Despite her elders warning her not to, she set out on a clouded afternoon while they busied themselves at the market first, eggs were on sale, and then church, keeping up appearances. Why they were so intent on blending in with the non magical folk, she could never fathom. This was surely a gift to use and help build a new world, for them too. Deep heathers and wet grasses dampened her cloak, embroiled with its own magic from centuries of witches past - an heirloom for casting only the most potent spells. Peering up from beneath her dripping umbrella she could see she’d reached the tree line where the enemy hid. She knew that no good could come of waiting for her town to fall victim next. She would do anything to protect her coven, her pets, their way of life. The war had already engulfed Europe like wildfire. These grasslands would be where it ended. She lit a hand rolled cigarette prepared back in the greenhouse, using ancient ingredients from the dusty off limits cabinet. As the flame from her match lit the end, amber turned to violet and grey smoke morphed into thick, wine plumage rising upward. In its form she saw the future she was stopping; families slaughtered, land pillaged, men lost in wars that weren’t theirs to fight, a dangerous dictator reducing a whole world to ash until all life and creativity and love was drained from it. The smoke grew to fill up the landscape as she took the final drags of her cigarette. Burnt down to her lips, she inhaled the last mouthful of amethyst smoke. She felt it ripping through her lungs like shattered glass, the hallucinogen kicking in and demanding from her her spell. She could see only the smoke around her, filling the air like blood spilt in water. She fell to her knees on the wet floor and touched the earth with her palms. “A sanctuary”. She exhaled. “Let this be a sanctuary to all who’s hearts still beat with kindness.” She thought of her grandmother’s warm smile, her mother’s gentle embrace, her sister’s contagious laughter. “Protect them from who would seek to tear them away and deny them hope.” She thought of the thousands she’d heard of displaced and separated and missing. “Protect them from tyranny, violence and murder.” She thought of the wounded, the dying and the dead. She thought of people who’s lives would never be the same again. But here they could run to. Here they’d be safe. Here would be peace. Her grandmother, her mother, her sister came home to the cottage to find her missing, cabinet looted, cloak gone. They searched the town and hills for her in a frenzy until sundown, when a violaceous fog hit the town, turning lamp and candle magenta, skin mauve. It stretched from the tree lined borders to the coastal shores within a week, and news broke out that the soldiers lying wait in ambush in the woods had retreated. They found her body once the smoke had dissipated, but the colour it flooded the land with never truly left. The sky here would always be a subtle shade of lavender, and anything new that grew here from vegetable to flower would have periwinkle spots and lines of lilac along its leaves. It is said that just eating the food from this land will protect you from harm and lift your spirit.

The spell broke, and just like that, she could see everything with fresh eyes. Peering down at her hands holding a bouquet of flowers, calla lilies and baby’s breath, jewels glistening upon her lace laden chest and her veil creating a soft white haze over the man in front of her. How wrong she’d been about him. How utterly absurd it felt to be stood before him like this, hundreds of eyes staring, waiting for her response. Finally the gut wrenching feeling in her stomach had become a siren loud enough not to ignore. Suddenly all those instances of swallowing down lies and smiling gratefully had come back up again, sitting on her tongue ready to be hurled at the one who would betray her. This was what he wanted, to capture her in a net made of silk, just like the spider he was. Heart hot and heavy, eyes wide and hands tight, making mincemeat of those flowers, she steps back, screaming, lungs full of noise and rage “No!” Throwing the strangled and flaking flowers to the ground at his feet, petals pushing up the dust. He looks up at her, anger boiling in his blood, the realisation that a love spell inflicted by the insincere of heart can never last. The witch had cheated him and protected the one she thought needed help the most. His foreskin, required for such a potion and spell casting as this, would never grow back, unlike the brides self respect.