#Rosemary Pastry

[askwhatsforlunch]

Sage Balsamic Mushroom and Feta Quiche (Vegetarian)

After spending a day on the road, returning from our holiday, this rich and flavourful Sage Balsamic Vinegar Quiche, fragrant with herbs, makes a more-ish and deliciously comforting dinner to tuck into! Happy Sunday!

Ingredients (serves 4 to 6):

375 grams/13 ounces chilled Rosemary Pastry

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 tablespoon olive oil

1 Green Onion

200 grams/7 ounces cremini and button mushrooms

a dozen leaves fresh sage

1 1/2 tablespoon Modena Balsamic Vingar

a pinch of salt and freshly cracked black pepper

4 large eggs

1 1/2 cup crème fraîche or sour cream

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

4 small leaves fresh sage

100 grams/3.5 ounces Feta Cheese

Preheat oven to 200°C/395°F.

Roll Rosemary Pastry out thinly onto a lightly floured surface. Fit into a buttered 20cm/8″ tart tin, letting the pastry overhang on the edges. Prick the base with a fork. Place a sheet of baking paper onto the Rosemary Pastry and fill with dried beans or rice. Blind bake the Rosemary Pastry crust  at 200°C/395°F, 10 minutes. Carefully remove the beans and baking paper, and bake another 5 minutes, at the same temperature. Remove from the oven. Let cool slightly before trimming the edges. Set aside.

Whilst the Pastry is blind-baking, melt butter with olive oil in a large, nonstick skillet, over medium-high heat. 

Thinly slice Green Onion. Once the butter is just foaming, add white part of the Green Onion, and cook, a couple of minutes.

Slice cremini and button mushrooms into thick slices. Add mushrooms to the skillet, and sauté, coating in butter and oil, about 3 minutes.

Finely chop sage leaves, and stir them in as well. Cook, a minute more or so, until mushrooms are well-browned. 

Then, deglaze with Balsamic Vinegar. Cook, 1 minute. Season with salt and black pepper. Remove from the heat and allow to cool.

In a medium bowl, whisk eggs together with crème fraîche. Whisk in salt and black pepper. Finely chop sage leaves, and whisk them into the batter, along with chopped green part of the Green Onion. Set aside.

Scatter Balsamic mushrooms onto the tart crust. Crumble Feta liberally on top. Pour egg and cream mixture evenly all over.

Place in the warm oven, and bake, at 200°C/395°F, 25 to 30 minutes, until cooked through and crust is beautifully golden brown.

Serve Sage Balsamic Vinegar Quiche warm, with dressed lettuce.

#Recipe #Food #Sage Balsamic Vinegar Quiche #Sage Balsamic Vinegar Quiche recipe #Quiche #Quiche recipe #Savoury Pie Tart and Pizza #Mushroom Quiche #Rosemary Pastry #Shortcrust Pastry #Butter #Olive Oil #Green Onion #Mushrooms #Cremini Mushrooms #Button Mushrooms #Sage #Fresh Sage #Balsamic Vinegar #Modena Balsamic Vinegar #Salt #Black Pepper #Black Peppercorns #Crème Fraîche #Creme Fraiche #Eggs #Feta #Feta Cheese

[morethansalad]

Vegan Butternut Squash, Chestnut, Spinach and Feta Filo Pie

#vegan #dinner #pastry #christmas #chestnuts #squash #butternut squash #spinach #vegan feta #phyllo #rosemary #vegan butter #paprika #sesame seeds #🧡 #💚

[antikristrecipes]

Baked Gruyère in Pastry with Rosemary and Garlic

#baked #gruyere #pastry #rosemary #garlic #food #food porn #recipes #appetizers #cheese #breads

[kawaii-foodie]

chanru

#foods #cakes #dessert #pastry #tree cake #rosemary #chanru

[brattylikestoeat]

#peach and rosemary pastry #peach #fruit #rosemary #pastry #sweet #sweets #dessert #tiktok #tiktok food #brattylikestoeat #food #foodlr #food blog #video #foodie #cooking stim #stim cooking #yummy #Cedric grolet

[quibbs126]

Can you do a fankid for pastry x herb cookie please I hope you have a good day/night

Yes, I’m currently having a good day, and here’s the kid, her name is Rosemary Cookie

So it’s a similar situation to Clover/Pastry, I wanted a purple plant, it’s just that here I wanted to use an herb. And so, I picked rosemary

Rosemary:

I said yesterday that I was struggling with her design, but coming back today, she was actually pretty easy to get down. I actually somewhat based her design off the Pokemon Breeder class, mostly since they had the kind of look I wanted for her

So as for her, I’m thinking she’s a florist. She just likes tending to flowers. She’s a bit quiet and shy, but that’s mostly because she tends to prefer the company of plants rather than people. If you can befriend her, she’s very nice, and will always be able to get you the best flowers, or make your garden look amazing. She finds herself particularly fond of peonies. Her job usually details arranging floral decorations for events and places. She’s probably done floral work for the St Pastry Order at some point

But yeah, that’s Rosemary. She’s pretty simple, but I like her

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #pastry cookie #herb cookie #pastry x herb #cookie run oc #fankid #fanchild #my ocs #my art #requests #answers #I feel like I’ve made too many female fankids #I need to make more male ones #rosemary cookie

[whump-in-the-coffee-cup]

Headcanons II

ORIGINAL POST  // AO3 VERSION

These are headcanons I have made for The Walten Files, an analog horror series on YT. It’s short, but effective in its horror, as well as whump since it distances itself from the usual animatronic-is-the-cause-of-horror, and has a foundation of human error and mistakes to create horror.

Below the cut is where it starts — CONTENT WARNINGS: car accident leading to death, children death, burying dead bodies while alive, violence, alcohol addiction, death/MCD (brief comfort is covered and included)

🐇 Ed and Molly held hands often, even in their deaths, they held hands. (It greatly added to the unforgettable mental image that stuck to Felix, he still couldn’t shake off the fact the kids were comforting each other. He would say they were inseparable, but he didn’t want to add salt to his mental wounds.)

🐇 Edd tried to rescue Molly amidst the crash, like he knew they were going to die and he desperately wanted Molly to be safe, so he unbuckled himself and flew in between Felix’s seat and Molly. However, he was crushed by the weight of the driver’s seat on his back. Molly was left still conscious, screaming for Edd to wake up.

🐇 Rosemary was just as distraught as Jack was when Jack kept sending voicemails to Felix. She couldn’t talk to Jack or Sophie for days. She lost the motivation to make proper meals and had to serve take-out frequently. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t terrified of Jack, of how he progressively got louder and louder in the voicemails.

🐇 When Jack didn’t leave his office for days for being caught up with work, Rosemary would come in with a healthy meal, plus some coffee or tea and Jack would just collapse in her arms in temporary relief from the stress.

🐇 Felix had extreme trouble sleeping during the days after Ed and Molly died. He couldn’t bring himself to drink when he was still in shock. The details of the days just blurred but he managed to count a little over a week until he started drinking again.

🐇 Felix always kept a shovel in his car, to bury the bottles he has in the car before he reaches home. He and Linda always got into arguments the moment she learns about the addiction, Felix buries the bottle to at least still keep Linda in his life.

🐇 Felix didn’t bury the kids with a shovel. He buried them with his bare hands out of extreme grief. (Unbeknownst to him, the kids were still alive. Screaming for him to call Jack or some help. But no, he continued to bury them.) He had to walk home without the car, most of his belongings, and especially the belongings of the kids. No one on the road questioned a bloody, soil-ridden, tattered man walking from the forest. The truck that hit him just went on their day.

the walten filestwftwf headcanonheadcanonstwf storytwf writingwhump writingwhumpjack waltenmolly waltenrosemary waltensophie waltenedd waltenfelix krankenlinda thompsonjenny letterson

#hawthorn #pastry #snacks #media bank #the walten files #twf #twf headcanons #jack walten #molly walten #rosemary walten #sophia walten #edd walten #felix kranken #linda thompson #jenny letterson #whump prompts #whump scenarios #whump headcanons #alcoholism #car accident mention #burial whump #character death

[workwort]

I have one single really good reliable sweet egg bread recipe and rn I’m experimenting with all the different uses for it (babka, cinnamon rolls etc) but eventually I wanna work up the courage to delve into sourdough and laminated doughs (if the price of butter ever fucking drops again) and revisit choux projects

#I used to make cream puffs and eclairs and shit p regularly when I was a teen #I’ve had the worlds godawfulest apartment kitchens until I moved here I totally forgot how much I love baking!! #I had a brief culinary school pastry chef aspiration before I learned of like. working conditions etc #the farm allows me to access quite a lot of fruits- elderberry ground cherry raspberry #strawberries small amts of blueberries and haskaps plus I know a spot for juneberries #and a selection of herbs- different basils mint sage rosemary thyme etc #also rhubarb! #flour hour #not super into cakes atm but this may change #plus what I can forage for other flavours- viburnum berries hawthorns meadowsweet and melilot agrimony and monarda

[defiancecomics]

Patreon Post

Happy Imbolc!

