The Witch Who Forgot to Be Ominous

How it begins

Nora Quinn had arranged the entrance carefully. Black cloak. Crooked staff. A cloud positioned to conceal the afternoon sun.

The casserole ruined it.

A man stepped from the village square carrying a dish wrapped in a towel.

"You must be our witch," he said. "Mind the handle. It's hot."

Nora looked at the dish, then at the cloud. The cloud looked back, insofar as clouds could, with the expression of an employee awaiting further instructions.

"I am the terror of the northern ridge."

"Samir Murray. Carpentry. There's no meat in it, because nobody knew."

Behind him, a woman opened an upstairs window and asked whether the new arrival wanted the spare curtains before she cut them into dusters.

Nora tightened her grip on the staff.

"Perhaps you haven't heard of me."

"We have," Samir said. "That's why we left the end cottage empty. Good view. Thick walls. Nobody nearby to mind the cackling."

The cloud began raining on the baker's awning. Nora dismissed it with a sharp flick.

She had retired because she was tired of travelers arriving to test themselves against her. Heroes, apprentices, one deeply confused tax collector. She wanted quiet, respect, and the useful distance that came from people believing she might turn them into something damp.

What she had apparently acquired was a meal.

Samir shifted the dish toward her. "Would you like to see the cottage?"

Nora took it. Warmth spread through the towel into her hands.

Across the square, a small boy pointed at her staff. "Does that fix roofs?"

"It summons dread."

He considered the distinction. "Our roof does that already."

Samir made a sound suspiciously like a laugh.

Nora looked at the cottage, the village, and the casserole she had no intention of thanking anyone for yet.

"Show me the roof," she said.