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One small latte for energy and protection.
A standard order if Flor has ever seen one, which makes the morning rush a little easier. She looks up and sees a line out the front door, her little cafe packed to the brim of folks itching for their morning brew.
Right, then. Flor turns back to the drink she’s currently working on, her coffee ground-stained fingers grabbing a pinch of lavender before tossing it into the glass vial of beans. Then, a pinch of cayenne—the man had cringed when asked if he wanted cinnamon, so Flor goes with the alternative and prays that he likes spicy things.
Everything is weighed on a scale to a perfect twenty ounces before being tossed into a contraption, which, at the snap of her fingers, sets to milling those beans and spices into a fine grind.
Flor is more hands-on than the average barista; when those coffee grinds are ready, she packs them into the portafilter with her fingers. It’s all about the intention; it’s easier to weave her spells together when there’s a grounding touch, so she sweeps her fingers around as she packs those grounds tightly.
“Energy,” she mutters. Flor shoots another glance up, seeing that the line has doubled. Great for business, bad for her sanity, but she’s the one who chose to be a witch, and she’s a darn good one to boot. The busy hour is a testament to her skill, so it’s back to the morning grind, both work and the coffee, with a strained but genuine smile pulled across her face.
“Frances,” she calls as she drops the puck screen into the filter. “Stall our guests, will you?” She leans close and hisses this to her cashier, who laughs in response and nods. If there’s anyone who can flirt away time, though, it’s Frances and his million-dollar smile, and sweetly-smooth words.
Flor is a little short for the counter—something she should’ve taken into thought when she bought the place. She rises onto her tippy toes and thrusts the portafilter into the espresso machine, locking it into place. “Pull,” she murmurs, petting over the warm metal of the machine, wooing it into doing her bidding. “Be good for me, yes?”
The machine has behaved so far, this morning, though it’s prone to being feisty. A witch’s appliances are known to live on account of magic imprinting into their being. Flor already sweet-talked the maker, bribing the machine with a thorough deep-cleaning during the lunchtime lull, and so far it’s purred sweetly as it pulls coffee shots.
Flor pours out a measure of coconut milk into a pitcher. For wards, she thinks, capping the jug and shoving it back into the icebox. “Protection,” she mutters aloud, pressing that intention into the liquid as she splits her attention and sets the machine to pull the coffee shot.
It is a strange balance; every action must be timed just so to ensure the strongest spell. That’s the entire point of Witch’s Brew—Flor promises a good cup of joe full of magic for one’s day. Whatever a person wants, within reason; Flor will do her best to cast a spell worth its coin.
This man asked for a latte of protection and energy. Flor glances at him, taking in his sagging appearance and the tired circles underneath his eyes. He needs it, surely. Paid extra for the warding intention to be steamed into the milk froth. Flor smiles gently as he catches her gaze.
She counts thirty-four seconds; a little long for one shot, but she doesn’t think this customer will care much—most don’t know the difference and the cayenne should mask the slightly-bitter tinge easily enough.
Coconut milk steams well enough, but Flor doesn’t like its slightly sour scent. She cringes, tilting her face away, but does her best to remain focused. She’s professional. For protection, she mouths, as the milk heats. Guide this man on a safe and sound day. The magic folds into the milk easily enough. Flor pulls the pitcher away, taking in the weight, the froth before knocking it against the counter to pop any air bubbles.
This order is to go, so she grabs a parchment cup, adding lavender syrup and a dash of hot sauce. Then the shot is poured in and everything is swirled around for a good mix. Flor layers the milk overtop, keeping back the foam with a spoon. She stirs, clockwise to manifest those positive vibes that were ordered. Turn, turn, turn, she thinks. What’s wrong will become right, and all will be well.
This magic folds into the drink too, and Flor shakes out the gooseflesh that rises on her forearm.
Now comes the tricky part. Flor spoons at the foam, scooping it into the drink, dragging the tip of the utensil in what would look like nonsensical strokes to most. It’s a sigil, though; Flor paints a sigil in the foam and finishes that spell like puzzle pieces falling right into place. The magic sets, sound, and with a smile she tops the cup with a lid, wiping it with a rag.
The man sighs in relief as she slides it across the counter. “Thank you,” he says with a polite bow. “Many, many thanks to you, and have a good day.”
Flor lets loose a long breath, dragging her arm across her forehead, then washes her hands in the little sink by the espresso machine. All in all the drink didn’t take too long, it just feels like a drag as she’s spinning her spells.
Another look at Frances shows that he’s slowed the line at least. She really should hire another, but apprentices are rare and Flor is picky. One day. Until then, she mans the bar alone, with Frances gatekeeping the flow of traffic.
