Old Hag

Inspired by Old Hag by veprikov
veprikov.deviantart.com/art/Ol…

Another day gone. There were only three customers to stop by her shop today.  First was a flustered middle-aged woman, plump, with frazzled hair and too much makeup, asking frantically for another wrinkle removing potion, after insisting that the previous one she had gotten from a new young witch down on Porter's Street hadn't worked.

She liked that girl. Such promise and energy for one so young. Yes, that one deserved a bright future.

The next was a young man, wearing a disheveled sweater hanging off of one shoulder, wrinkled pants and tennis shoes. He insisted on a love potion, that she (a girl he mentioned but had not named) was clearly meant to be with him, she just didn't know it, and needed a little push.

I bet she's a nice girl, poor thing.

When she refused to make him the potion he starting shouting and waving his arms angrily, nearly knocking over poor Vervain, and breaking several of her potions on display. Dismayed, she went to pick up the broken fragments and salvage what she could. Furious, and in some hurry, apparently, the young man grabbed a random charm from the rack, slammed the money on the counter and stormed off, the bell chime whining in protest.

Lastly was an old gentleman, not unlike herself, with bags of wrinkles and loose hairs sticking from liver spots, who wandered in seemingly lost. He asked her a few questions "Ma'am is this where the draft is? Do you know where I get my uniform fitted? How long until the ship sails?"

Poor thing..

She made up answers, and the gentleman's face lit up, a crinkly smile that had seen better days. She handed him a good luck charm, one with a little boat and stars intended to guide those at sea. The smile grew, he seemed enchanted with it and she smiled as well. His grandson came in next, a young man with a straight collar and button down shirt. He apologized for his grandfather's ramblings and went to usher him out. He tried to return the charm (he thought it was stolen) but she insisted he take it as a gift. The boy hesitated, before giving her a couple of coins and ushering his grandfather out.

What a good grandson. Such patience. A pity he had to mature so quickly.

There were no more customers after that. At 9 o'clock she turned the closed sign, blew out the lanterns, locked the shop and began the long walk home. She hobbled down the street slowly. There were few people out in this side of town. She petted Vervain absently, a new bump growing on his head from earlier to add to his already knobby skin. She pulled her frayed shawl tighter around her. What a sour night. The cold bit at her, and she knew she had at best a half hour before it began to pour. As She hobbled down the street she paused at a poster hanging on the wall of a store. It read:

The Great Esmeralda
Come see her at Fiddler's Tavern
January IV at III-V o'clock
May your wishes come true

Ah, a sorceress. Pretty things. A small smile grew. Only natural, she supposed, that people flocked to them. She only hopped that they all found what they needed.

She continued down the road only to stop once more, this time by a brightly lit hat parlor. She peered through the window glass. What lovely hats, she thought solemnly. What a caring hat maker, to put such love into his craft. Her gaze fell on a purple, satin witches hat in the front of the display case. It had silk ribbons adorned with painstakingly made chains around the rim and a beautiful ribbon flower.

Her smile fell, replaced by a hard, saddened look. Not a bitter frown mind you, but one of longing, a forlorn and lost look. She stared sadly at the hat for several minutes while standing on the outside, in the cold and bitter street. She wrapped herself tighter, Vervain giving a quiet croak of protest. She glanced briefly at her own hat; a tattered and wrinkled navy old thing with a strip of worn out brown leather with an old silver buckle wrapped around it. She had had it since she was a little girl, just learning witchcraft. As she shifted to keep warm she could hear her purse rattle softly. The jingling of only a few coins. No, the hat would remain on its side of glass, and she on hers.

After all, being a witch is not the highest paid job in the world.