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“Levana, those herbs will go bad soon. You better start drying them over the fire before their usefulness fades.”
“Shush. It’s too early in the season to be roasting things over a fire.” Her eyes narrowed, and thick fingers grasping onto the wooden paddle to stir the cauldron with. “Besides, if I dried them now, they’d taste like soap and smoke, and frankly my laundry shouldn’t smell like I want to devour it.”
Next to her, the large toad harrumphed, clearly insulted by the lack of care to the magical herbs that they’d spent hours gathering just a few scant days ago. “And if I was to tell you that you’ll need them in the next hour, because the miller’s son is about to come to our home?”
“Then you’d be a wise toad, wouldn’t you, Bram?” Levana rolled her eyes towards the toad, squatting down to scoop him up and place him in the pocket of the threadbare apron she wore. “Maybe this time we’ll trade for a new apron. You’re about to fall out of the pocket as it is...or maybe I should stop feeding you so much.”
Bram let forth an indignant croak, nearly a scream of horror, and hissed in Levana’s pocket, which she patted gently. “Teasing, Bram, teasing.” She went back to stirring the cauldron, the rough scent of lard-based soap making her nose wrinkle. “It’s a shame that there are no spells for this, I despise having to boil the laundry once a week. And in the good cauldron, no less!”
A half hour passed, and the miller’s son came, just as promised, and Levana held out her chubby hand, plump cheeks smiling at him. “What can I do for you, Ezra? Come to get another potion for your mother?”
The miller’s son shook her hand firmly, and then shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s for myself. Father said that I should set out into the world, and see if I can change my fate of being a miller’s son forever.”
“Fate is a flexible, tedious thing, Ezra. Tempting it brings fortune and dismay all at once. If you want to rise to it, then look into the cauldron, and hold Bram while I gather the herbs.” Bram found himself jostled from the comfortable pocket, hissing in indignation as Levana went to gather up the herbs, placing them in the boiling pot. “Now, once I stir this, put him into the pot. He’ll hiss and scream but he’ll be fine.”
Ezra looked at Bram, and then back to the witch, eyes lingering on the foul-smelling water, which had taken on a curious shade of color. “Are you sure? Bram has always helped you with the spells, and I…”
“Enough! Put him in the pot!” Her chubby fingers grasped at the boy’s face, eyes fiery as she looked at him. “You know the fee for causing me trouble--you’ll be his replacement if something does go wrong!”
Gulping, Ezra held out the sizable toad in his hands, the awful scream and stiff-legged body causing a burbling noise as it was lowered into the pot. Bram poked his head up from the laundry pile floating on top, eyes staring daggers at Ezra as Levana sprinkled something else into the pot. “Ah, look closely now. For there lies your fate, young miller! A woman with hair the color of fire, to be caught as the tides rise. Watch the ducks fly in from the seas, and wait until her cloak of feathers is shed at the river’s edge. Take it, and your journey will begin.”
Images floated, and an ominous tone took place, the witch’s eyes flaring beneath the cloth that tied her flowing locks back. “Take heed, though. For should you lose even a single feather, then you will be reduced to a miller’s son once more.” The boy’s face fell and he stepped backwards, before breaking into a run, as far away from the witch’s abode as he could.
“Do you really think he’s going to be smart enough to steal an enchanted princess’ cloak?” Bram bubbled in the cauldron climbing over the edge as he dropped to the stones below with an indignant hiss. “Seems to me he can’t even manage a thank you.”
“We’ll just wait and see, won’t we? Worst comes to worst, then we’ll have ourselves a bit of roast duck in the end.” Levana’s face broke into a smile, and she scooped up the toad in her hands, wiping off a bit of the soap that had accumulated on Bram’s skin. “Now, let’s talk about supper. I have a delightful charred boar from the prince in the neighboring kingdom…”
“And it’s not some poor fool who was enchanted that we’re eating?”
“Gracious no, not this time. This is just a regular boar. We’re not cannibals, Bram.”
He croaked, imitating a huff at her words. Of course they weren’t, but she was suggesting eating a roasted duck that was a princess in disguise. He’d certainly prattle on about it later, when they were eating and he was sitting in the bowl of soup provided for him, watching the witch eat her fill. Things were about to get interesting, and yet neither of them knew how; at least Bram could prepare for it by watching over the miller’s son in the scrying bowl, just to make fun of the lad’s failures. It was certainly looking up for a boring life in the woods, where little entertainment reached them, and Bram was looking forward to the mess about to happen.