#tassie #lemon rosemary #pastry #artists on tumblr #artists on patreon #defiance comics #digital art #art #artwork #cute art #drawings #sticker #sticker design #sticker art #stickers

[najia-cooks]

[ID: First image is of a golden brown boule studded with blueberries and covered with seeds; second image shows the boule cut in half to show a holely bread with blueberries throughout. End ID]

Rustic no-knead blueberry bread

This is a crusty, no-knead, sweet-savory bread that pairs blueberries with spices and herbs inspired by West Asian cooking. Fennel, anise, sesame, and mahlab powder are reminiscent of the دُقَّة كَعْك ("duqqa ka'k"; cake powder) used in pastries, while za'tar and caraway skew more savory.

The long rise yields a well-fermented dough with a robust flavor that stands up well against the sweetness and pungency of the fennel and aniseed. The result is a jammy, complex, aromatic boule.

This bread has an open, irregular crumb, great for slicing, toasting, dipping, or spreading. Try it with labna and honey, olive oil and za'tar, or a spreadable cheese. I've also made sandwiches with thick slices of this bread and fried, glazed tofu drizzled with tarator and topped with Iraqi mango pickles, to excellent effect.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Paypal | Venmo

Makes one medium-sized boule.

Ingredients:

3 cups (360g) bread flour

2 tsp kosher salt

1/4 tsp dry active yeast

2 tsp mahlab powder (optional)

1 tsp fennel seed + 1 tsp aniseed, coarsely ground

About 1 2/3 cup water (room temperature)

1/2 cup firm fresh blueberries

1 Tbsp za’tar (wild thyme), crumbled

Additional fennel seeds, aniseed, caraway, and sesame, to top

Mahlab (محلب) powder is the ground-up pits of Mahleb cherries. It can be purchased at a halal or specialty spice store.

Za'tar (wild thyme) can be found in dried form at a halal grocery store. Note that the spice blend, which includes wild thyme, sumac, sesame seeds, and other spices, will also be labelled "za'tar." If you don't have or can't locate any of the herb itself, use any dried woody herb of your choice (e.g. rosemary, thyme, sage), chopped.

Instructions:

1. Making the dough. Measure flour into a large mixing bowl. Add salt, yeast, seeds, and thyme and stir to combine.

2. Gradually add water until a soft, sticky dough forms. You may need more or less than 1 2/3 cup.

3. Flatten dough in the bowl and top with some of the blueberries. Fold the dough to enclose the blueberries, add more blueberries on top, and fold again. Repeat until all blueberries are incorporated.

4. First rise. Shape dough into a ball and place in the bowl seam-side down. Pat the top of the dough with some olive oil and cover the bowl with a kitchen towel. Allow to rest at room temperature for 16-20 hours.

5. Shaping. Gently remove the dough from the bowl and allow it to deflate. Shape the boule by folding an edge in over the center, rotating the dough slightly, and repeating until you have gone all the way around.

6. Flip the ball over so the seam side is down. Place your hands on either side of the dough and then move them down towards the base of the boule, tucking some of the dough under and towards the seam, to tighten the top of the ball. Rotate the ball slightly and do this again, repeating until you've gone all the way around a couple times.

This is the basic method for shaping a boule, lightly adapted to avoid breaking any blueberries. If any of the blueberries start to pop out of the surface of the dough, just press them back in.

7. Second rise. Place your boule on a piece of parchment paper and cover with a kitchen towel. Allow to rise for 1-2 hours, until noticeably puffy.

8. Baking. Place a Dutch oven in your oven and preheat to 450 °F (230 °C). Remove the Dutch oven and place the boule, along with the parchment paper, inside. Put the lid on the Dutch oven and return it to the oven. Bake for 30 minutes.

9. Remove the Dutch oven's lid and bake bread for another 20 minutes, or until the crust is deeply golden brown.

To bake the bread without a Dutch oven, preheat a baking tray in the center of the oven, while preheating a skillet (rated to at least 450 °F) in the bottom; once preheated, transfer the bread and parchment paper to the tray, and pour a few cups of water in the skillet; bake for 30 minutes. Remove the skillet and bake another 20 minutes until golden brown.

Allow the bread to cool completely before cutting into it to avoid creating a mushy texture.

#vegan recipes #vegetarian recipes #recipes #bread #blueberries

[askwhatsforlunch]

Camembert and Bacon Quiche

Whether you want to have a generous slice of this delightfully cosy and cheesy Camembert and Bacon Quiche for brunch, or eat it at dinner with dressed lettuce, is your call. However you want it, it is perfect for a slow Sunday! Have a good one!

Ingredients (serves 4 to 6):

375 grams/13 ounces chilled Rosemary Pastry

4 large eggs

¾ cup crème fraîche or sour cream

¼ cup semi-skimmed milk

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

1 fluffy sprig fresh thyme

1/2 red onion

90 grams/3 ounces good Camembert cheese

4 rashers smoked streaky bacon

Preheat oven to 200°C/395°F.

Roll Rosemary Pastry out thinly onto a lightly floured surface. Fit into a buttered 20cm/8″ tart tin, letting the pastry overhang on the edges. Prick the base with a fork. Place a sheet of baking paper onto the  Rosemary Pastry and fill with dried beans or rice. Blind bake the Rosemary Pastry crust  at 200°C/395°F, 10 minutes. Carefully remove the beans and baking paper, and bake another 5 minutes, at the same temperature. Remove from the oven. Let cool slightly before trimming the edges.

In a medium bowl, whisk eggs together with crème fraîche. Whisk in milk, salt and black pepper. Remove thyme leaves from their sprig, and whisk them into the batter. Set aside.

Peel and thinly slice red onion. Scatter the slices onto the tart crust. Cut Camembert into chunks, and scatter them liberally on top. Arrange strips of smoked streaky bacon onto the crust. Pour egg and cream mixture evenly all over.

Place in the warm oven, and bake, at 200°C/395°F, 25 to 30 minutes, until cooked through and crust is beautifully golden brown.

Serve Camembert and Bacon Quiche warm, with dressed lettuce.

#Recipe #Food #Camembert and Bacon Quiche #Camembert and Bacon Quiche recipe #Quiche #Quiche recipe #Savoury Pie Tart and Pizza #Savoury Tart #Savoury Tart recipe #Rosemary Pastry #Camembert #Camembert Cheese #Bacon #Smoked Streaky Bacon #Pork and Sausage #Red Onion #Eggs #Crème Fraîche #Creme Fraiche #Milk #Salt #Black Pepper #Black Peppercorns #Thyme #Fresh Thyme #Brunch #Brunch recipe #Breakfast and Brunch

[morethansalad]

Mushroom Chestnut and Apricot Wellington (Vegan & Gluten-Free)

#vegan #gluten free #appetizer #dinner #british cuisine #christmas #wellington #chestnuts #mushrooms #dried apricots #puff pastry #onion #garlic #parsnips #lentils #tamari #thyme #sage #rosemary #nutmeg #flax seeds #tomato sauce #plant milk #mustard #black pepper #sea salt #cranberries #brussel sprouts #pomegranate #carrots

[moonchildstyles]

hyssop

rosemary part two: y/n made harry want to try, even if he didn't always believe he deserved the chance

wordcount: 11.5k+

—————

The spring-inspired logo of The Flour Pot gleamed in the Sunday morning sunshine, the front window crystal clear and streak free. With this week's trip being later in the morning after Harry managed to sleep some, the bakery wasn't quite as busy as he'd seen it in the past. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. 

While many of those initial anxieties he'd felt that first time he dared even stepping onto the sidewalk had melted away like butter in a croissant, there was still a part of him that braced himself when approaching those front doors. The butterflies were an enemy he had control over currently, but they always got bold whenever he was too close to (Y/N). He still kept his hands clenched in his pockets. 

Peering through the glass doors, he saw only a pair of patrons sitting at one of the tables, a set of pastries between them with only one fork to share. Both of the women looked content sharing those bites. Slipping inside, the bakery lacked the kind of noise he'd begun to associate with the space. The queue to the front register was only two people long. 

But, (Y/N) wasn't there.

The same dark-haired girl he'd seen the last time he traveled through was there along with the boy darting through the pastry case, but there was no bouncing bow or arms laden with heaps of bread. There was a part of him that deflated at that. He knew it was a bit later in the morning than his previous visits, but he figured that she'd still be here. He was only a couple of hours late. 

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Harry felt extremely out of place in the shop. Without (Y/N) there, there wasn't much of a reason for him to be there—even if the pastries were delicious. Toeing at the ground, he wanted to inch towards the exit, leave before anyone could really notice, but it wasn't busy enough to make an exit without feeling eyes on him.

Before he had a chance to make any plan, dark brown eyes of the attendant behind the register landed on him. She brightened at the sight, flicking her attention back and forth between him and the customer she was helping at the desk. She recognized him. 

Just as the next client stepped up to order, the other waiting off to the side for their order, Harry saw her ask for a moment. She told the customer that she would be right with him, she just needed to take care of something super quick.

With that, her long ponytail brushing her back, she disappeared through the cafe doors. True to her word, she was back in a moment, a smile shot in Harry's direction. She was right back to helping her client, apologizing for the delay. 

It was a beat later that (Y/N) emerged. 

Her cheeks were stretched into a smile, and eyes bright as she spotted him almost immediately. Her plastic gloves were quickly stripped from her hands as she approached him, her hair lacking a bow in favor of a sparkling clip. 

"Harry!" she beamed, looping around the counter to meet him where he stood in the middle of the shop. 

Harry swallowed down the smile that wanted to take over his features. No one had been excited to see him in years. 

