Excerpt of "Maiden, Murder, Crone" from A Witch of a Scandal
― Emma Mildon, Evolution of Goddess: A Modern Girl's Guide to Activating Your Feminine Superpowers
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Chapter One
I was working in my warm little coffee shop, nestled in the heart of Silverbrook Falls, on a chilly early November morning when the world’s most annoying witch crossed my threshold. It was such a pity, too, because it was a gorgeous day. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of fallen autumn leaves and the distant, clean freshness of Lake Erie, a hint of coolness in the breeze.
As I stood behind the worn oak counter, I glanced out of the large picture window onto the picturesque street of Silverbrook Falls. The town was slowly coming to life, with people bundled up in scarves and coats, their breath visible in the chilly air, creating a subtle dance of mist. The trees lining the streets had exchanged their vibrant summer attire for a tapestry of reds, oranges, and golds, the leaves rustling softly in the gentle breeze, a symphony of autumn whispers. The occasional car rumbled past, their tires crunching on the fallen leaves, a reminder that the modern world coexisted with the timeless charm of the historic downtown.
My attention was drawn back to the task at hand when the door chimed, announcing the arrival of a most unwelcome guest. Eileen, the town's most outspoken and obnoxious witch, had made her entrance. She was a spectacle in herself, and every inch of her appearance screamed "witch," a living embodiment of all things mystical.
Eileen was a tall, lanky woman with wild, unruly hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, curling and twisting like a tangle of vines. Her eyes were a striking shade of emerald green, adorned, as always, with heavy eyeliner and mascara, creating an intense, almost hypnotic gaze. Her attire was an eclectic mix of lace, velvet, and flowing fabrics, all in shades of deep purple and black. She wore a heavy cape right out of a Renaissance Faire in lieu of the more pedestrian parka. Silver jewelry jingled from her wrists, neck, and likely her ankles, causing a tinkling of bells and clattering of bangles with every movement that she made. Every finger had at least one ring, and she had a small blue upturned crescent moon tattooed on her forehead.
But it was her aura that truly set her apart. Eileen exuded an undeniable air of magic, a tangible presence that sent shivers down your spine. She was a walking, talking embodiment of the mystical world that had taken root in Silverbrook Falls. Love her or hate her, you couldn't ignore Eileen when she entered a room.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the impending interaction. Eileen's arrival meant trouble was brewing, but today, I had my own magical pursuit in mind. I was determined to create a new latte flavor, something that could rival the seasonal favorites of pumpkin spice and peppermint mocha. After all, with the town's magical atmosphere caught between autumn and winter, it was the perfect time for a bewitching brew. Not that I was a witch myself; I was a student of yoga and ayurveda. My grandma was a curandera, but I hadn’t done any training with her. I became a librarian before my midlife crisis brought me from Texas to Ohio. Sure, I had attended a fall witchcraft class to support the witchy store next door and befriended the quirky shop owner, but my magic was more metaphorical. I just needed to survive this interaction and then I could start cooking up something delicious to feed the body and spirit.
Eileen swept up to the counter and when she stopped, her cape slightly swirled about her-a studied move, I was sure. She flashed a saccharine smile, her emerald-green eyes fixed on me, and she pushed her wild, untamed hair behind one ear with a dramatic sweep of her long, pointed purple nails.
"Excuse me, sweetie," she began. "I hope you're having a wonderful day. I'd like a medium nonfat dry caramel cappuccino, but I want it extra hot. Not the regular hot, darling, but the kind that could probably scald my tongue and melt a hole through the cup. The last time I was here it was just not quite hot enough, you know? I usually go to Robusta, but I thought I’d pop by since I am just dying to finally check out the little New Age store next door."
I nodded, trying to maintain my composure, despite the growing urge to roll my eyes. Amethyst would have a fit to hear her store referred to as “New Age,” but I just said, “Of course.”
“I just hate to be a bother, but you do know what ‘dry’ means?” She didn’t stop talking long enough to let me answer. “It actually doesn’t mean that the cup is dry! It means that there is a lot of foam on top. Of course, I don’t want a cup full of foam, dear, but I do enjoy that little fluff at the top.”
But Eileen wasn't finished with her act. She leaned in closer, her voice lowering to a condescending purr as if she was doing me a favor. "And I'd prefer the caramel sauce, not the syrup, dear, and one packet of raw turbinado sugar stirred in before you add the steamed milk. Can you remember all that?”
I forced a tight smile. "Of course, I'll make it just as you like it."
Eileen's demands continued as she specified how to properly tamp the espresso, how sauce should be drizzled in curlicues around the inside of the cup, and how she would just love it if a tiny dash of cinnamon could adorn her cappuccino’s foam.
She concluded with a flourish, her pentagram pendant swinging dramatically. "Oh, sweetie, you've been so helpful. If it's not perfect, I'm sure you'll make it right. I hear that owner of yours is very particular.”
I couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at the veiled threats and over-the-top faux niceness, knowing that I'd have the pleasure of serving her the most ridiculously precise cappuccino she'd ever seen. And if it wasn’t perfect? I wasn’t planning on yelling at myself, or any of my staff, for that matter.
I prepared the drink and set it at the end of the bar, calling “Eileen!” She may not have remembered me, but I certainly remembered her. She didn’t seem fazed that I knew her by name. She sauntered up to the counter and took the cup, lifting it up in a faux toast.
“Thank you ever so much!”
“My pleasure!”
What a witch.
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