. Extremely funny.” she didn’t stop shuffling, “Might I remind you of your high flammability?”

  The cards struggled for a bit in her nimble hands in what she thought must’ve been a display of anger and fury. Although, it wasn’t very scary coming from a tarot deck. They decided to cooperate, finally, and the Wheel of Fortune slipped out slow and tentative. The witch picked it up between two fingers and stared at it with furrowed brows, before setting it onto the floor.

  “Change is coming, then. What else?”

  The Tower came second, and thirdly the Lovers.

  “Okay, so you’re telling me we are facing the Apocalypse, but I’ll find a partner? How sweet. Who’s trying to talk to me? My mom?”

  Clearly frustrated with her antics, the cards fluttered in her hands. She knew better than to antagonize them, but she just could never resist. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to be the bigger person, “This is the message, but who’s the messenger?”

  The deck stilled and jumped out, splaying itself all over the floor. It seemed that the messenger wanted to remain anonymous, and Evita was, quite frankly, fine with that. She wasn’t the kind of witch who loved to dabble with spirits and ghosts and misguided poltergeists; unless they could be of use to her, that is. However, she certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to look a gift horse in the mouth, either, even if said horse came from beyond the grave.

  She collected the cards in a neat, little deck with a snap of her fingers and placed them on her desk, knowing that the moment she turned around they would disappear as if they had never been there. But no matter, there was something very urgent she had to take care of: sleep. She loathed dark circles.

  A quick glance towards her mirror confirmed her suspicions. Staring back at her was a young woman with a pale, thin face, a pleasantly straight nose, and round lips with a marked cupid bow. Her eyes were the color of amber, same as her father, upturned and keen, although they now needed some slight under eye correction. Her profile was strong but slightly pointy, especially in the chin and the cheekbones. It had taken her a long time to grow into her features; her face had always reminded her of some kind of predatory bird, especially in her youth. Her wispy eyebrows didn’t help, either. People had told her, time and time again, that her features seemed to be perpetually twisted in a frown.

  Truth be told, Evita had never been particularly vain. She liked looking fresh and rested, though, which was why the eyebags had to go. She set out to do just that, grabbing her special Pick Me Up lotion, when a particularly loud series of knocks coming from her front door made her drop it on the ground, and then underneath the bed. Round containers were extremely annoying. She ignored the deck of cards that giggled at her from somewhere in the bedroom.

  “Ugh! I’m coming!” she said. She hastily put on her red dressing gown and stalked down the stairs like a wounded wolf, or a toddler with a stomach ache. She hoped that whoever had decided to bother her outside of business hours had an extremely good reason for doing so. Maybe she ought to put a sign outside as a deterrent, threaten a family curse or two. Witches were still scary, right?

  “Oh, were you still in bed?” said her friend Killian when she opened the door to his smiling, unblemished, well-rested face. “It is noon, you know that right?”

  “I thought vampires were supposed to be nocturnal.” She said, snarkier than she intended. “Come in.”

  “That’s a myth.” He said, nonchalant, before taking ownership of her couch and her mug and her tea. “You should really invest in a quality teapot. You can’t keep heating the water up with magic, you heathen. A teapot makes all the difference, and they also tend to be quite pretty to look at. You know the ones made of mother-of-pearl the mermaids sell? Beautiful craftsmanship!”

  “Oh fantastic, so you woke me up to talk about tea and teapots, specifically? You know I use teapots in the shop. I really have no idea how you managed to never get impaled by anyone yet. Look,” she pointed to an old side table that had belonged to her Aunt Allegra, bless her soul, “That old thing is entirely made out of birchwood. I could destroy it, fashion a spade with it, and put an end to your miserable life.”

  The piece of furniture trembled a tiny bit in fear.

  “I am already dead, sweetheart. Or, if you want to get technical, undead.” he said, busy with his (her!) tea, “But look! You scared the poor thing. Cruel, cruel witch.”

  “I am not-”

  The vampire tutted at her patronizingly before sticking a mug of freshly brewed tea into her hand. Evita had half a mind to curse the malevolent beast. The tea was unfortunately good, though, which is why she decided Killian could live to see another day.