She cleans the portafilter, knocking the used coffee puck into a bin. Flor uses the grounds for various other things; for the small garden in which she meditates, to sprinkle into spells for those who need an extra boost. A quick wipe down of the counter leads her into the next drink.
Flor plucks the cup from its line. “A flat white,” she reads under her breath. “Money… calmness, and regular milk to appease the old gods.” Another simple drink that Flor spins right into.
Two shots this time, pulled short for a stronger, sweeter taste. Regular cow’s milk frothed to a wet, paint-like consistency that leaves for a glossy finish. This drink is spiced with cinnamon and allspice—and then a dash of cardamom because Flor thinks a little mental fortitude won’t hurt. She pours the milk into the shots from high, leaving that perfect little dot right in the foam, a simple little rune that speaks volumes.
The rush is invigorating. Flor downs a few shots herself, laced with old coffee grounds to put some speed into her step. It’s a tug-o-war of sensations, caught between moving fast and doing her job well, for no one wants a faulty spell. Faulty spells don’t bring a bad reputation, they can ruin lives, so Flor has to balance pace with precision.
An oatmilk cortado with a dash of nutmeg meant to soothe the nerves and give good luck. An iced latte made with soy and allspice for good health in a woman’s elderly years. Each order that comes through is handcrafted with care, Flor’s fingers steeping the coffee grounds with all the magic that she can muster.
It is mid-morning now, veering into lunch, and Flor can finally catch a breather.
The ring of the cash register chimes in her ear as Frances counts out change. This order, he calls out in person, instead of marking up a paper cup. “A pour-over,” he tells her, not even reading off the receipt. “The medium roast. No milk and a dash of—”
“Cinnamon and ginger,” finishes Flor. She whips around with a smile on her face, heat spreading through her chest at the thought of this particular guest. “Syllis, I was wondering when you’d come in.”
One of Flor’s very first customers, Syllis, is a regular who orders that same thing every time. Tall and willowy, she smiles at Flor with the sort of warmth that radiates through a room. “Actually,” she says, “I was thinking of something a little bit different—I’d like to try my coffee today with a dash of cloves.”
Flor stills, nearly dropping the coffee funnel. “I— cloves?”
Cloves are for love spells. Syllis has never shared any romantic overtures with her, and Flor would consider them… friends? More than friends, something akin to—Well. They’ve been known to spend hours in the shop’s sunken and worn armchairs when it’s slow, talking about everything and nothing.
Syllis listens to Flor prattle on about magic, about coffee, about things she knows little about, nodding all the while, a smile spread wide across her face. Effortless; it’s always been effortless between them, and not that Flor thinks she has a chance, but the idea of Syllis ordering a love spell chills her to the bone.
Curse her quiet mouth. Curse her anxiety, and curse her—
“Miss Flor?”
Oh, she’s being strangely formal today.
Flor swallows around the lump in her throat. “Right, then. A pour-over with… cloves. You’ve always had a sharp taste, so this shouldn’t be too different from the ginger. But, perhaps, it’ll be a different sort of spice than you’re accustomed to. Afterall, you always order the same thing, and—Well. It’s not really about the taste, is it? It’s about the functionality. I should—”
“Flor,” chimes Syllis with a laugh, “you’re babbling.”
Ah. One of Flor’s lesser endearing traits.
(To most, at least. Syllis has never once complained. In fact, if Flor were so bold to assume, she daresay even likes it.)
“Apologies,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “Right then. The beans. Let me just…” Flor adjusts the grind on her appliance before dumping in a measure of beans.
Syllis raises a brow and then looks around the shop. “There’s no need for such a hurry. We’re the only ones in here. I came later today thinking I might want a little pick-me-up, but it was mostly so I could—”
“Tell me about this man,” cuts in Flor. And really, it’s rude, but the sooner she can be a supportive friend and pretend to listen, the sooner Syllis can break her heart.
“Well,” begins Syllis, “she is proving to be a little bit difficult at the moment.”
Flor’s hand slips once again, and she nearly drops the canister of freshly ground coffee in her hands. Perhaps it’s bad luck. A woman. Well, screw it all, it seems. Flor’s intentions have only soured more, and it’s likely to ruin the entire spell.
No, no, she can work this out. She’s handled worse and managed to salvage what she’s stated. “She,” drawls Flor conversationally as she pours the grinds into a filter. “Difficult, how so?”
Syllis’s expression is amused, her mouth pulled into a half-smile as she watches Flor from across the counter. “She isn’t listening, I think. Seems to be very distracted by her work.”
“I’d know how that goes.” Flor has already set a kettle of water over the stove, the flame high and pushing it to a gentle boil. “It’s hard to weave spells without a clear mind. Makes for messy work.”
