Witchcraft is a selfless art—we witches give so much of ourselves.
When Mrs. Turvy’s leg was lame, I slipped a knife across my thumb and bled into my cauldron. After my spell, she threw away her cane.
The sheep were sick on Gumwell’s farm, but a poultice of my fingernails pulled them through by a hair.
I had a lot of hair once, but I boiled it for the Camper twins, and now their lungs don’t bother them at night.
They say witchcraft is a compulsion, but Mrs. Baker’s son might die and how much skin do I really need?
And it’s true.
A bewitching tale.