Their house is odd, people say. That it’s both warm and cold all at once. People whisper about the garden out back, where some of the plants are black. Sometimes they whisper about the inside, about the table that holds both a mortar and pestle, and a complete set of bones. One of their cats is dead, they say. People fear a lot of things about their house, but nearly all of them have been inside.
They have four shelves in their house, for their books and jars and things they need for spells.
One of these shelves is stuffed full of books. The books are thick, fat, heavy. If the wood had a voice, it would speak in a groan. Half of them are soft, brown leather, with gold traced in plantlike designs on the spine. Half of them are black, heavy and cracked, with bookmark ribbons the color of blood and pentagrams on the covers. There are plants tucked into the corners. Some trail green fingers across the ledges. Some reach with thorns.
Another of the shelves is full of jars and bottles. Some of these jars are filled with potions that glow a dim yellow, or swirl a cheerful green. Some of the jars are filled with blood or crushed bits of bone. Some of the smaller bottles are full of dried clippings of rare plants. Some of the bottles hold things that move. But each jar has a neat little label, with the same gentle writing.
The third shelf is by a window, and it holds plants of various sizes. Most of them are small and green, meticulously watered and trimmed. But there are a few, scattered amongst the green, that have thorns longer than thorns should be, or leaves a bit too dark, too shiny.
The last shelf is full of bones. Cat bones. Dog bones. Bird bones. A skull. Fish bones. Wishbones. Snake’s fangs. Sometimes the bones move. Sometimes they don’t.
They have two tables. One holds a mortar and pestle, a small cauldron, bandages, some crystals. One of them has bones perched on the corners and a pentagram etched in the middle.
Dried herbs hang from the ceiling, and there is a box of litter on the floor.
They have two hearths; one for cooking, one for magic.
The walls are a deep green, the floor a wooden brown. The windows are large and lined with plants. The rooms are lit with floating crystals.
Everyone fears their house, but nearly everyone has gone inside. What is it, the healer asks, and her eyes are kind. What do you need?
A pain reliever. A bone set. An illness cured. A child delivered.
What do you need, she asks, but sometimes the answer is nothing. There isn’t anything to heal. So the healer nods, steps aside, and gestures to her wife, the necromancer.
And the necromancer looks at you, with her dark eyes and dark robes stitched with blood-red runes, and for a moment you are afraid. But then her eyes clear, and she smiles, and she asks. What do you need?
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