Berthe the Green Witch
Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don’t always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.
The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden.Â
She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon.Â
She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.
Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.
“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”
The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.
Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.
Ring ring ring
Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…
“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”
“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.
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