"Hi, (Y/N)." His heart skipped a beat when her smile grew that much larger at his greeting. 

He followed her lead as she stepped off to the side, out of the way of anyone should the line grow and other patrons enter. She stood with her hip popped, discarded gloves bunched between her hands. "Did you just get off work?" 

Shaking his head, he allowed his gaze to take a trip down her form. Flour spotted her top, soft leggings conforming to the shape of her legs and well-worn shoes on her feet. "No, I went home and slept a little before coming in." 

(He slept for a little over an hour, but that was better than nothing). 

"When did you get off?" she asked, shifting her weight on her feet. 

Pulling one of his hands from his pocket, he brushed the tip of his nose with his knuckle. "I usually get off around four or six depending on what time 'm schedule to go in." 

"In the morning?" she blanched, stretching her neck with a furrow in her brow. 

Harry hummed a confirmation. 

"Oh," she sounded, her eyes wide, "I knew you worked late shifts, but I guess I never thought you worked all night. I don't know how you do it; I hate getting up before the sun is up, I don't think I could work like that." 

Shrugging, Harry brought his hand up and repeated the brush against his nose to conceal his mouth. The tiniest of curls touched the corner of his mouth, the closest thing to a smile he'd given to another in a long while. The bubbliest non-morning person he'd ever met, he thought. 

"Y'get used to it."

"Well, I'm happy you could come in today because I have some stuff for you." Her voice was something like a song, lilting around her words as she rocked on her heels. 

Harry wasn't sure if it was his lungs or his heart that squeezed at the sound of that. "Yeah?" 

"Mhmm," she hummed, "Go sit down and I'll go get everything. I'll take my break right now too so we can talk a little." 

Before he could say much else, she was scooting back to the kitchen, her bound back hair being the last thing he saw before the cafe doors closed behind her. From the corner of his eye, he saw the dark-haired cashier glance at him, a short smile on her lips as she continued to wipe down the counters. 

Harry took a spot towards the back, a few places away behind the couple who paid no other patrons any mind. His restless hands did what they do best as he began to pick at his cuticles, the beds still raw from the last time he plucked at the frayed skin.

By the time (Y/N) was strolling out of the kitchen, the waiting patrons had exited, leaving only he and the other couple filling the lobby. The dark-haired girl behind the desk had huddled into the corner shielded by the pastry case, her phone in her hands as she took advantage of the lull in clientele. (Y/N) had a ramekin with a puffy pastry she was carefully holding in one hand while the other had a plain, square Tupperware case. 

She hopped on the high stool in front of him, that table bracing her weight as she carefully shifted with her gifts. With the duo laid out in front of him, a spoon balanced on the top of the Tupperware, she gave him a giddy smile. 

"I know it's closer to lunch than breakfast at this point, but I did make you one of those soufflés I was telling you about." As she spoke, she pushed the ramekin towards him, the lightweight top of the soufflé puffed and golden brown. "I also made focaccia last night, and saved you a square if you wanted to try." 

"Focaccia?" he posed, grabbing the spoon from her outstretched hand. 

"It's a kind of bread," she laughed, the sound light and airy, "You can make it a whole bunch of different ways, but last night I made it with black pepper, basil, and a little bit of parmesan. Have you ever tried it?" 

"Maybe?" he shrugged. (There was a period of time back when his sister was distracted with her boyfriend a lot, that his mother didn't know what to do with herself and decided to try her hand at bread making. He could never and would never tell her, but she wasn't very good, so there was a high chance that he'd tried a version of whatever bread (Y/N) was talking about, just a very bad version that he didn't give more than a nibble to). 

"Try the soufflé first while it's still warm from the oven, and then I'll show you the bread," (Y/N) decided.

While there was something a bit awkward knowing that (Y/N) was going to watch him eat and wait for a reaction to something she made with him in mind, there was no universe in which Harry was going to say no to homemade food. After being accustomed to frozen meals and canned foods, things like this with real flavor were things Harry cherished more than what was probably normal. 

He kept his eyes on his hands as he poked the spoon through the eggy top layer of the treat, strings of cheese clinging to the utensil as he scooped out a bite. A plume of fragrant steam lifted through the air, holding notes of rosemary and thyme with the bite of a salty cheese. Popping it in his mouth, Harry felt that pressure to give her a good reaction disappearing. He wouldn't have to make anything up when he swallowed it down, the praise was going to come naturally. 

The bite was custardy and warm, while being entirely light and airy. Hints of the different cheeses were sprinkled throughout, still warm and melty from the steam that had collected in the middle of the pastry. Ribbons of spinach added a bitter bite that cut through the cheese and egg, adding to the fresh herbs that were sprinkled across the top of (Y/N)'s creation. It was perfect—better than the scone even, but Harry had a feeling that anything he ate of her's, he would decide it was better than the last. 

As much as he wanted to tell her how well she did, he couldn't wait that long to take another bite. Maybe he was a bit frantic, eager to try another shoveled bite, but the only reason Harry figured as much was because of the huffed laugh that (Y/N) let out. He could still feel her eyes on him, though now he only felt the warmth, not the weight. 

"(Y/N)," he started after finally pulling the spoon away from the treat, "This is... I didn't think y'could make anything better than the scone, but this is amazing. Really." He hoped she understood how much he meant what he was saying, even if he held onto his stoic mask. 

The booming smile that took over her features had something close to pride sitting in the back of Harry's chest. He liked knowing that he could put a smile like that on her face, even if there was a valid argument he could make stating he didn't deserve it. 

"I'm so happy you like it!" Her voice bubbled bright and giddy as she spoke. "They're one of my favorite things to make, even if they're a little hard to deal with sometimes. If you ever want one and it's not Friday, just let me know before you come in and I can put one aside for you." 

Having been unable to stop himself from taking another bite, Harry had to rush to swallow it down by the time she stopped speaking. He nodded to her, taking down the eggy, cheesy, salty bite in a heady swallow. "Thank you," he told her again, "That's really nice, (Y/N)." 

He didn't know how, but her bright smile seemed to grow wider as she watched him take another heaping bite. Her cheek was smushed against the palm of her hand she had splayed over the side of her face, her elbow propped onto the table. 

"You don't have to finish it if you don't want, though. I know it's pretty heavy, and we still have the bread I wanted to share with you," she said, though she didn't make any attempt to stop him when he shook his head. 

"I'll finish it," he told her bluntly, a little too invested in the soufflé to care about the huffed laugh she let out at his reaction. A beat passed while she tried to hide how happy she was to see him scarf down her food before Harry began to savor the bites once he made it to the bottom of the cup. "How much do I owe you?" he asked, having almost forgot about the price of the treat. 

A knit pinched her brows together though her eyes remained bright. "What do you mean?" 

"For this." His own expression mimicked hers with his brows drawing together in the middle. 

"Oh," she sounded, the word coming out on a breath, "Don't worry about it. I got it covered." 

That had him pausing on the last couple of bites left of the soufflé. "No. How much do I owe you?" 

Something stubborn had her eyes hardened when she looked at him across the small table. "You're not paying for this, Harry. It was a gift from me, don't worry." 

"'M not taking free food from you, (Y/N). That's not fair after all the work y'did and everything," he argued. 

"You are," she countered, a surprisingly firm edge to her voice, "I don't care. I wanted to do this for you, so I think it's perfectly fair. Now finish it so we can have some of the bread before I have to get back to work." 

"(Y/N)..."

She didn't let him get very far before he was cut off, "Harry." 

As much as he knew she was trying to tell him that he would be in trouble with her if he pushed the issue further, he liked seeing her get a little stern. It was cute seeing her go from the chirping, bubbly tone she used almost exclusively to putting her foot down over something so trivial. He thought she looked rather pretty like this. 

He decided, looking at her trying to be stern in her Flour Pot uniform and shimmering nails, that he'd make it up to her somehow, this free breakfast. 

Looking all too smug when he didn't argue back, (Y/N) brightened up when she saw him take the last bite. 

"Thank you again, (Y/N)," he told her, wiping his face with one of the napkins in the holder on the table.

"Of course, Harry," she beamed at him, practically bouncing in her spot, "I'm just happy you liked it. I was getting nervous because I think I talked it up a little, so I didn't want to disappoint you." 

He wanted to tell her that he was almost completely sure that there wasn't any way she could disappoint him. He kept his mouth shut. 

She pushed the Tupperware towards him, the lip of the lid grasped between her fingers. "Do you think you still have room to try?" 

Peeling back the lid, a square of dimpled bread was revealed to him. Basil leaves were pressed into the surface of the bread, crisped and preserved under a layer of crusty cheese. Flakes of black pepper could be seen throughout the dough and sprinkled over the top. The bread perfumed the air with spicy black pepper notes and the warmth of the cheese and basil. A small section of the container was cupped off, holding a creamy dip, tinted a golden yellow. 

"I definitely have some room," he decided, his eyes growing to the size of his stomach with all the food being offered to him.

Fresh bread and a warm breakfast all in one day. She was spoiling him. 

"Is it okay if I have a little with you? I made sure there would be enough for the both of us if you're okay with sharing." 

"'S your food, 'course I don't mind," he told her, his lips turning into a frown. She was sharing with him, not the other way around. 

