The Witch's Cup

When the kettle hums, it’s my cue to slither from the windowsill. The warmth curls around my scales like silk as my witch taps her spoon against the rim of the pot. Steam twirls in the air, carrying the scent of cinnamon and rosemary. Morning light pours through the glass panes, bending across the teacups that hang like tiny moons from the shelf.

She hums a tune. I believe it's old, older than the hills and the air seems to hum with her. Magic always does that when she’s not thinking too hard about it. “Good morning, Sol,” she says, glancing down at me with her bright red eyes. Her long grey hair looks like silver when the sunlight hits it from the window. Her skin is pale with a warm undertone, faintly freckled across the nose and cheeks from hours spent gathering herbs under the sun. I lift my head, tongue flicking the air. Good morning, witch. Of course, she can’t hear words, but she knows what I mean. My witch always does.

She bends, strokes a finger under my jaw. The touch sends a shiver down my spine. “Hungry?” I tilt my head toward the bowl of cream she sets out. Rolling up her sleeves, she knows I prefer the cream to be warm. But I enjoy the ritual of it, the way she remembers. She laughs softly and pours a few drops of honeyed sun into the bowl instead. It glows faintly, the kind of magic you can taste on your tongue if you’re bold enough.

Outside, the sign above our door swings gently: Cups & Scale for Weary Souls.

It’s a small cottage tucked between two birches at the edge of the village. We don’t get too many customers before noon, but that’s fine. The mornings are for us. When I was small, a coil no thicker than her wrist, she found me tangled in a bramble patch behind the cottage. My scales were dull then, and my body trembled from the cold. She didn’t flinch when I hissed. Just smiled, muttered something about fate, and carried me inside. She made me a nest of lavender and cloth near the hearth. I have stayed ever since. Now, I am her shadow and her secret.

My witch starts mixing dough, and I coil near her elbows, watching the flour drift down like snowfall. Her hair falls forward in a curtain as she kneads. Every motion she makes has a rhythm, a little magic humming beneath it. Today’s batch is rose-salt scones with lemon glaze and a dash of good luck. She murmurs the words as she folds the dough: “May sweetness linger, and bitterness fade.” The dough glows faintly, a heartbeat of gold before the light fades. I love when she bakes. The smells wrap around the cottage like a spell of comfort.

While she works, I slink along the counter, avoiding the hot kettle. “Tea first,” she says. “Customers later.” She plucks three leaves from a jar marked Dragon’s Breath Mint and another pinch from Moonflower Dust. The leaves curl and spark when they meet the boiling water. The scent is sharp and sweet like snow melting over stone. “Let’s make the fortune blend today,” she muses aloud. I flick my tail approvingly. It’s a favorite of the villagers. They claim it helps them dream clearly or choose wisely, depending on how they stir it. Humans are funny that way: they always want a promise inside a cup. My witch stirs clockwise, murmuring something soft. The surface shimmers with stars for half a heartbeat before settling back into amber calm. “Perfect,” she says. “You always bring luck when you watch.” Of course I do. That’s what familiars are for.

The bell above the door chimes. It was three soft notes like raindrops. Our first guest. It’s Mrs. Harrow, the baker’s wife, wrapped in her blue shawl. “Morning, darling,” she calls. “I smelled your scones halfway down the lane.” My witch beams. “Then my magic must be working.” I stay coiled around the teapot handle, observing. Mrs. Harrow isn’t afraid of me anymore. The first few times, she jumped when I blinked at her, but now she gives me a polite nod as though I’m a cat. “Would you like the usual?” my witch asks. “Yes, dear. And perhaps a little something for my husband. He’s been worrying too much over the ovens.” The witch nods thoughtfully and adds a crumble of thyme to the tea blend. “For patience,” she says. “And one rose petal for affection.”

When the tea steeps, the air hums softly, golden threads weaving between her hands. I can taste the magic in the air. It was warm, sweet, and comforting. Mrs. Harrow sighs when she takes the first sip, her shoulders sinking. “You always know just what to do,” she murmurs. “Magic listens if you speak kindly,” my witch replies. Mrs. Harrow leaves with a basket of scones, and for a while, the cottage is quiet again except for the kettle’s soft sigh.

I crawl up to my witch’s shoulder, resting my chin near her ear. Her skin smells like vanilla and rain. “You’re thinking too hard,” I’d tell her if I could. She’s been worrying again, about the harvest, about the villagers who whisper that witches should keep their doors closed. Especially after there’s been news of witches standing up in the kingdom due to the king abusing their magic. She strokes my scales absentmindedly. “Do you think I’m foolish, Sol? Selling spells and pastries like a market woman? Or should I be helping my fellow witches?” I flick my tongue, tasting the air. Foolish? Never. Her kind of magic makes the world gentler. She smiles faintly, as if hearing my thoughts. “You’re right. We both know I prefer to bake. My magic are meant to help people, not hurt them.” She kisses my head. ‘You always know when I need reassurance.”

More customers come as the day rolls on - a young couple asking for a charm of courage before their journey, an old man who swears our honey cakes help him remember his late wife. My witch listens to each of them carefully, stirring herbs and memories together until every cup feels like a story. I weave between jars and teacups, helping in my own way. I tighten the ribbon around a charm pouch with the tip of my tail. I flick open the lid to a spice jar when her hands are full. Sometimes I even taste-test the honey drops though I pretend it’s strictly for quality control.

By dusk, the shelves are lighter, the tables sticky with crumbs and laughter. My witch hums again as she wipes the counter, her hair glowing in the amber light. “Good work today,” she says, lowering a plate of leftover scones beside my favorite sun-warmed tile. “For you, partner.” I nose one of the scones, then settle beside it. The cottage smells like baked sugar and herbs, and the faint crackle of cooling spells lingers in the air. Outside, the birch trees whisper, their leaves clapping softly in the evening breeze. The last few customers wander home with lanterns swinging, little sparks of light fading down the path. My witch sits by the hearth, teacup in hand. “Tomorrow we’ll try the apple sage blend,” she murmurs. “Something autumnal.” I curl around her wrist, feeling her pulse beneath my scales. Warm, steady, alive. The kettle hums one last time, a lullaby of steam and copper.

And in that small cottage at the edge of the woods, where magic tastes like sugar and tea leaves shimmer like stars, the world feels right. It’s cozy, whole, and ours.