  “I am here to tell you, my dearest friend in this god-forsaken and luckily god-forgotten town, that Lady Luck has finally deemed it fit to smile upon me.”

  “Why are you talking like that?”

  Killian shushed her and resumed his theatrics. “As I was saying, Lady Luck, in all of her infinite benevolence, just absolutely fattened my wallet to the point of bursting. I am a rich man. For at least ten years.”

  Taking a sip of the, admittedly marvelous, tea and failing to understand why he was telling her in the first place, she asked “Fantastic, but what happened?”

  “The Queen wants me to do her portrait and that of her whole family. My collection will be hung in the throne room for centuries! I, of course, overcharged her quite a bit. She paid the portraits more than double the actual value, I believe. You would think a Queen to be wiser than that, right? Especially one who reigned as long as her.” He said, rolling his eyes.

  “You just… conned the Royal Family, huh? On a Tuesday?”

  “No.” he said, deadpan, “It happened yesterday, and it was Monday. I fail to understand why the day would be so important. Did you hear what I just said?”

  Evita had unfortunately heard him loud and clear. “Let’s ignore the fact that you just scammed the Queen for a second and focus on the fact that a family of elves just employed a vampire?”

  “Oh,” said Killian, looking inside her cupboards, “Do you have any animal blood to spare? I’m feeling a bit peckish. Had a small breakfast, you know. Watching my figure.”

  “They don’t know, do they? You just lied to them. You lied to the only people who can throw you in a cell for the rest of your very long life.”

  “Excuse you.” He said, a bit irritated at her, “I did not lie. I just did not tell them. The Queen could have asked at any time, but she didn’t. How is it my problem? I am but a humble artiste.”

  Two things Evita loved and actively looked for were peace and calm, a life without stress and problems where she could grow her business, one day (at the age of fifty-five) retire and read books for the rest of her existence. She certainly was not about to entertain a criminal, even one as dear a friend as Killian was. She feared that he had finally lost all his sense of self-preservation after so many centuries of being alive.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “However, Evita…” he continued, somewhat bashfully. That expression did not look good on him. “You know, if you wanted to support this particular business endeavor of mine with some, huh, fun bit of very specific magic that I need… It would be appreciated.”

  And there it was. The reason why he was bothering her that early. “What is it?”

  “I need a strong luck charm, an emergency portal in case I need to disappear for a few years, and I promised the Queen that the portraits would withstand the test of time, so I need you to put them all under some sturdy stasis charms.”

  The witch took a deep breath to steady her nerves, on which Killian was getting the more he spoke. On one hand, this was a bad idea. But she could cover her tracks enough to never be suspected, right? The money would certainly be good. She needed to renovate the basement, still, after all.

  “I want 50% of what you’ll earn for this.” She said, eventually. After what she would’ve loved to believe was careful thinking.

  “30%.”

  “45%.”

  “40%.”

  “Done. I can give you the luck charm now, but you’ll have to wait for the portal. Those are difficult to craft now. The Order of Morgana has cranked the security up.” She said, waving her hand in the air lazily, until a small seashell necklace floated over and wrapped itself around Killian’s neck. “Don’t get blood on it or you’ll find yourself with a poltergeist.”

  “What’s in i-”

  “Don’t ask. I’ll contact you for the portal.”

  “Thank you so much! It’s a pleasure and an honor doing business with you! I’ll get out of your hair now!”

  Evita wondered, as she watched him walk briskly down the street, long white hair flowing behind him, if she had become his partner-in-crime and if she ought to create a portal for herself as well. She shuddered: she already wasn’t paying all the taxes she should be paying; she surely didn’t need to be scamming the Royal Family, too. Biting her lip anxiously, she hoped the poorly thought-out choice to help her friend out wouldn’t come back to haunt her. Her sister worked for the queen, maybe she would vouch for her freedom if it came to that?