Harry waited for her to take her first bite, fingers plucking off a corner with a basil leaf imprinted into the top. The bread was light and airy when he took his turn, chewy and soft when he pinched it between his fingers. He watched as she dipped into the condiment she had told him was a garlic aioli. One of her favorites; both to make and eat.

Just as he went to take his first dip into the sauce, (Y/N) had the same idea. Their fingers bumped, (Y/N) pulling back immediately with a soft sound exiting her lips. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until his lungs began to ache. 

"Sorry," he said first, jerking his chin, "You first." 

(Y/N) hesitated for only a second, her eyes on him before she blinked in a flutter of long lashes. "Thanks," she chirped out, recovering as she dipped her next bite into the aioli. 

When it was Harry's turn, he almost felt bad to be eating so much of her food when it should be celebrated from the rooftops for everyone to see and try. The crust on top was warm and crunchy, salty with the help of the parmesan she had spread across, while the middle was light and chewy. A bite was given to each taste with the help of the black pepper.

In an unsurprising turn of events, Harry wanted to say this was his favorite thing she'd ever made before. 

"This might be my favorite," Harry settled on, waiting his turn before he plucked off another bite, the warm oil drizzled atop the bread shimmering on his fingers. "I know I keep saying it, but this is really amazing (Y/N). It's been a really long time since I've had anything like this, but you're really amazing at this." 

He knew he was rambling, a habit he wasn't familiar with as his tongue fumbled around the words before he had a chance to stop them. He only managed to quit when he shoved another bite of the focaccia into his mouth, the bread all but melting over his tongue. 

Her smile was ever-present as she spoke, "Thank you. I haven't been making bread like this for very long, on my own at home and all. I'm not super great at it yet, but it's been really fun and I think I'm getting better. It's more fun than the baguettes and sourdoughs I make here, I think. I get to make it however I want." 

"You're very talented, (Y/N)." The compliment felt lame falling from his lips but it was the best he could do before he started going off again, possibly telling her how amazing she was once more.

She chirped her gratitude out, all but glowing under his praise. He liked knowing he could make her feel like that, give her the sunshine look that warmed her features. 

The bread between them slowly dwindled to small chunks the longer they sat across from one another. (Y/N) told him more about the bakery and the people she worked with, what she liked making at home and what she preferred to keep at work. She didn't make him talk for more than a few hums here and there, allowing him to soak in her presence and settle into her without worrying about what he could share with her and what would be better to keep to himself. 

The longer they sat, more and more patrons flitted into the shop. It started as a trickle, the groups small enough to be attended to before another would step up. The line didn't reach longer than a pair of people. Until the lunch rush came in. 

(Y/N) cut herself off when a large group made their way in. Her eyes scanned the growing line and the pastry case that was getting picked through with every person that placed their order. 

"I should probably get back to work. I definitely took longer than fifteen minutes with you," she said, looking more than a little reluctant to hop off her stool, "But you can stay as long as you want, eat however much you want." Just as she turned on her heel, a goodbye on her lips and wave on her fingers, he saw her stop in her tracks, turning back to face him. "Thank you for coming in, by the way. My days are always a little nicer when I get to see you." 

Harry's hand clenched around the napkin he had been using to wipe his fingers and clean his face, the paper crumbling in his grip. His throat was dry, tongue too big for his mouth as he took in what she saw. How was he supposed to respond to something like that, when he almost wondered if he knew any words at all? Those butterflies were sabotaging him. 

Even with Harry's lack of response, (Y/N) didn't look perturbed at all. She gave him that glowing smile once more—bright but only for him. "I'll see you later?" 

"Y-Yeah," he stuttered out, a disjointed nod accompanying the word. 

That was all she needed to hear before she was turning back to the kitchen. She waved at him, tossing that smile over her shoulder. "Bye, Harry." 

"Bye, (Y/N)." 

By the time Harry felt as though he needed to leave, he felt relaxed enough he could sleep some of the day away. He doubted a nightmare could enter his brain after a moment like this—the vision of (Y/N) in his brain, scented with soft bread and pastries made with only him in mind. 

—————

It was a habit now for Harry to park in the same spot by the bakery every time he went into town. Even if he had no intention of sneaking inside and getting a glimpse of a fluttering bow and a whiff of rosemary, he always took his place across the street from The Flour Pot. The fresh air and the extra steps were good for him, anyway.

Getting out of his car, library books at his side, he couldn't help but to glance at the building. He cast a lingering look through the glass, eyes scanning through the pane in hopes of seeing a familiar face. It was an old instinct coming to the surface after so long of burying it underneath his hopes of a different life; he used to do the same, checking on his mother and sister to ensure they were safe and none of his mistakes had found them. The same habit was beginning to form for (Y/N). 

Through the window pane, he saw her standing behind the pastry case, her profile to him as she spoke to the dark-haired girl he now knew to be her friend Sabrina. (Y/N) gesticulated as she talked, hands held out with her fingers spread out, emphasizing whatever story she was telling that had Sabrina holding back her laugh behind her own hand. 

Harry had to drop his gaze, stitching his gaze to his feet as he walked to keep the smile from creeping onto his features. 

Heading towards the library, Harry created a rhythm as he counted the cracks in the sidewalk with loose pieces of pavement kicking up with every step. It was on the sixteenth crack that he heard his name being called out behind him. 

He knew that voice. 

The plastic covering on his library book crackled when he tightened his grip on the spine. Looking over his shoulder, there was that smiling face framed by those stray strands of hair that escaped her ribboned bun. She beamed at him where she stood across the intersection from him, the dark pavement separating them. 

"Wait up!" she called, looking both ways before scampering over the painted crosswalk to meet him. She slowed to a stop in front of him, the straps of her bag sliding off her shoulder. "Hi," she chirped out.

"Hi," he answered, his voice sounding decidedly less excitable than her own even if his chest was thumping, 

"How are you?" she asked, "Today's your day off, right?" 

"Yeah," he mumbled out, nodding his head, "I jus' woke up, so 's going alright so far." 

"Long night last night?" she continued, getting comfortable in the conversation even if it was nothing more than small talk. 

Harry recalled the twitch that had started in his eye now that Theo and the others had started trying to chat with him during the overnight shifts since Harry had accidentally opened the floodgates with his questions about (Y/N). "A little bit," he settled on, holding back a sigh, "But 's alright. How about you?" 

Casting her gaze behind her to the bakery she'd just run out of, she only shrugged before looking back at him. "I don't like doing mids so they're always long, but I'm done for the day at least," she smiled at him, glancing at the book at his side, "Are you going to the library?" 

Shifting his weight on his feet, Harry felt a little more exposed than he felt comfortable with. He always felt much more at ease when (Y/N) spoke of herself or he was able center questions around her. 

Swallowing, Harry nodded.

(Y/N) perked up at his answer, almost bouncing in her spot. "I didn't know you went to the library and everything," she started, "I just finished at the bakery for the day, would it be alright if I tagged along?" 

Another invitation, but one that he was to extend to her. 

It felt personal in an odd way to invite her to accompany him, to see him pick out different novels and how he interacted with people that aren't her. The universe around them seemed to only extend to The Flour Pot and the grocery store—the only places where he was allowed to exist around her. 

But, if this was their universe, then she was the center star. She beamed up at him, the kind of sun a creature like him would warm himself under, trailing pathetically behind. How he is supposed to say no to that? 

"Sure," he mumbled out, "A-Are y'sure y'don't want to go home?" If it were him, after a long shift, he wouldn't even entertain the idea of doing anything other than heading home right away. 

"I have too much energy to go home," she bubbled, inching closer to him to match his route to the library, "I had coffee this morning, so I'm all over the place. I'm worried about what I would do to my living room if I go home right now; I'd probably rearrange everything and decide to redecorate with money I don't have." 

Dropping his gaze to his feet, Harry hid the twitch that tugged at the corner of his lips. 

He fell into step beside her, slowing his paces as they trekked down the sidewalk to the library on the corner. She tugged on the strap of her bag, the lengths seemingly constantly falling from her shoulder. 

"When did you get home last night?" (Y/N) asked, her voice floating over the sound of the cracked concrete under their feet.

Harry shrugged, shifting his books into the opposite hand leaving the one closest to her swinging at his side. "I stayed a little late and made it home by four." 

(Y/N) shook her head, fixing the strap of her bag once more. "I'm starting to think you're a vampire, Harry," she chided, "I don't know how you do it. I like to stay up late and everything too, but I only like the nighttime because I have nothing I need to do." 

"You get used to it," he told her. Harry could feel his features softening at her bubbly remarks. 

"Sure," she said, lilting her voice into a tease, "Anyway, what are we looking for at the library today?" 

Bringing his hand up to brush a knuckle under the tip of his nose, Harry felt that exposure again. "Jus' returning these, and probably check out a few more." 

"What are your favorite kinds of books?" (Y/N) bounced in her steps beside him, glancing up at him with that sunshine face. "I didn't know you liked to read so much." 

Just as Harry brought in a heavy breath through his nose, the steps to the library doors were in front of them. The proverbial bell that save him, he decided. Instead of giving her any kind of answers he was able to grab the stainless steel door handle and pull it open. "After you," he murmured to (Y/N).

The laugh that fell from her lips was enough to keep his chest from constricting so tightly. He hadn't even meant to make her laugh, but he'd take it whenever she was willing to give it. 

