"Scry"

"He's not coming, is he?" Almira sobbed. Mercurius had stood her up once again. Sunset had come and gone. Fancyfire candles danced to life one by one as night settled in around the witch's abode. Their wickless flames ate auras, not wax, and Almira always had spirit to spare. Together, they cast the cottage in a tearful blue hue. Mercurius was supposed to take her to the orchard. There, they'd frolic and pick apples and turn farmer Smythe's cider into vinegar. Not all of it, of course, just one barrel (to keep the young man on his toes). He wouldn't have wanted to miss this, surely. Maybe he'd gotten sick. Maybe the willow tree she'd cursed to ward off unsolicited visits from the townsfolk had hung him upside down again. Or maybe he'd taken someone else there instead.  

The candles flared and shone with a bright green light which warped her puffy face wickedly. Who would have the gall to cross a witch? She opened the drawer of the table by the door to reveal a mess of unblinking eyes staring blankly back at her. With the snap of her fingers, one of them rose to meet her hand. It was smooth, cool glass with a sprig of green inside. "I scry with my little eye..." Almira whispered, covering one eye and opening another. Though it was dark, and the glass bulged and blurred the view, there was no one tangled in the willow tree's branches. Well, that wasn't true--someone was there, but Almira could tell by his drab garb that it wasn't Mercurio. It was Gilious, the village's newest resident, carrying some kind of package in his arms. This wasn't the first time he'd been guilty of wandering up the wrong hillside after nightfall. The tree would let him go eventually. 

Almira placed the orb back into the drawer with a *clack* as it rolled into the others. She paused. Another sphere caught her eye with a flash of red. She shouldn't...but "shouldn't" didn't mean "no." It simply meant there was a decision to be made. And after all, why had she cut the piece of fabric from Mercurio's curtains in the first place if not for just such an occasion? She took it in her hand and incanted. "I scry with my little eye..."

She closed her eyes in the green glow and opened a third to the cozy color of hearthlight. From the window dressing, she had a fly-on-the-wall vantage of Mercurio's quaint quarters above the inn. She had a much better view downstairs where she'd stolen a nail from the old horseshoe which the tavern keeper had hung over the bar to ward her off specifically. The curved lens made it difficult to take stock of her surroundings as she swiveled her gaze in its ethereal socket. It swept past an unkempt bed and to reveal a pair of figures sitting at a small table silhouetted by the fire. Almira could easily spot the coif of Mercurio's hair even through the tricksome glass. He smiled blithely as the two gabbed, though she could not make out any of their words. 

Scrying was simple but silent. Sound was a whole business of hiding a pickled ear, which was often much more conspicuous (by sight or by smell). And even then, the reception was spotty and had an underwater quality until the ear had fully dried. Almira seethed with curiosity. Back at the cottage, the fancyfire flames changed from emerald to onyx as they drank in her frustration. 

The other figure was familiar but she didn't know why. His clothes were simple--rustic even. A jacket on its third life, held together by patches and a prayer, was draped over the back of the mysterious man's chair. Almira cursed idly under her breath, causing a horseshoe to fall onto the barman's foot in the tavern below, breaking three of his toes. Upstairs, the two were so rapt by one another's company that they were undisturbed by his howling. They toasted two tankards and took large gulps with eyes locked and lustful. At last, she saw the shoes by the door--one pair of pristine velvet slippers, and one pair of mud-flecked boots: with a red apple leaf caught in the laces. Farmer Smythe. And they'd been apple picking. 

Almira's true eyes flew open and she hurled the glass at the wall where it shattered into pieces. A broom rose wearily from its station in the corner and began sweeping slowly at wreckage. The whole cottage was painted black with dark light from the ire-drunk candles whose flames slithered menacingly at almost a foot tall. She stormed to the bookshelf in a fury, held out her hand, and pulled. A ponderous black tome wrenched itself from the shelf and flew loyally to her outstretched palm. A hundred hexes raced through her mind--acne, bunions, cramps...dysfunction. Pages of strange arcane symbols and profane diagrams fanned and fluttered under her searching gaze.

But before she could bewitch the unwitting couple, there was a knock at the door. Almira, the candles, the book and the broom all froze. She opened it from across the room, taking extra care to ensure it creaked in warning. A shape beyond the threshold strolled inside, unbothered by the thick veil of shadows. "Ms. Almira?" it said. "WHO GOES THERE?" Almira boomed, her voice crashing down on the man from all corners of the cottage.

"Err...it's me, Gilious," the man said. "I came to bring you these flowers, but I got waylaid by your tree again," he continued, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck. "I'm okay though. We worked it out, the tree and me." Almira remained silent and still, hidden in the darkness. "Well, uh...I can see you're in the middle of something this evening," Gilious ventured. "I'll just set them down by the door and leave you to it."

He put his bouquet on the table and turned to leave. "I uhh...I'm sure they had it comin'," he added with a nervous chuckle. The fancyfire flames shrank and softened, illuminating the cottage's interior and revealing Almira hunched over the spell book. She shooed it back to the shelf with a flick of her wrist and eyed the parcel he'd delivered. Nightshade petals and blood-red roses peaked out from beneath the crumpled paper sheathe. "Wait," Almira said quietly. "How would you feel about turning a whole lot of cider into a whole lot of vinegar?"

Gilious turned around to meet her gaze. "Never did like the stuff, myself," he said with a shrug. Almira smiled. "Let me get my cloak."