When I was five years old, I watched my first witch burning. I was still clutching my pointed hat, too young and naive to realize that it might as well have been a beacon, shouting, “Here’s the next one!” I’d always liked my hat. It had a jaunty curve, perfect for shading my eyes during long days spent picking moonflowers or chasing fireflies. But after that day, I learned one of the first rules of surviving as a witch in a kingdom brimming with nobles, priests, and pyres: Hide your hat.

Now, you might think, Oh Mireille, that’s just a silly metaphor! But no, I mean it quite literally. The hat has to go. Or at least, it has to look like it’s gone.

There are, believe it or not, some practical steps and time-honored tips for hiding your witch hat. Not destroying it, hiding it. There's a difference, and yes, I understand that now, thank you. But in the moment of full-blown, gut-clenching desperation for a poor little witch like me, fresh off witnessing a public execution and halfway to an identity crisis, you try everything. And I do mean everything.

Because when the flames are still dancing behind your eyes and the smell of smoke clings to your skin, the last thing you want is to be caught with a pointy, embroidered death sentence sitting on your kitchen counter.

Here are a few things I tried. And, if you value your life and your dignity, I suggest you don’t do the same:

Never burn it.

That’s what I tried first, obviously.

Burning the hat. It felt symbolic. Powerful. Like something a mysterious girl would do in a story passed between village girls who never met her but desperately wanted to be her. The kind of story whispered over candlelight with wide eyes and held breaths; she disappeared after the trial, left nothing but ashes and a shadow in the shape of a curse.

One less hat, one less witch. Clean. Dramatic. No evidence.

Except I forgot it was made of stiff wool, not some flowy, cinematic silk.

So I took the hat to the edge of the garden, where the rosemary bushes grow wild and judgmental, towering like silent old women who have seen too much and are not impressed. It felt like the right place for something theatrical. Private enough to avoid questions, but dramatic enough to satisfy whatever part of me still wanted to believe I could reinvent myself with a single symbolic gesture.

I placed the hat gently on the flat stone I usually sit on when I’m being moody about things like fate, the rising cost of eggs, and boys who disappear after two compliments and a half-hearted attempt at eye contact. You know the ones. They say things like “you have a curious mind” and then vanish forever, leaving you wondering if you dreamed the whole conversation. I’ve written several poems about them. Bad ones. But still.

I even lit a candle. For ambiance. Don’t ask why, I thought the moon might appreciate the extra effort. I was trying to be reverent, okay? Mysterious. Witchy in the romantic, misunderstood way, not the “you smell like burnt wool and sadness” way. Then I struck a match. One of the fancy ones, too, with a long wooden stem and a satisfying snap. I held it up like I was invoking some ancient rite, leaned in slowly, and touched it to the brim.

And I waited.

Nothing happened.

Not a dramatic whoosh. Not a gentle smolder. Just the faintest sizzle as the match fizzled out, leaving behind the distinct and underwhelming scent of disappointment and sulfur. The hat remained exactly as it had always been, slightly lopsided, faintly dusty, and immune to metaphor.

I tried again. And again. I even muttered a few phrases I’d read in an old charm book, the ones that usually involve salt and intentions and moonlight. Still nothing. The hat sat there like a grumpy old toad, entirely uninterested in its role as a symbol of transformation.

Eventually, I gave up and poked it with a stick for a while, as one does when grappling with existential failure. The rosemary bush to my left made a noise, probably just the wind, but it felt distinctly like disapproval.

So I leaned closer, muttered something vaguely threatening under my breath—like, “Return to dust, you accursed brimmed parasite,”—and lit the hat on fire.

And I swear to every spirit in the wind, it just sat there. Smoking.

Indignantly.

That’s the only word for it. It didn’t burn. It didn’t sizzle. It didn’t even have the decency to catch a little. It just released this slow, judgmental curl of smoke, as if to say, “Wow. That’s cute. Try harder.”

“I am trying,” I said out loud. To the hat.

It didn’t respond. Of course. It just continued to sit on the rock, looking personally offended, like I’d asked it to pay rent or wear beige. And the smell? Oh, the smell. It was this awful mix of singed lavender, old ink, and failure. I nearly passed out from shame alone. And the worst part? The hat was completely unharmed. Not even a single on the ribbon. Not a single crispy feather.

I tried again. And again. And again.

I even borrowed one of Osmarine’s fancy alchemical lighters, you know, the ones that burn blue and hiss like something alive. She didn't know I borrowed it. If you're reading this, Osmarine, no you don’t.

Still, nothing. The hat didn’t just survive. It flourished. It looked better than before, like it had taken a sauna and come back with more confidence. After the fifth attempt, I kicked the rock. Immediately regretted it. Limped back to the house. Stubbed my toe on a cursed broom I haven’t returned to the archive yet.

Sat on the floor. Glared at the hat, which I had to drag back inside because it wouldn’t move on its own and I refused to let it win. It’s now perched in the corner of my closet like a smug little crown of shame. I swear it watches me.

Moral of the story?
Don’t burn your hat.
You’ll lose your dignity faster than the flames will catch.