(Y/N) waited just inside for him, only stepping towards the front desk when Harry was beside her. Ms. Klarke looked at them over the green frames of her glasses, brows rising with her eyes widening for only a moment before she fell back into that same pleasant expression she always greeted Harry with. 

"Hello, Mr. Styles," she started, something in her eyes flashing before she moved onto his companion, "and Ms. (Y/N)." 

"Hi, Ms. Klarke," (Y/N) chirped. 

Harry felt out of place for a moment, listening to them speak to each other with the kind of familiarity he hadn't been invited into for years now. He only offered a small wave to the librarian in greeting, "Hi." 

"How can I help you two today?"

(Y/N) looked to him immediately. Harry's hand started sweating around the plastic covering of his borrowed book. "Jus' here to return these and get something new," he mumbled once he reached the wooden desk. 

"Already?" Ms. Klarke asked, "I'm going to run out of books for you soon, if you keep this up." She swiped his books off the counter, tapping away at her computer before swiping them under the scanner. "Lucky for you, though," she continued, "I did get some new ones I put out yesterday on your shelves if you wanted to look there first." 

"Thank you," Harry said, feeling shy now that he had someone at his side. He hadn't had anyone there to run errands with in years. 

"By the way," (Y/N) piped up, her eyes on the librarian, "We're bringing back some of those special croissants at the bakery, Ms. Klarke. This Sunday we'll have some of the currant ones and the fig sandwich ones, if you want to come by." 

Ms. Klarke's expression brightened like Harry had never seen before, a hand landing on her hip as she looked at (Y/N). "Thank you, dear! That's so exciting, thank you for letting me know." 

"Of course," (Y/N) beamed, offering up extra information to Ms. Klarke while Harry kept his eyes on the grains of the wooden desk. 

He felt like a potted plant, standing in the middle of the interaction. At least this was saving him time before (Y/N) would follow him into the shelves and watch as he picked out new books to try. 

Soon enough, the conversation ended with Ms. Klarke prompting them to look around, (Y/N) looked to Harry to lead the way. 

"Where to first?" Her gaze dropped down the opposing wings of the library, each end marked with flags showing off different genres. 

The shelves were packed with books, some visibly old with cracked spines and barcodes that had been replaced more than once, while others were vibrantly bright with fresh packaging. Spaces were left here and there for new arrivals to make a home, but it seemed like a place like this wouldn't ever run out of space no matter how many volumes were shoved into the empty spaces. 

"This way," he said, shoving his now empty hand into his pocket. 

Harry trailed through the shelves, not even bothering to look up at the markers as he went. He knew where he was going, even if he took slow steps as if contemplating where to go next.

The mystery section was the last one to amble through before reaching Harry's destination. The dark spines with words like murder and cold case. He didn't bother to look too close at the editions. Mystery wasn't a genre he enjoyed anymore, not since many of the subjects became the things he was trying to run from not escape into. 

Bypassing the space, Harry led them to the shelves just an aisle over. The romance section. 

Among the stacks were the stereotypical shirtless covers with overtly sexual titles, the kind of books that would have been on the roster of a women's wine and book club. Interspersed through were the bright covers Harry was more familiar with, blocky titles with drawn covers and bestselling authors. 

He could hear (Y/N)'s footsteps behind him, following him into the section he took his time getting to. The pat of her feet stopped just beside him. 

"You like romance books?" 

Swallowing, Harry feigned an attempt to get a closer look at a book as he crouched down. He didn't want to see her face if she had any other thoughts about his selection. "It's easy to read," he told her, eyeing a volume with gold lettering over a dark blue cover, constellations decorating the binding, "Happy endings and all that." 

"That's why I like them, too," she said after a beat, her voice soft to match the ambiance of the library, "There's always so much going on, it's nice to read something happy and soft instead of focusing on all the bad." 

An invisible pressure that had been pressing on his chest waned at her words. While there wasn't much opportunity to share his preferred book genre with others, Harry hadn't ever wanted to. He always figured it was a little embarrassing to admit to reading kissing books. Of course (Y/N) wouldn't have any kind of problem with it, though. He should have figured. 

The static of her presence shifted as she began her own perusal of the shelves. A beat of silence settled between the two of them, only the whisper of another patron heard down the aisle. 

Swallowing, Harry felt his heartbeat in his chest. "I also like to read fantasy stuff sometimes," he told her, feeling all too nervous to be sharing something so trivial about himself. 

Her response came in the form of a small hum, "Really? What kind do you like?" 

Distracting his restless hands, Harry plucked the blue book from the shelf, the plastic covering crackling under his fingers. "Kind of like Dracula and those kinds of things," he mumbled, pretending as if he didn't feel her eyes on him, "They're hard to read sometimes, jus' because the language is hard to understand, but I think they're pretty interesting." 

"I don't know if I could read any of those monster books, honestly," she said, huffing out a laugh, "I think I would give myself nightmares if I read them after dark, but they do sound really interesting. I want to know if it's still as scary now as it was back then." 

The thought of (Y/N), perky and bright as she was, sitting down with a book like Dracula or one of the other great gothic horrors, had Harry almost breaking into a smile while looking at the book in his hand. He'd be interested to see her reaction to something that dark. 

A process Harry was far too familiar with started then: the seemingly endless browsing of library shelves. Even after picking out the trio of books that would keep him busy for the week, he didn't find any kind of rush to head out immediately after. (Y/N) meandered with him, finding her own interesting reads before restocking them on the shelf. Harry could hear her mumbling something about needing to get a library card. 

"So this is what you do on your days off?" she asked once they reconvened around a shelf of autobiographies. 

Nodding, Harry had his eyes forward as he spoke. "Usually. I visit you, the library, and sleep. Nothing exciting." 

"That sounds so nice, though," she all but melted, "I feel like I'm so busy all the time, even when I'm not at work. I know I'm lucky to be doing a hobby of mine for work, but it does take out some of the fun of baking for myself, you know? And it used to be a kind of stress reliever, but now it just feels like I'm doing my work again." 

"I'm sorry," he told her, brows knitting in the middle at the explanation. He'd never really thought about it like that, if he was being honest. He always figured that if you're doing something you love, you never work—or whatever it was that quote said. "I've never thought about it like that." 

"I didn't either before I started," she shared, "But, it's okay, really. I still enjoy baking and my job is easy because of that, I just don't have the urge to bake in my free time like I used to." 

"As long as you're happy," he murmured. He felt as though it was a secret he was sharing with her between the stacks, that he thought at all about her happiness. 

Her finger paused on the spine of the book she was tracing over, a falter in her route. Looking up at her, he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. 

"Do you bake or cook or anything like that?" she asked once she seemingly recovered, her attention now placed on the autobiography of an eighties songwriter. 

Taking in a deep breath, he kept himself from drawing his gaze over her profile. His attention was forcefully placed on what looked like a memoir of a philosopher. "Not really. Baking is too scientific for me; all the measuring makes me feel like I'll mess it up," he offered, "And, I don't really cook anymore." 

"Anymore?"

It was an innocent question. The wording he used was something anyone would pick up on, so he wasn't sure why he felt nervous knowing that she picked up on it. He swallowed, throat bobbing around the building words. 

"Yeah, I don't cook much anymore but when I lived with my—um—my mum we used to cook together a lot." Though it was little more than a sentence, this was the most he'd talked about his past to anyone in over a handful of years. He just hoped she didn't ask about his mom. 

"That's really sweet," she said, looking up from where she was reading the back description of one of her books, "What did you like to cook?" 

Relief touched his chest at the new subject matter. It didn't matter how long it's been since he and his family had to scatter themselves around, it was still hard to speak on them when he never got to process the grief over losing them. This was easier, speaking about her indirectly, even if he could still feel that well of emotion growing heavier in his stomach. 

"We liked to make this soup together a lot; it had rice and chicken sometimes and other little things. I think I was too young to really pay attention to what she was putting in before she had me doing something else. It was that and a lot of grilled cheeses, and Sunday dinners, and just... things she knew I liked." 

Harry felt himself shutting down when he started uncovering more and more memories in the kitchen with his mother. Those moments were what they had left up until things changed, her always having him help even when he was old enough to do more than wash the produce and stir the pot. His defense mechanism of shutting down kicked in, shutting him out of his own memories and own recollection of those days. 

"That's really cute," (Y/N) murmured, looking at him with something in her eyes that looked entirely too soft to be directed at him. Her gaze lingered before it dropped back to the book in her hands. "I've always been okay at cooking, but before I started at the bakery, I used to make cupcakes all the time." 

Cupcakes. That was much easier to focus on. He almost wanted to thank her for changing the subject. 

"Yeah?" 

"Mhm," she hummed, sliding the book back into place on the shelf, "I used to try all kinds of weird flavors with different frostings and little designs in all different colors. It was so fun, but now the idea of doing something like that after I get home from work makes my hands hurt before I've even started." 

A furrow pinched at Harry's brows. That same instinct he had that urged him to check on her earlier piped up once again. "Do your hands hurt a lot from work?" 

"Sometimes," she shrugged, facing him with the tendrils of her bow fluttering behind her, "If I'm working on the bread case that day, then yeah. All of the yeast stuff that needs me to really work with it and everything, that hurts my hands the worst, but it usually depends on the prep." 

