Chapter Two #2
I didn’t have time to ponder answers to that question.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and out marched a pale, petite woman with shaggy, shoulder-length black hair.
She had thick bangs that fell in her eyes, and her dark eyebrows were furrowed in a tight line.
She looked upset, and I immediately scrambled to tuck myself behind the high-backed lounge chair.
She was in a bad mood, and I prayed it wasn’t because of me.
“Get up.”
I gulped, craning my neck upwards. A slender hand was perched on the top of the chair, with fingers topped by sharp nails painted a deep poison-purple.
Yup. She’s definitely upset with me.
I scrambled out of the chair, struggling not to fall in my panic. As I stood, I made sure my cloak was pulled firmly over my head and my lower back was concealed. Right now, I looked like an ordinary human. I wanted to keep it that way.
As soon as we locked eyes, her nose twitched, and she recoiled like she’d been shocked by electricity.
It allowed me a few seconds to get a glimpse at her features.
In addition to the choppy black hair and purple nails, she wore a long black dress with sheer, elbow-length sleeves topped with a fitted purple corset.
Her eyes were deep brown, almost black, which made her glowering stare look even more menacing.
To top it off, perched on her head was a wide-brimmed purple hat with a pointy tip.
A witch.
This is a witch village.
I am completely and utterly screwed.
Of all the magical beings for me to come across, witches were the absolute worst option.
Witches and werewolves had a long history of not getting along.
Witches viewed werewolves as bloodthirsty murderers, and werewolves viewed witches as wild spirits with no structure and the tendency to let their magic get out of control.
Both magical races were prone to getting in trouble with humans once every few hundred years, which caused the feuding and blame games to continue in a never-ending cycle.
Plus, this witch didn’t even know I was a werewolf, and she was already angry. Things could only get worse from here.
“You’re a bold human.” She practically hissed the words. “And a stupid one. You think it’s okay to wander into a witch village, plop yourself down in a café that isn’t open yet, and chow down on outside food? You’ve left crumbs all over my lounge chair!”
The witch swept past me, brushing a few crumbs of scone off the plush lounger and onto the floor. Her glowering stare returned to me, and I knew she was probably confused as to why I looked so relieved.
She thinks I’m a human. All the tension in my lungs loosened. It was a hell of a lot better to be caught in a witch village as a human than as a werewolf.
“Um…” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure if I should apologize, or explain myself, or if saying anything at all would only worsen the situation.
She stepped toward me, her black boots thudding on the aged hardwood floor, and snatched the pastry bag out of my hands.
I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut as she pulled out a scone.
She held it up to the light, inspecting it like evidence at a crime scene, before sticking it in her mouth and taking a large bite.
I let out a small squeak of protest. Gee, thanks for stealing my food. Besides what I could hunt in my wolf form, those scones were the only sustenance I had.
She chewed slowly, her face twisting with contemplation.
“These are delicious,” she proclaimed. It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like confusion, as if she’d expected them to be terrible. “Where did you get these?”
“I… uh… I made them.”
The witch stopped chewing and swallowed. With her dark eyes still locked on me, she took another bite and placed the pastry bag on the end table next to the lounge chair.
Great. I huffed. Help yourself. I guess that pastry is yours now.
“What are you?” the witch asked with a mouthful of scone as she walked to the front counter. “Some sort of runaway?”
“Uh…” I frowned. Stop stammering like an idiot. “Sort of.”
There was nothing wrong with her thinking I was a runaway, as long as she assumed I was a human one. It would make me a harmless passerby; someone who accidentally stumbled upon a witch village and would be on her merry way as soon as this uncomfortable conversation was over.
“What else can you bake?” the witch asked.
I recoiled. This conversation had taken a turn from terrifying to bewildering. This witch was furious thirty seconds ago, now she wants to talk about baking?
But a tiny bubble of pride formed in my stomach.
Because I was an excellent baker. Possibly the best one on Hollenboro.
Since my mother died, I took on a maternal role at a young age, which included working in the kitchen to feed my sisters.
When my father discovered my love for baking, he encouraged me to put my talents to use helping our family.
Since we didn’t have a bakery on the island, I began delivering fresh pastries to the neighbors in exchange for produce, tools, and other goods to keep us afloat.
Baking was my passion. Trying new recipes, delicately shaping the dough, then watching my creation rise in the oven brought me the most joy in life.
“Uh… all sorts of things. Cookies, tarts, cinnamon rolls, cakes… just about anything. I make especially good whoopie pies. Why do you ask?”
The witch didn’t reply. Instead, she walked to the kitchenette, pulled out two ceramic tea cups decorated with little forest animals, and lifted the steaming teapot off the hot plate.
She held the teapot steady with both hands, pouring hot black tea with the precision of a skilled apothecary.
She placed both cups on a small wooden tray and carefully carried it over to the end table, setting it down next to the pastry bag.
When she sat down, I was stunned as she gestured for me to do the same and offered me a cup. I forced my face to remain neutral, but my insides were churning. I did not like tea.
I knew it was a peace offering, as strange and unwarranted as it was. And I needed this witch to like me so I could eventually leave the café and flee this town in one piece.
