“Do you have any more?” the customer asked.

“Return tomorrow,” the crone responded, pulling her cauldron from under the counter. “Do you know the cost?”

The customer nodded and backed slowly out of the small store. Bright sunlight flooded the normally dark room, revealing clusters of dried herbs, cloudy jars of mysterious liquids, a cage full of live frogs. An unseen hand pushed the door closed as soon as the customer passed the threshold, returning the darkness once more.

The crone shuffled around the warped counter and twisted the lock on the door. She needed to focus to create the requested potion. Fire burst to life in the pit behind her, pushing the already warm room towards stifling. Beneath layers of rags, the crones joints creaked with age and began to loosen in the growing heat.

Next, the crone turned to the splintery shelves holding most of her jars of ingredients. She selected several and poured practiced measures of each into the cauldron. Some powdered rat bone, a touch of iguana bile, a large portion of distilled liquid astonishment. Carefully lifting it so the concoction didn’t slosh out, the crone moved the cauldron from the counter to its brewing perch above the fire.

With a flick of her wrist, a worn wooden spoon flew to her side and began to slowly stir the mixture. She watched for a moment, moving her fingers slightly to adjust the spoons speed until it was exactly the rate she needed. After fifty turns it would be time to add a handful of boar hairs and one salamander tongue. Fifty more, and then she would add a dragons tooth. The last ingredient she needed was the most important, but one she couldn’t acquire herself. In order for the brew to be effective, the customer had to bring it themselves. But before that came the incantations.

The crone grabbed a leather bound book from her shelves and found the spells she needed. She filled a small glass with some condensed confidence and drank it in a single gulp. It would help ensure she didn’t falter over the complicated words. Standing in front of the cauldron, the crone began speaking the special words, watching as ethereal symbols formed in front of her and sank into the bubbling potion.

Outside the shop, people continued to walk by unaware of the magic happening within. A thin trail of smoke exuded from the chimney and blew away quickly in the breeze. The parade of pedestrians slowed as the day’s light faded until both had disappeared entirely. The smoke still rose from the chimney as the moon traversed the sky. As the moon kissed the horizon, its nightly trek finally complete, a bright flash burst from the windows of the witch’s shop. Inside, the crone closed the spellbook and wiped sweat from her brow with a dirty rag.

The potion was thick now and ready for the customer to return. The crone waved her hand once more, slowing the spoon to a snails pace and reducing the fire to a mere flicker. Her work complete, she settled into bed for a few moments of rest.

—

A loud rap on the door roused the crone from her slumber. She shuffled back to the door and unlocked it, permitting the customer to enter.

“Did you bring what I require?” the crone asked, extending a beckoning claw. The customer nodded and placed a small brown purse in the crone’s hand. It felt slightly heavier than she normally required, but she wouldn’t tell the customer that. She was, after all, running a business and had bills to pay. The crone pulled at the drawstrings to inspect the bag’s contents and saw the familiar glint of gold and scent of sweet mint. ‘They always choose mint,’ she thought, rolling her mind’s eye.

“This will be sufficient,” she said, turning back to the burbling cauldron. The mint fizzled as she dropped it into the mixture. She stirred the cauldron with the spoon to integrate the final ingredient, and poured the completed potion into one of the clean glass jars she kept behind the counter.

“Here’s your toothpaste,” the crone said with a smile, “Have a nice day.” The customer thanked her and backed out of the store, careful not to break eye contact in fear that the crone may cast some vile spell. With a sigh, the crone settled back onto the stool behind her counter to count the gold and await her next customer.