  The witch scoffed, washing the mugs she and Killian had used. Verbena would never jeopardize her position at court for her daft baby sister. Expensive gowns, coin, power and, according to the City’s gossip mill, the Queen’s affections were much too important to let go of. They had always been at odds, the two of them: one focused on acquiring power and making a name for herself, the other possessing a mind much more pragmatic, fixed on building a business outside of her family’s influence.

  Thank God for her dear Aunt Allegra dying at the most appropriate moment in all the history of death, Evita thought. She had been Cliff’s Drop resident witch, enchantress and occasional hag for a very long time, helping people or sometimes cursing them, communing with the forest’s spirits, and participating in dangerous rituals. When she died, the townspeople told her that the woods themselves surrounded her house with flowers and tall grass and thorn bushes galore, rendering it inaccessible for a few days. Her body was never found.

  The moment Nature finally retreated back to her woods, of dear Auntie Allegra remained only a letter, addressed to her niece. Dear Evita, the looping cursive written on pastel pink paper said, If you’re reading this, I must be dead or in unsolvable trouble with the law. I hope it’s the former, for my sake and yours, since I’m leaving all of my earthly belongings to you. As for the unearthly ones: you will have to claw them out of my cold, dead hands.. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a successful deal with the Devil, nowadays? He is not as sharp as he used to be, poor guy. If he pays you a visit asking about me, pretend that you can’t see him. It drives him absolutely mad.

  But I digress, continued the swirly, purple ink. The house and the shop are yours, do with them as you wish. The hut in the forest is also yours, but a family of pixies has moved in there a long time ago and I would loathe for you to kick them out, should you decide to move in there. They have just welcomed their seventh daughter. The basement under the house is full of precious knickknacks you might find useful during your stay here. Do not get the law involved if you find anything in there with murderous intent, deal with it yourself. I trust the Adler training to not have failed you.

  My dear niece, the woods and the town need a witch. I hope you will answer the call.

  Signed, your Aunt Allegra.

  P.S., it said at the end, the chest hidden under the floorboards in the bedroom holds some coin to get you started. Be careful, though. It bites.

  What a character, she remembered thinking while reading the letter for the first time, sitting on the carpet in her childhood bedroom. Allegra had visited her parents quite often during her youth and Evita had always been fascinated by her long, aquiline nose and arthritic hands who seemed to always be a bit nimbler than you’d give them credit for. She would come bearing gifts of dubious provenance: ancient necklaces for Verbena that gifted the bearer with otherworldly beauty, seven-league boots for her father, and enchanted paintbrushes for her artist mother. For Evita, it was either books or flowers, berries and rocks coming from the forest of Cliff’s Drop.

  Noticing her obvious, child-like disappointment, her Aunt’s beady eyes would always twinkle with mirth, her laugh lines would stretch into her big, crooked smile, and she would say, Evita, a gift freely given from Nature herself is better than anything else. They can tell you things, if you tell them a story in return.

  And that, they did. She remembered gently holding the gifts in her hands and telling them what she had for breakfast, if it had been a scone or a muffin, a cup of apple juice or a mug of milk. They reciprocated, whispering in her ears with soft, airy voices. They would tell her about the grasshoppers and the butterflies, where the sweetest berries were, if the robins and the swallows had made their nests yet. It delighted her during the long summer afternoons spent with her family, bored out of her mind under the hot sun. Allegra would look at her knowingly, asking if she knew what the wind blowing on the grass and the leaves falling on the ground sounded like, but Evita would never answer.

  It was a secret between her and Cliff’s Drop’s woods. Verbena, subtly glowing thanks to her new necklace, had never understood why she would waste her time talking to them. Why, she would ask, when magic was so much more than that? The power of a knowledge so useless, it wasn’t useless at all was wasted on her, Evita thought. Now that she lived there, the forest saw her as a friend. The wind would tell her where the ripest fruit was and the birds would peck at her fingers and tug on her braid to show her where to catch a pinch of the sun’s afterglow and a couple eagle’s shrieks, useful for her potions.

  The magic of the place recognized her own. She was convinced that Allegra had wanted to leave this place to her for a very long time. Evita was glad she had been chosen, but at the same time she wondered: how did her Aunt know that she didn’t have the intention to follow in the Adler tradition of becoming a court witch?