It was the way her face dropped when she said the word prep and how quickly she pulled out her phone afterwards that had that concerned instinct flaring once more. Even as she tapped away at whatever it was that lived in her phone, her attention stitched elsewhere, he still squared his shoulders as if to show her he could help. "What's wrong?" 

"I almost completely forgot I have to go in for an overnight this weekend. Sabrina was supposed to, but she has a concert that night she doesn't want to miss," she sighed, finishing whatever it was that was on her screen before putting her phone back into her bag, "It's basically just a prep shift while we're closed so the opener is ready to put things in the oven. I haven't done one in so long; I don't want to." 

"You can't get out of it?" Harry pressed, feeling worried over how much she didn't want to do it. 

Was there more he needed to be concerned about? Was she hiding from something? Was someone making her do this? How was he supposed to help her if she didn't tell him what was going on?

"It's honestly not that bad, I'm just being dramatic," she smiled at him, relaxing some under the intensity of his gaze, "These are the kinds of shifts that hurt my hands the most, but it's nice going on when everything is closed. I don't have to be in uniform, and I can just listen to music and be by myself for a little while." 

By myself. That pinged in Harry's head a little too loudly. He understood what she was getting at—the kind of solitude that had him gravitating towards his own overnight shift—, but that didn't ease him into the idea of her being alone overnight in the bakery. 

"I'll be like you that day," she told him, kicking her toe lightly against his own Vans, "A vampire getting up before the sun is up, and everything." 

He wanted to lighten up, especially at the small touch she offered him without reason, but he still was working overtime in his head. "You'll be alone? No one else is coming in with you?" 

"Yeah, but it's not so bad," she said, inching out the aisle with Harry following her lead, "I'll see one of the other girls when I come in after we close, but after that it's just me." He was sure she could tell he wasn't completely eased at the new centimeter of information. "I promise it's not as bad as I was acting. I don't even think I'll need to drive that day, so I won't need to worry about parking or anything either." 

Though Harry knew she was trying to reference back to when she told him that she wasn't very good at parking and always made herself nervous when she had to pick a spot in the overflow lot by the bakery, he was focusing too much on the fact she wasn't planning on driving at all. 

"What do y'mean?" 

"I think I'm going to walk to work that day since it'll be so quiet, anyway. It'll help me relax a little afterwards, I think." 

Harry almost stopped in his tracks. She planned on walking to her overnight shift. The shift that exclusively deals in dark nights and little to no light? The one that encourages those that feel too comfortable in the dark to come out and mess with someone like her? The spines of his chosen books crackled at his tightening grip. 

"You're going to walk?" 

"I live in a townhouse a few blocks over, so it's not a long walk or anything. I would do it more often, I just hate usually have things to do afterwards that I need to drive for." 

"What time do y'get off?" The question rolled off his tongue before he had even decided he was going to ask as much. He hoped he wasn't coming off as creepy as he sounded. 

"I think I'm scheduled until two, but I usually stay a little longer just to make sure everything is resting well before I leave." The information was offered to him with no fight. Another red flag to Harry's too cautious brain. Worst case scenarios began to brew in his brain with villains who made sure to exploit her trusting nature. 

He brushed a knuckle against the tip of his nose, taking in a deep breath. "If you're willing to wait a little until I get off, I can walk y'home." 

It was (Y/N)'s turn for her steps to falling in the meandering trail they were curating through the stacks. She looked at him with an incredulous look on her face, brows raised and eyes wide. "Really?" 

A determined set had his features in hard lines. A furrow scrunched Harry's brows, mouth set into a hard line with a jaw to match, gaze stitched to her own. He didn't waver even when he faltered over his words. "I...I don't like the idea of y'walking alone in the dark." 

The incredulous mold of her features melted away to something much more shy and flustered. A small smile curled her lips, her eyes softening as she looked up at him through a flutter of lashes. She was the closest thing to the human embodiment of the butterflies that made their home in Harry's stomach. 

"You don't mind after working all night?" 

"No." 

Her smile grew some at his simple answer. "I think I'd like that, then. Thank you, Harry." 

Harry only dropped her gaze to keep her from spotting the small curl of his lips over the sound of her voice wrapping around his name like silk. 

—————

Harry had his eyes glued to the clock stationed above the computer in the stock room. The second the hands thunked into position, detailing out three o'clock, he was punching out. Not a minute later. He wasn't going to be late with someone waiting on him.

He promised (Y/N)'d he'd be there to walk her home, and he wasn't going to be a second late. 

It was barely 3:02 a.m. when he stepped out into the rain-soaked parking lot, scaling the length to his car. All night had felt like a countdown, Harry near constantly checking the time on his phone to ensure he would finish with his boxes in time to clock out right away when the time struck. Other than a wave over his shoulders, he didn't waste time playing into the chatty goodbyes of his coworkers. (Even on regular nights, he didn't understand how they could be so eager to socialize at three in the morning after a full shift). 

After pulling out of the parking lot, the drive to her bakery felt like five minutes with the way he was driving. He especially didn't want her to wait long enough for (Y/N) to get any wild ideas about waiting outside the front doors for him. But, as he pulled up to the building, The Flour Pot sign darkened, there was no one there. 

Peering through the windows after he picked his usual parking space across the street, he saw only a tiny light. Knowing what he knew of the layout, it looked as if it could be one the light to the kitchen or a back office, but the shine could easily be mistaken for a glare from oncoming traffic. 

That was where (Y/N) was. Safe inside. 

The drumming in his chest settled at the knowledge. He hadn't realized he had given so much weight to the scenario where he would pull up to her already walking home without him, some faceless entity trailing her, opening its maw to reveal sharpened fangs before swallowing her whole. (He'd been thinking about checking out Dracula again since their conversation in the library, but after this he figured his imagination was a little too active for something like that). 

Now it was his turn to wait. She had warned him that she would be later than her scheduled time of two o'clock, and he had no qualms about waiting it out for her. He was a patient person, a virtue Harry and learned in his old life, but this was one of the first times he felt content to wait for someone. As long as she didn't leave without him. 

Harry settled into his seat, soft music filtering through the speakers. 

——————

Almost an hour later, from the corner of his eye, Harry saw movement from inside the bakery. The light in the back had been flicked off moments before he saw a comfy dressed figure slipping out of the front door.

(Y/N) had her hair pulled back, a loose shirt on with soft leggings and her ever-present Vans on her feet. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, hands full of her keys and her phone. She took her time locking the front doors.

Through that hour of waiting, fatigue had settled in Harry's bones, making his movements much more lethargic than normal as he readied to meet her on the sidewalk. Until he saw her pull out a pair of headphones from her bag, slipping the buds into her ears before turning in the opposite direction of the shop. 

Though he didn't want to scare her, Harry had to quicken his pace and catch up with her as soon as he could. She didn't seem to hear the thud of his feet over the pavement and splashing through rain puddles until he was close enough to call her name. (Any kind of creature could have snuck up on her with her being so distracted like that. The thought sent a frigid chill down Harry's spine). 

At the call of her name, Harry's hand inches away from grazing her arm, (Y/N) spun around, hand to her neck with a squeaking scream clogging her throat. Realization came a moment later, her widened eyes and startled stature melting away when she took him in. 

"Jeez, Harry, you scared me," she breathed out. 

"Sorry," he told her, hand dropping back to her side, "I didn't want y'to leave without me."

"That's right, oh my god," she bubbled off, replacing her headphones back into the pod carrier, "I almost completely forgot you're walking with me. I'm sorry, tonight's been a really long night."

"'S okay," he said, stepping that much closer to her over the cracked concrete. "At least y'didn't get too far before I caught you." 

"Yeah," she smiled at him, nudging her shoulder to keep the straps of her bag up, "Thank you again. Even though I almost forgot, it means a lot." 

Harry only nodded his head, that odd feeling of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth returning at her words. It wasn't something he'd experienced in a long while, but (Y/N) seemed to be the only one that could pull it from him. 

Falling into step beside her as they started on the couple block walk to her home, he saw as she flexed her fingers as her sides, her phone being discarded to float in her bag instead of in her grasp. "Are your hands okay?" 

Flexing her hands out in front of her, (Y/N)'s joints were visibly stiff with spots of flour decorating the hem of her sleeves. "Yeah, they're not too bad, actually. I've definitely had worse." She ran the pad of her thumb over the meaty part of the other. "I'm really only sore right here, but I'll be fine." 

Her voice was like a melody over the sounds of the night. Rain showers had cleansed the town earlier in the night, leaving their footsteps to be complimented by the stick of raindrops clinging to the rubber soles of their shoes. Leaves rustled around them as drops slid down the surface, arcing down every leaf until joining a puddle created on the concrete around them. Everything smelled wet and fresh; clear. (Y/N)'s refreshing presence fit in perfectly. 

"'M happy you're alright," he said, his own hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Peering at her at his side, he saw her looking to the sky. He slowed his steps to not leave her behind. "Am I allowed to know what y'made today?" 

"Of course," she laughed, looking at him with the same kind of wonder she was giving to the starry sky, "I prepped a lot of shortbread tonight, so Sabrina can make them into tulips later, and even more croissants. I did a few other little things for the bread case but I think the croissants got me the worst today." 

"Yeah? Why do you think that?" 

"It's all the layers," she started, leading him in taking a left out of the main town, "It's a lot of rolling it out and making sure I get it all done before the butter starts melting in between. I've gotten a lot better at the timing since I've started, but it's still a lot to work on all at once." 

