A witch comes knocking

Esme ducked under the branches, clinging low to her broomstick as she flew deeper down into the forest.

Once she'd landed she blinked up her secondary eyelid, adjusting the travel cloak and fixing the broomstick to the harness across her back, scanning the forest.

Her Sight hadn't given her any reason to be alarmed, but witches went missing all the time, often taken by the same people that called them for help.

And with the new regime, it was a worse time than any before to harbour a witch.

But the forest sat quiet and empty, no sounds of armour or weapons coming to her enhanced hearing and Esme sighed. No excuses left to back out.

The glamour bottle was nearly out, Esme cursed under her breath, managing to get out enough for this trip. She traced her covered fingers over her face, her neck, up her arms and back and in moments the changes started.

Esme brought out her mirror, fascinated, even after all this time by watching the change.

Her face softened and loosened, deepening with lines and sagging. The grooves where she smiled and frowned settled in, eyes getting pouched.

Age was a becoming, and Esme was amused to see how much more she mirrored her mother and grandmother now.

The glamour forced her back to hunch, made her bones stiffen and Esme cracked all the usual joints, grumbling at the idea of the way she still had to go before she made it to the hut.

But flying like this would've been worse misery. She stumbled and swore under her breath, voice deeper and more croaky as she picked through the thick of the forest to get to the house.

Someone had a fire going, she realized delightedly, her old bones stiff from the coming winter. It unfurled slowly from the top of the small hut, like the breaths of a sleeping dragon.

Esme swore again when she had to get over a fallen log. The glamour had its miseries, but it was a requirement of the witch's guild. Nobody would trust some young witch and there were rumours anyways that the younger ones bathed in the blood of babies. Or was it virgins?

Esme shook her head, refocusing as she got to the door. She knocked twice.

And it seemed like the forest held its breath, something dark and nervous settling over the house before the latch inside came undone and a man frowned at her.

"You called for us." Esme said, defaulting to one of the usual lines. The man looked resigned, stepping aside to let her in.

A woman was wiping her hands on the cloth, heart beating faster as she took her in. "Welcome Mother."

Esme concealed a grimace. It was one of the worst titles of the job, but better than Crone, she supposed. "Well met, child." She sighed. "Are you two planning on waiting until I die, or will I hear why you needed help?"

The man had drifted to the woman's side, eyes hard. Esme listened to a rattle somewhere else in the house and suspected.

"We, uh. We've had a son." The woman said.

"Yes." Esme barely resisted reminding them of her extra senses. "Grigori and Amalda Maly, you requested a tincture for fertility. You sent a letter to the guild that it worked. You don't ever need another."

"No, no." The woman wrung her hands together, looking to her husband. He said nothing, still staring at Esme like he was worried she'd attack them.

It must've been years of hardship for him to be convinced enough to send a letter to the Coven guilds. Esme thought he'd look happier about having a child.

"We think he's-- well, we think--" Amalda had gone pale and Esme suddenly understood.

"You think he's a witch."

The muscle in Grigori's jaw twitched. Amalda shut her quivering mouth.

"Witches don't quicken until at least eleven." Esme said, listening to the rattles and the baby cooing. "Thirteen for boys. Wizards even later." Sorcerors stole power, but that was neither here nor there. "All children have... unusual traits, but it doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"We know." Grigori said impatiently and Esme narrowed her eyes.

"Show me."

Amalda's hands were shaking as she led them, working a key into the door. Grigori jutted up his chin and Esme entered, hearing louder coos and that rattle again.

The rattle that was floating in the air shaking for the child's amusement.

"We thought it was a ghost." Amalda said tiredly. "But the wizard we called said it wasn't. There've been no deaths, no cold spots, no reason for anything to return."

Esme sniffed the air, definitely not a ghost.

"It's him." Grigori said, leaning over the crib with his arms crossed.

Esme approached the child. It was kicking the air, mouth shiny with drool. He babbled again, little hands uselessly flapping and the rattle shook.

Esme took in those bright, too-clever eyes. She squinted, calling forth her Sight and realized they were right.

How? She simply didn't understand it. Witchlings, who had innate power from nature, didn't demonstrate any hint of it until they reached their Unnatural Age.

Wizards required the completion of puberty to be able to access magic. Babies couldn't steal power. Even the most powerful witches and wizards of their time were incapable of using magic as children. They couldn't channel it either, by all laws.

Yet here he was, eyes moving over her head and the rattle followed, smacking a little into the wall. The baby made a sound like a laugh, high and delighted.

Esme glanced up at Grigori and Amalda, another possibility coming to mind. One of her sisters or brothers might have done something to the tincture.

What, she couldn't imagine, but the chances of it being good for this family were nil.

Even the very act of creating witches was abhorrent to natural law.

Esme contemplated what to do. The answer was simple, call forth a triad of witches and ask for assistance. But she knew their verdict would be cruel to the child, and for good measure they hunt down any family that had used fertility tinctures.

No, this needed subtlety. Esme magicked down the rattle and regarded it. It wasn't bewitched, and it felt like young, inquisitive magic instead.

"What else has he used magic for?"

Amalda's face fell apart at the confirmation. "He sometimes makes doors open and close. One time he made our cat fall into his crib."

"He knows more than he should." Grigori declared and Esme could sense there was something he wasn't sharing, but she had her hands full enough of mysteries.

"I see." Esme considered them both. "I need honesty, is it your intention to keep the child? Or do you want him gone?"

Amalda blanched. Grigori stiffened.

"He's our son." Grigori said to her, hands resting on the crib. Amalda looked oddly guilty.

"Very well." Esme snapped her fingers and her grimoire fell open in her hand. "I can place a temporary charm and shut off the child's powers."

Antithetical to witchery. It was a crime punishable by getting one's tongue cut, or hands removed for the crime of closing off a witch's magic. Sorcerors and wizards were a different story, and technically the child fell under that better.

"Good." Grigori said, the first real relief crossing his face. "So he'll be fine."

But the magic was too pure, too grounded for the child to be anything but one of her kind.

"It won't last." Esme said grimly, making their faces fall again. "Witchlings grow more attuned to magic and the world as they age, by four he'll need it done again, then more frequently as he grows older. Training too." She examined them, wondering if they knew how lucky they were that she was the witch answering this call.

If anyone found out that there was a way to create witches... they were a dying breed, and always eager for more in the ranks.

"You can tell no one about this." Esme warned and Amalda's fingers found her mouth, anxious. "Aside from the matter of the new King, our own kind do not tolerate this sort of..." She cast for an appropriate term. "Peculiarity."

Amalda frowned. "But--"

Esme held up a hand, disgusted. "That's the domain of wizards and their jar babies, and other affronts to nature. Witches do not meddle with natural ways."

Amalda and Grigori exchanged a look at the rant.

"So what do we do?" Grigori asked.

"Nothing. Tell no one, act as though everything is ordinary and enjoy your son. I've heard this age is interesting." She'd heard nothing of the sort, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Amalda and Grigori nodded.

Esme sighed. In the meantime, she needed to investigate this. "Excellent. Now I must gather some materials for the spell."

"Won't you join us for dinner, Mother?"

Esme blinked.

Grigori sighed when Amalda elbowed him. "Yes, we, uh, insist."

"Very well." Esme shrugged, knowing it was a formal part of the politeness rules, but nobody had ever asked her before.

The rattle in her hand tugged and they all looked over to the baby.

"Spell first." Grigori said and Esme nodded.