“I… see that.” Syllis seems to be holding back laughter in the strange lull as they wait for the water to finish. She clears her throat, and continues with, “As I was saying, she is wonderful.”
Flor blinks, leaning against the counter with her elbow. “Wonderful? That’s it? Just wonderful?”
How insulting. Flor would be a far better choice—no, she mucked that up, didn’t she? She’s had years to put a foot in her mouth and she wasn’t brave enough to do it.
“I mean, I could wax poetically about her, but something tells me that you might take offense.”
Flor bites at her lip, then offers up a soft sigh as she pulls the kettle from the stove. “I just think that you’re too good for most.”
“Only most?”
“Certainly there’s one person out there worthy of your love, but—”
“Actually, a question about that since I’ve never ordered something like this. Is a love spell more effective if I already love the person, or, perhaps, the person loves me back?”
Confidence has always befitted Syllis. Flor snorts softly as she pours the water over the coffee grounds in a counterclockwise— oh, darn, she’s messed this up too. She didn’t mean to reverse the intention but… well…
Maybe it isn’t so terrible. Nothing untoward would happen, it’s just that nothing would happen. And, if Syllis came back in for another love spell, Flor would make it correctly the next time.
“Love spells always behave differently, but it’s mostly about the intention behind the want. If you genuinely want this person, then this spell will behave however you see fit.” It’s a little bit of a fib, but Syllis isn’t magically inclined. For all they’ve chatted about weaving spells, Flor has never discussed the deepest intricacies of the craft, nor has Syllis asked beyond the basics.
“And if it were you?”
“If what was me? If I were the one asking for the spell?”
“If you were the one the spell was meant for,” clarifies Syllis.
“Are we playing games now? Syllis, if it were me then I would love you to the moon and back—and that’s saying a lot because the last I heard, witches often marry the moon.”
Syllis hums, satisfied. “Oh, fantastic. I was worried for a moment.”
Flor stills again, nearly overpouring the water. “I’m sorry?”
“Ah, I wasn’t clear. Truth be told, I’m not very good at this, it seems, having never confessed to another before. I always thought I’d be dreadfully alone, but then I met you and—What’s with that look? Also, Flor, the water!”
So, Flor is stupid. In retrospect, it should have been more obvious. The moment that Syllis mentioned a woman, it should have been a glaring sunspot pointing in one direction alone. Syllis has told Flor that she doesn’t have many friends, let alone female ones. Others seem so shallow, so full of distaste, but she’s always told Flor that she was drawn to her shop, and her love of helping others.
“I…” Near boiling water drips onto her boot, and Flor hisses, jerking. She drops the kettle aside and shakes out her foot, but there’s no lasting damage, just shock from the heat. “Syllis,” she says, then, her mouth strangely tongue-tied, “are you saying that you bought this spell for me?”
“I was fairly confident, actually, but I thought a little extra help wouldn’t bother. But then you started stalking around, all annoyed.”
Flor pours the coffee into a mug and sets it on a saucer, going through the motions as her mind races. “I will admit to a moment of jealousy,” she finally says, placing the cup on the counter before Syllis. “Momentary jealousy, yes. But then you…”
Her cheeks must be burning a brilliant shade of pink. Then, just as Syllis’s hand meets the handle of the mug, she remembers she brewed this spell backwards. “Wait, wait.”
Syllis waits, her fingers resting against the cool ceramic.
“I… might have infused that with the not nicest of intentions. It would be better to let me brew you a fresh one.”
Syllis’s smiles into a coy twist of her lips. “Flor,” she says, reaching out and taking hold of one of her hands. Sylla’s fingers are warm and smooth. She thumbs over Flor’s coffee-stained knuckles, tracing the leftover grounds. “Why don’t you brew an entire pot? We’ll retire to that corner as we always do.”
Yes, yes, what a wonderful idea, one that has Flor setting right to work.
This time she is careful with her intentions. She grinds the perfect amount of beans and boils the water to the perfect temperature—monitored by a thermometer and all. She triple-filters it. Cloves, for love. Lots and lots of cloves, and a little bit of milk because it doesn’t hurt to offer up a prayer to the old gods.
She stirs clockwise for way too long, but better safe than sorry because Flor doesn’t want to muck up this chance.
After setting a tray with two cups on dainty little saucers, she says to Frances, “I’m—we’re—taking the rest of the day off. Mind the closing duties?”
Frances doesn’t complain, moving to go lock the shop door with a pep in his step.
And Flor—Flor goes and sits, sinking into one of those ancient armchairs. As she shares the pot of coffee with Syllis, it doesn’t take a witch to feel the love that’s been brewed right into its beans.