"I didn't know that. 'M sorry." He now suddenly felt bad for enjoying any of her treats. He didn't like the idea of her hurting just for a sweet to start his morning. 

"Don't be sorry, it's okay. Someone has to do it," she chirped out, mimicking the birds that were beginning to wake up around them, "How was your night, though? Did you just get off?" 

Harry shrugged. He didn't really feel like telling her he'd been waiting for over an hour outside the bakery for her. "I got off a little earlier, but yeah. It was an easy night, jus' boring. Longer than I thought it would be." 

Her bag bounced against her hip as they walked, her eyes like the starlight when she looked at him. "Unpack anything fun?" 

Dropping his head, he brushed his knuckle against the tip of his nose to conceal the small twitch on the corner of his mouth. He knew what she was getting at. "I mean, I did unpack some cookies tonight." 

(Y/N) had them cross the street before turning into a suburban area, full of small houses. It was like a gingerbread house community Harry thought, everything similar but distinctly different with the way every inhabitant decorated the outside. 

"What kind of cookies?" 

He had to look the other way this time to keep her from seeing that smile. He didn't know why, but he wasn't sure if he wanted her to see him like that; as if she would call him out, like even she would know he wasn't supposed to be happy like that. 

With a shrug and his composure in place, Harry told her with a flat tease, "This raspberry kind with white chocolate, I think? And one of the other guys unpacked some fancy cheeses, too. At least I heard anyway." 

She was silent beside him for a moment. "I can't tell if you're making fun of me, or if you really forgot that those are two of my favorite things right now." 

"Are they?" 

That had a peal of laughter falling from (Y/N)'s lips. She drifted close enough then to bump his hip with her own, looking up at him with faux offense. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" 

Looking at his feet, the puddles he disrupted with his steps and the clinging wetness that filled the cracks in the pavement. Peering at her from the corner of his eye, he spotted her still looking at him, a smile crumbling her facade. 

"A little." 

(Y/N) only laughed and shook her head, bumping his hip once more. She mumbled something under her breath about how of course he did. 

Straying from her path, (Y/N) bumped Harry's hip once more, her bag pressing into his side. His steps never faltered, eyes forward and a twitch in his lips. He forgot what it was like to be teased and have fun with someone. 

The silence that fell between them was filled with the clear, dewy slick of the rain under their feet. The gingerbread neighbourhood he'd seen down the street was now around them in their cookie cutter shapes and frosting decor. Short white picket fences outlined the perimeters of the small front yards, the houses stacked side by side behind. 

(Y/N) stopped in front of a row of three units. A set of pastel colored curtains in the window of the one bookending the building gave away exactly who lived there. A dull cream paint was brushed over the panels with a muted blue trim and front door. It was a complete replica of every other townhouse on the block. 

The personal touches came in the form of a sunshine yellow bird house hung on her small porch, leaves and twigs poking out of the front hole. A welcome mat was placed in front of her door, the pattern one of daisies and strawberries though the colors had now been muddied and dull from every time a pair of feet wiped themselves off on the fibers. Around the side was a window with a flowerbed hung underneath. Instead of blooms and bright petals, Harry spotted brown leaves and wilted stems. She tried her best to keep those plants alive, he was sure. 

"This is mine," she said, looking up at him with starry eyes. For the first time since he picked her up, he saw those lines of fatigue around her irises, exhaustion tugging at her features. 

"I'll see you soon, then?" he asked. He didn't mean to sound so abrupt, but he wanted her to get some rest. As much as a part of him wanted her to linger outside with him, to spend some of these usually lonely hours with him, it wasn't fair to keep her from sleeping. She wasn't like him. 

Nonetheless, a soft smile touched her chapped lips. "Definitely." 

Despite the pause that would allow her to head inside and end her night, (Y/N) lingered for a beat longer. Reaching a hand up to press those stray baby hairs out of her eyes, she looked at him through the fan of her lashes. 

"Harry?" 

He swallowed. "Hm?" 

She looked sheepish in that moment, struggling to meet his eyes with a shy smile on her lips. "You can tell me if this is too much, but I was wondering if I could have your number, maybe?" 

Harry's voice stuck in his throat when he processed what she said. His hand clenched in his pocket, his phone suddenly heavy in his back pocket. 

A nervous hand pushed back hair that wasn't in her face when the silence stretched on a little too long for comfort. "I don't know, I'm sorry, I just think it might be nice to know when I'll see you again, instead of just waiting? And, I'm really bad at remembering to tell you about the things I see that make me think of you or things I think you'd like and all, so it would be cool to tell you before I forget." 

Standing there in the clean air after rainfall, a dew touching his skin with birds beginning to sing around him, Harry felt frozen. His heartbeat didn't quicken, his blood didn't rush, his hands didn't shake. He had been plunged into ice, stopping him in his spot with a breath of air stuck in his lungs. 

(Y/N) wasn't supposed to ask him that. She wasn't supposed to want to see him, to find things in the world that made her think of him—she wasn't supposed to think of him at all, really. How did he get here? 

How had he tricked her into seeing anything more than a standoffish man who didn't need anyone but himself? Even with these stolen moments together, he couldn't imagine he would enter her mind in the same way she had been able to do to him. 

A shuttering blink had Harry's eyes clearing by the time he opened them to find her still standing there. In a millisecond, words tumbled out of his throat, his hand fumbling for his back pocket. "Y-Yeah, of course." 

In clumsy fingers, he held his phone out towards her. The device had a hairline crack along the side of the screen, a case that had seen more wear-and-tear he figured most people would allow, and a generic Lock Screen. He didn't bother opening it up and taking her to the needed app. There was no security to get through on there, nothing for him to hide in his squeaky-clean existence. 

"Thank you," she said, looking up at him with a shy smile on her lips. She was bashful under his gaze, gingerly taking his phone and swiping through the screens and tapping on what she needed, a short tremor touching at her fingers. "Is it okay if I text myself from your phone so I have your number too?" 

Swallowing, Harry nodded his head, stuffing his hands back into his pockets before he had a chance to pluck at his cuticles again. "Maybe—um—y'can let me know the next time y'have a shift like this, and I can walk y'home again. Maybe." 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips at his stumbling words, her gaze flicking from the phone to him. "Definitely, I'll let you know. I don't get scheduled for these often anymore, but you'll be the first to know if that changes." 

Harry couldn't remember the last time his body reacted this way—the frozen limbs, the waking heart, the stunted lungs. Definitely never under such sweet circumstances, he knew that. 

Though he felt like he could have been standing there long enough to see the sunrise then set again, it only took a moment for the text she sent to herself to go through. She took her own phone out then, surely looking at the text and saying Harry's number for herself. There was something especially bright in her gaze when she looked up at him to return his own device, her phone being wrung between both of her hands.

"I'll see you again soon, then?" she asked, toeing at the ground. She didn't attempt to fix the sliding strap of her bag. 

"Yeah," he sounded in the quiet of the slow morning, a nod of his head. 

He expected her to then spin on her heel and head inside, a goodbye said over her shoulder before he would trace his path back alone. Instead, (Y/N) lingered, her hands growing busier on her phone, playing with the corners of her phone case. That nervous pinch in her brows returned. 

"C-Can I hug you?" she asked, voice almost as small as the dew drops on the grass of her yard, "It's okay if you're not a hugger or anything, though, I just thought I'd ask 'cause..." 

She trailed off before any real explanation could be given, a sheepish shrug in its place. 

If he thought he had been plunged into ice water before, Harry swore he was frozen under the throes of an avalanche now. 

"No—um—y'can. 'M okay with it." His voice felt thick in his throat, smearing over his tongue before falling out for her to taste too. 

(Y/N) brightened like he had given her something sweet, a treat she couldn't have made herself. 

Harry couldn't remember the lead up or any of the details before she had folded her arms around him. She had reached up, looping her arms around his neck while Harry's settled around her middle. His hands spanned the planes of her back, ducking down with his nose touching the crown of her head, ruffled strands of hair tickling him. 

From the outside, there was nothing special. She didn't squeeze him particularly hard or press her whole body to his, she didn't spill any secrets into the column of his neck. But, this had to be one of the most profound moments in Harry's recent life. 

The last time someone hugged him, he had to have been a teenager. He'd forgotten what it felt like to feel that kind of gentle touch. 

She didn't linger for too long, drawing away after she had cradled him for long enough. The absence of her form left a ghost of heat on Harry's body. He almost wanted to clutch at it like it was really her. He'd settle for the warmth of her gaze. 

"Thank you for walking me home and everything, Harry." Her smile grew as she spoke. "It made my night." 

He could have crumbled then. Whatever was happening to his body and his brain, he wasn't sure. It felt good, though. 

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," he murmured as she took her slow steps back to her front door. His hand tightly clutched his phone in his pocket. "I-I'll text y'when I get home?" 

It was like the sunrise occurred right in front of him the way she perked up. "Yes, please! I might be asleep, but I want to make sure you made it home okay." That bubbly smile was tacked onto her lips as she absently fiddled with the doorknob. "Goodnight." 

Harry stayed on the concrete until she was safely inside, a wave being thrown over her shoulder to him before the door was sealed shut behind her. It was then when he was alone that he allowed a smile to break out over his features. 

Though only the ground under his feet saw it, the smile was for (Y/N), only.

