“One medium copper cauldron of bubbling pus with a side of stewed seaweed,” she calls, cauldron aloft in her hands.

A tiny little witch, who needs to be on her broom to see over the counter, grabs the cauldron and flies off without so much as a ‘thank you’. Bethanie huffs and begins work on the next order, starting up the grinder to turn a rat skeleton to dust, and then grabbing bat eyeballs from the freezer to toss them into the blender.

Honestly, being a witch sucks. Potion making is not the exciting career field she had initially envisioned when she went off to school. Here she is, in debt up to her nose, working counter service at Quick Cordials, instead of making good money as a research assistant. Of course, her test scores hadn’t been high enough for that kind of work, hadn’t allowed her to become a Proper Witch. So, she’s just a normal witch, mixing up Stain Stripping Sluices for old biddies like Madam Carson, who always needs a good blood remover (Bethanie doesn’t ask why).

She carefully sets the sluice into the old lady’s trembling hands, mindful not to spill a drop lest it burn through her fingers, and turns to check on the--

“I need that Dribbling Draught sooner rather than later,” an old warlock grumbles.

“It has to cure in a warm bath for fifteen minutes, remember Mr. Wimbly?” she says, as she does each week when Mr. Wimbly comes by for the draught.

Really such a glamorous life, she thinks, as Mr. Wimbly dribbles all over the counter.

“That Dribbling Draught is going to have to wait!” someone cries.

Everyone looks up.

In the entrance, hair blowing about as if caught in its own perpetual windstorm, stands a Witch. She’s not just any old witch, but a Proper one. One who wears distractingly tight leather breeches and carries a sword that smells absolutely rotten, the blade resembling mildewed cheese.

Most of the line disperses just to get away from the smell, but the few who remain standing slack-jawed are summarily shoved out of her way. The Witch strides across the shop and points a gloved finger straight at Bethanie’s heart.

“You, potion witch, I need your assistance.”

“Yes, anything,” she says, then shuts herself up.

“Good! I need a potion, a strong one, that can purge the evil from this sword.”

The sword oozes a bit.

“And I need it fast, before the evil consumes this sword and decides to consume something else next – like me! Or you!”

“Oh, um, well.”

She reaches over the counter, plucks the Stain Stripping Sluice from Madam Carson’s hands, and pours it on the sword. It dissolves almost immediately, metal and evil and cheese melting down onto the floor, where it creates an impressive hole. The sword is entirely gone.

“Oh no,” she whispers fretfully. She had just destroyed a Witch’s property! “I didn’t expect the entire sword to just—”

They stare at the hole, the edges of which are still smoking.

“Well, that’s one way to do it, well done,” the Witch pats her on the shoulder.

She’s never washing that arm again.

“You just destroyed evil,” the Witch continues, staring at her rather intensely, “helped save my life and who knows, probably the world too. Now come along, potion witch, we have to find a replacement sword.”

She swirls around and beckons Bethanie to follow her. Bethanie does not. She’s too confused to process what’s happening.

“Oh, sorry, what? I, um, I don’t know where to find a sword.”

“Me neither! That’s why we’re going to look for one.”

“But – I – my job?” she weakly holds up the Dribbling Draught, now finished curing.

The Witch blinks, surveys the shop like she’s just now realizing where she is, and then takes the draught out of Bethanie’s hands. She passes it over to Mr. Wimbly, who’s trembling a bit in the corner.

“This is yours, I think,” the Witch says.

Deed done, she turns back to Bethanie, puts her hand on her hip and says, “Now can we go?”

Bethanie eeps. The Witch saunters over to the counter, leans across it (and oh heavens – that cleavage!) and says, “I needed help and you said ‘anything’. So, what’ll it be? This old dump or a life of adventure by the side of a Witch?”

“Yes,” she says breathily, “or I mean, yes to the second one.”

(She says ‘yes’ again some years later, when the Witch pops the Big Question. And they lived Happily Ever After, as Witches in love are wont to do).