I lifted the beverage to my mouth, letting the hot steam coat my upper lip and nostrils, and forced myself to take a tiny sip.
Ugh. I grimaced. It was Earl Grey, the same tea my father drank. The sharp, distinct taste of bergamot was unmistakable. Unfortunately, I loathed Earl Grey the most.
I forced a smile and set my teacup on the counter, where it would hopefully remain for the rest of the conversation. One sip of the stuff was plenty.
“Look, human…” The witch took a long, slow sip of her tea, complete with slurping noises, and set her teacup down on the end table next to mine.
“I don’t need to know details on who you are or where you came from.
But I know one thing about runaways – they need money. I’m assuming that also applies to you.”
I gulped, my throat suddenly feeling dry despite the tea.
I barely knew what money was. Back in Hollenboro, we bartered by trading one good or service for another.
Some plump garden vegetables in exchange for fixing a leaky roof.
Fresh haddock or lobster swapped for warm winter clothing. I didn’t need money.
But apparently, in this world, I did. And if I was going to survive on more than just what I could hunt, I needed to find some.
“How… how do you get this money?” I asked sheepishly, immediately fearing the question was a stupid one.
The witch cocked her head, hiding her dark lips behind another long sip of tea. “You’re strange. Even for a human.”
“I… I’m from one of the islands off the coast.”
A valid explanation. Plenty of humans lived on Maine’s remote islands. I had no idea if they had money there, but it seemed plausible they didn’t, just like us werewolves.
“Ah.” Thankfully, the witch didn’t probe further.
“Well, with that in mind, I have a proposition for you. My longtime baker recently moved away, causing major issues keeping this place afloat.” She gestured with her hands around the shop.
“I’m sort of desperate. So, if you stay here and make pastries for the café, at least until I can get a new baker, I’ll make it worth your time. ”
My jaw dropped. Just when I thought this situation couldn’t be any stranger, the witch who initially tried to chase me away was offering me a job .
“I, uh…” I struggled to string together a sentence. “But… why?”
I mentally slapped myself. So many questions to ask, and that’s what you start with?
The witch shrugged, as if the request was as straightforward as asking for directions. “You need money. I need a baker. And clearly, you’re quite skilled with pastries.”
“I…” My mouth snapped shut. I certainly won’t refute that statement. “But I’m a human.”
“I don’t have a problem with humans,” the witch replied coolly, her purple-tipped fingers wrapped around her teacup. “Even if some of my neighbors do. I pay well, and there’s an old abandoned cottage next to mine you can stay in. Plus, I’ll help you pretend you’re a witch.”
Pay? A house? Pretending I’m a witch?
All three concepts had my head spinning, but what really made my stomach turn was the idea of masquerading as a witch to survive in this town.
Even if I could keep this newfound random shifting under control, once the next full moon hit, it would be over.
Werewolves were wild and unpredictable during their frenzies, and I didn’t know what sort of damage I’d end up doing without the safety and isolation of my home island.
But… I could probably play the part for a few weeks. Hang around until the next full moon, make some money, then head south with the proper resources to survive in the human world.
“Uh… alright. I guess I’ll do it.”
The witch paused, swirling the tip of her finger around the rim of her empty teacup.
“Excellent. But first, let’s see what you can do.” The witch pointed to the door behind the counter. “I want you to make me another batch of those blueberry scones. Then we’ll discuss terms of employment.”
Oh great. A test?
But it was one I knew I could pass. And I really needed this job.
“Okay,” I nodded. “I can do that.”
“Perfect. Everything you need will be in the kitchen, and there are blueberry bushes outside in the back garden.”
“Blueberries?” I frowned. “How? They’re not in season.”
The witch chuckled, which sounded more like a scoff with her attitude. “I’m not just an herbalist witch. I’m also a chloromancer. In my garden, everything is in season.”
I watched, still slightly dumbfounded by the situation, as the witch picked up our teacups and gestured for me to follow her to the counter.
“Don’t like tea?” she asked, noting my still-full teacup.
“Uh… I…”
Should I tell the truth? This witch was clearly passionate about tea.
“I see,” the witch replied, my stuttering giving her enough of an answer. Once we made it to the kitchenette, she set her empty teacup in the sink and took a long sip from my teacup. “Shame. I cast a truth-telling enchantment on it.”
All the color immediately drained from my face – the grumpy witch’s facade broke as a hint of a smile appeared on her lips.
“I’m just joking,” she chided. “Sadly, our village hasn’t had an enchanter for a long time, and I don’t have those sorts of abilities. By the way, human… I never got your name.”
“Oh… it’s Annette. Annette Clarke,” I explained. “But most people call me Nettie.”
“Nettie,” she nodded, pondering the name. “It suits you. I’m Rowena Hawthorne, resident herbalist witch of Wisteria Grove.”
I nodded. This town is called Wisteria Grove. Interesting.
Rowena leaned against the door and tapped lightly on the wood. Through the tiny window, I caught a glimpse of a very odd-looking kitchen.
“Alright, Nettie. You’ll find everything you need through this door,” the witch commanded. “So, get to it. You’ve got pastries to make.”