The Coven House is nothing like what you'd expect of a witches' headquarters. It's no dilapidated relic straight out of a horror flick—no cobwebs or creepy crawlies. It's not swathed in darkness and chill; rather, it's a modern, immaculate marvel that's so pristine, I swear someone must have tongue-polished the floors.
It's a towering white edifice nestled in a broad cul-de-sac, a magnificent cauldron fountain dominating its front yard. A copse of trees shelters it, affording both seclusion and secrecy from prying human eyes. I recall the lush greenhouses in the back, a veritable rainforest brimming with exotic herbs and plants.
The Coven House always stirred a sense of distaste within me, and now, thanks to Agatha, it's become an object of loathing. Yet, even I can't deny its beauty, it
