“Even the wolves don’t come out at night because they’re afraid of what hides in the shadows: being banished here is worse than a death sentence,” Tituba croaked.

A velvet cloaked figure stood sheltered beneath an inky archway. Casting a rheumy eye over the forlorn windows, the old witch trembled in the fetid dampness. The growl of Tituba’s carriage the only sound. Face lit with an inhuman blue green glow, the slight figure approached. The scrape of pointed heels on wet cobblestones rang on the empty.

“Yeah it’s a pile but the rent’s cheap,” Trixie said looking at her phone as she climbed into the crone’s vehicle. “I hate to be that person but would you mind making a wee pit stop on the way to the Mad Hatter’s Ball?”

“Pre-gaming, huh? No worries I know a package shop by the castle. Good prices, fresh eyes of newt, never checks IDs.”

“For reals! You’re definitely getting four stars on the app,” Trixie said.

Rapidly Trixie tapped on her screen. Confirmation chimed on both of their screens. Cackling, the old witch waved her hand stirring her battered yet regal coach to life. Tituba told the younger witch the way they partied back in her day. Eyes wide, Trixie leaned into the crone’s ribald story. Purple exhaust streamed behind them.