His phone was warm in his palm when he pulled it out, something he was willing to convince himself was still from (Y/N). Sliding open the lock screen, the message thread she had started was still up. 

Up top, her name was punctuated with a lotus flower and a croissant. The one message she sent to herself was a heart emoji. Though he hadn't been the one to press send, seeing the text in the blue bubble on his side the screen, made his heart tick. It was easy to pretend he was the one that sent it in the first place. 

The whole walk back to his care he couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

—————

hyssop represents purification and hope; letting go of the past and allowing a better future

eepppp! super excited to show you some different parts of rosemary h! patreon is now a little more than halfway through the story now, so if you cant wait you can def sign up there and get to know more of their story! thank you soooooo much for reading and following along! so sorry if theres any mistakes but please let me know if you have any fun ideas or requests or predictions!

#writing #harry #harry styles #harry one shot #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry au #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles au #harry styles x reader #harry angst #harry styles angst #harrys house #love on tour #as it was #pleasing #satellite

[dancingwithfoxes]

10 little subtle ways and things you could be doing that are witchy!

(esp if you're still in the broom closet) ❤️🦊

1. virtual and online altars

pinterest boards dedicated to your gods/goddesses; quotes and aesthetics.

tumblr dedication blogs.

social media page with your witchy alias.

discord server, a private place to organise channels and create categories for what you want, i.e., spellwork, candle magick, crystal associations, etc.

music playlists, for both manifesting and connecting with your deities, they love coming through music.

2. journal/book altars

similar to the idea of a book of shadows, this will be personal writings and thoughts for specific deities.

you can customise it and decorate it much like a physical altar! i.e., stickers, washi tapes, markers, sparkles.

custom spreads for whomever you work with, you can put prayers you've written for them, words you want to convey, and express.

3. the wooden box altar, also known as a travelling altar

a place to put all your trinkets and necessities.

if you're unable to have a physical space, having one that's portable will help you take your altar wherever you go.

you can carve/paint the box to be more personal for you, or to be ultra discreet about it you can just customise the inner part so it doesn't stick out to people you don't want knowing yet.

4. origami shapes

for manifesting, write out what you would like and fold it into a star to carry out the manifestation.

use the idea of symbolism to embed your intentions, for luck, a four leaf clover. for allowing new opportunities to find you and let go, a butterfly, to succeed in something you could make a bird; "soaring to new heights."

you could also use this time to connect with your deities, just being with them in the moment.

5. financial abundance

if you can't blow cinnamon on the first day of the new month, put a dash of it in your morning coffee or tea first thing.

use of coins in the soil of your plants welcomes in prosperity.

likewise with coins, frogs are symbolic of wealth.

a bay leaf where you keep your wallet/purse, the exchange of the money you give out you will receive back with a little extra.

6. kitchen magick/green witchery

add spices/herbs to help achieve something you want i.e.,

pancakes with vanilla and honey to bring in loving and warm energy.

adding pepper/salt/basil/rosemary to encourage protection.

for clarity and insight, chamomile tea.

to have peaceful and calm resolve, lemonade with fresh mint leaves.

7. clothing and jewellery

wearing items of clothing or jewellery in honour of your deities, i.e.

rings, bracelets, and necklaces that symbolise something of them for you.

shirts with quotes you feel resemble them; colour associations work plenty.

if you crochet or make your own items of clothing, knot magick or sewing in a symbol that means something for you can help you feel confident when wearing it.

8. self-care can be devotional

doing things that make you happy whilst doing it in honour of your deities allows them to be present in your simple joys.

writing, poetry, reading; feeling called to read something because it holds a message for you.

indulging a show or something you watched in your childhood years, deities take pleasure in watching something that means alot to you and will be grateful to share that moment.

treats and specific cravings, i.e., little upg, but loki loves sweet pastries.

taking a walk about in nature gives your deities more room to show you the beauty of the world. take them to your favourite bench, to your favourite coffee shop.

knot magick, if you crochet, make something in honour of your gods/goddesses. they will ensure it brings you comfort when you hold it.

painting your nails, you can charge your nail polish beneath the moon or mix in a little moon water to be energised and intuitively connected.

9. cleansing and clearing of old energy

water

will help the bad flow out and let the good flow in.

showers/baths are good for self-cleansing.

holding a glass of water before drinking it and wish your intentions.

crying, allowing yourself to feel what it is you're trying to process in order for it to be released. can't release something you haven't finished going through yet.

moon water, I recommend this during a new moon as that's more symbolic to starting anew, planting seeds and encouragement toward growth.

sun water, can help with energising you and bringing in positive energy, also a confidence boost.

earth

holding onto a crystal for a few moments, just breathing in and out.

crystals can be used for cleansing, smoky quartz, clear quartz. there is a crystal for all your needs.

plants! plants are great for protection and for taking in bad energy. they will listen to what you have to say, and will love you as much as you love them.

food, especially grown from the earth can help you feel refreshed and buzzing with energy.

fire

burning, writing out your hardships, struggles, anger and burning them (safely please).

lighting a candle while you work on something, very therapeutic, and you can visualise the bad energy being burnt out and released.

incense, the smoke is a natural cleanser and will do wonders. you aren't restricted to using sage to cleanse; others you could use are myrrh, sandalwood, lavender, or cedar. it's completely up to what your preferences are.

air

breathing in and out during meditation, as you take in some air and release it, upon release visualise what you're letting go of.

bells, the frequency of dinging bells helps to disperse bad energy.

sound cleansing through soft music, and intentional frequencies. you'll find alot of these up on youtube.

10. divination methods (aside from tarot/pendulums that i know of)

clouds, observing what you see and the shapes you recognise, what you need to know will be reflected in nature.

ceromancy, candle wax, burning a candle after asking for some clarity or an answer and having the wax form a shape for you to interpret.

numerology, angel numbers, and the significance of the numbers.

automatic writing, done in your personal journal, it's unconscious writing that can help channel messages you may need.

bibliomancy, randomly selecting a passage or words from a book.

capnomancy, the use of smoke from candles or incense, and reading the shapes and forms casted by the smoke

conchomancy, divination through seashells, shapes, and the type of shell.

casting a set of charms on a cloth and divinating the meaning of where they landed.

#witch #witchcraft #witches #witchblr #witchy #witches on tumblr #pagan #norse paganism #norse gods #norse pantheon #lokean #norse heathen #nordic witch #norse pagan witch #old norse #witch aesthetic #witchyvibes #witchcore #pagan witch #spiritual

[brattylikestoeat]

#berry rosemary Brie puff #raspberry #black berries #blue berries #rosemary #brie #puff pastry #tiktok #tiktok food #brattylikestoeat #food #foodlr #food blog #video #foodie #cooking stim #stim cooking #yummy #foodgasm #foodporn

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Berthe the Green Witch

Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.

The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden. 

She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself  by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon. 

She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.

Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.

“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”

The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.

Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.

Ring ring ring

Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…

“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”

“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.

Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.

Knock knock. “Berthe!”

She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.

Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!

She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off  flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.

Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather. 

It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.

Unsettling.

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”

“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”

Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”

The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.

He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.

Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”

“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”

Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”

Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”

The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.

Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.

“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”

“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”

This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.

“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”

Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.

“Ouch!” 

Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.

————.

The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.

The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.

“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”

“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”

“It’s apple,” Berthe says.

“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”

“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”

Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”

“Currently?” Clayman asks.

“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”

She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.

“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”

Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.

“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”

With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”

Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.

“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.

Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”

Berthe grins and winks.

Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“

“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues.  She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”

Berthe sobers. “How young?”

“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”

Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.

Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”

“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”

Berthe looks at Clayman.

“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”

“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”

Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”

She opens the door.

The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.

The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.

Rachel stares. 

Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”

“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says. 

“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.

“What?”

But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”

Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”

“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”

“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.

“There’s a knife in my bag.”

Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”

“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”

“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”

“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”

“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“

But his words are interrupted by Rachel. 

Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”

Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”

“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”

“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”

Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”

“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”

Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”

Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”

“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”

“Why?”

“It—it just shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”

“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”

Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“

“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”

“The soul, but that’s—“

“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”

The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.

“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”

“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”

He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.

Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”

“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”

“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“

“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”

Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.

Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.

No longer, Berthe thinks. 

Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“

“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“

“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”

Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“

Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“

Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”

“Dying?” Rachel asks.

Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”

“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”

He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.

Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.

“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”

“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.

Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”

“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”

“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”

“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”

“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”

Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”

Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.

They both know who has jurisdiction here.

Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”

Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”

“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”

“Which is?”

“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”

Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”

“Green witchcraft isn’t--”

“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”

Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”

“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”

“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”

“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”

Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.

Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”

Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”

“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”

Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”

“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”

Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”

“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”

“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”

“What?” Clayman asks.

Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”

“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”

“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”

Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”

“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”

Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”

Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”

Berthe swats at him.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”

Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”

Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green soul. I think you should--”

Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”

Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”

“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”

Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”

“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Berthe slaps his shoulder.

--------------------.

Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.

New moon.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the stormclouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out to them.

Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.

“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”

Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”

Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.

-----

Thanks for reading! It’s Halloween season which means there will be witches and horror on this blog for the foreseeable future!

Next week’s short story: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.

You can read the story now on my Patreon (X) where I post all of my stories a week early! 

Also thank you everyone who bought my anthology, Being Heroes, Being Villains (X) and to those who reviewed it! I’ll be making a post this weekend about the reviews which have been so kind :) Thank you!

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