  She had been a dutiful student. Her tutors and her parents had extensively trained her in the Arts: she knew everything about botany, specifically poisonous plants. Her spellwork was good, not perfect, but it still was nothing to scoff at. She was well-versed in diplomacy and court etiquette, an excellent conversation partner who knew when to smile and when to ask questions. She knew perfectly well how to ask the stars for guidance in order to be a satisfactory advisor to her future employer. Sometimes, even, the stars would answer her directly. That’s why nobody in her family would have ever imagined that she’d pack up and leave the day after receiving Aunt Allegra’s letter.

  Her mother had been heartbroken. In her youth, her services had been sought after by many. People coming from all over the Continent would seek her out in the palace she lived in, owned by a young monarch of a different region, asking for love potions and magical cures, healing balms, and magical artifacts. Sometimes, they would seek her counsel or her company; she had helped many a hero find the right path to adventure, after all.

  Her father, on the other hand, gave her a pat on the shoulder and an acorn. Plant this in the woods as tribute when you arrive, was all he had said. He knew she wasn’t like her sister and her mother, set and content in the Adler ways. He had answered Nature once, too. The sea was always calm when I sailed it on my ship, he told Evita and Verbena during the long, rainy, evenings spent in front of the fireplace. My sailors never got sick and they never went hungry. We never suffered a leak or a broken sail. Nature, children, takes care of you if you take care of Her in return.

  She wrote them a letter the moment she arrived at the old house, telling them that she missed them and that she was alright. She said they would be welcome to come visit her one night at her coffee shop, that they would find drinks and pastries warm and ready. She let her dad know that the acorn had been planted and well received, while reassuring her mother that the shop was going to be a success.

  And it had been. Allegra had said that the town and the woods needed a witch, after all. The first night she opened, unveiling to the public the first nocturnal coffee shop of the region, nearly the entire population of Cliff’s Drop had come to snoop around and find out what the new witch was up to.

  Her shop was cozy and homey. Evita had summoned a fire spirit and asked it to make its home in the fireplace, in order to keep the fire going forever, which was a necessity in cold and humid Cliff’s Drop. She had grown fond of the little wisp, so she took great care in giving it only the finest logs of wood she could find.

  She had chosen, then, purple carpets to go with the wooden interior, and yellow divans, settees and armchairs made the place look like somebody’s lived-in home. For the customers that preferred shorter stays, she had chairs and tables made of mahogany wood, on which a rosewater infused candle was always burning. The shop always smelled heavenly. The walls were plain but warm, the torches stuck on them lit up the place in soft lighting, illuminating the framed drawings of flowers, trees and animals, courtesy of Killian’s sketchbook. She had charmed the shop to be warm, but only pleasantly so, at all times.

  Nobody had anything to complain about, but they sure had many compliments to give. The menu was not very extensive yet, but the witch was always up to make custom drinks if asked, and custom pastries, too, if ordered in advance. She had a few regulars now, people that called her by name and had their designated table in the shop.

  Evita’s idea had been successful in the end. Her mother, thrilled to hear about her achievement, had asked her in a letter for the name of her establishment, so they knew what to look for if she and dad ever came to visit.

  Dear Mom, she wrote back, look for Cinnamon’s Delight if you’re ever in town. Under the lighthouse, in front of the square. Follow the smell if you get lost.

  Love, Evita.

  It had been, according to her and everyone else, a good start to her life in Cliff’s Drop. She knew Allegra would have been proud, maybe she would have even offered her services to Evita if she were so inclined. Perhaps, she would have brought her into the woods and made her ask Nature for a fae helper of some kind, maybe a brownie or a pixie. It was too late now, she thought: sad as it was, a lot of Allegra’s knowledge had died with her. And anyhow, Evita was a completely different kind of witch than her aunt had been.

  She wanted, most of all, to shape her own destiny.

  But, tired of reminiscing about old times and thinking so loudly about everything all of the time, she set the mugs aside and went about getting dressed. The scones would certainly not bake themselves, and she still had to charm a few brooms to do the sweeping for her.