I met the witch in her quarters the next day. It was a cell. Pots and parchments of paper scattered the ground. A fire brewed in the middle of the room, this time, it was red. Objects of varying sizes covered the wall, garlic in some places, a bottle marked as holy water on a small ledge, figurines wrapped in red and black clothes stuck to the wall. Only a small patch of the wall’s white surface was visible.
The witch was the same one that had made me the potion. When I opened the door that led to her room, she turned with a smile. Her teeth were complete and her body was coiled tight.
“I’ve been expecting you.” Her voice quivered with a mix of apprehension and excitement.
“You didn’t make the potion,” I said, not beating around the bush. “You gave me water to drink. Why?”
“Why ris
