Witchy Wishes for Christmas

Chapter 1

The dream tasted bitter and cold. Like an unripe, frozen apple, hard and almost poisonous. I swallowed and it clung to the inside of my throat, refusing to go down easily.

Aiden's dreams were always bad. It was probably the main reason he stuck to me.

The taste of his nightmare still lingering on my tongue, I decided on the flavor of the new dream and started weaving it. Soothing and warm, just like a baked apple coated in cinnamon and sugar would taste. Once my magic settled over the tall boy sprawling on the couch I turned back to my cauldron.

The crow's feet had simmered so long that the meat started separating from the bones. Perfect.

Pulling back the long sleeves of my grey school blazer I began to fish the bones out of the brew with a heavy brass hook, humming absentmindedly. It wasn't often that I used animal parts in my recipes, as I preferred to rely on a myriad of different plants, but like every witch worth her salt I had to tackle the more stomach-turning potions as well. The one I was currently making would improve one's vision, and if the concentration was exact enough, the consumer would even be able to see in the dark as long as the effect lingered.

Brewing potions was one of my favorite past-times. My magic wasn't especially powerful or flashy; quite the opposite, for the casual observer I wasn't really doing anything when consuming or creating dreams. But when it came to potions every witch was equal. You just needed a spark of magic, patience and some recipes.

Even fishing for bones was not so bad and I felt relaxed here in my tower. A soft rain drizzled against the only window, making the light dull and grey. This was countered by the warm glow of the multiple candles strewn across the circular room, one even towering on top of a stack of books. The air smelled like wax and old leather, dust and the fragrant herbs I'd laid out for drying - and the slightly less pleasant odor of cooking bird feet wafting from the cauldron.

This room, which I at one point came to think of as my room, was at the very top of one of the smaller eastern towers of the school building. The building itself, compared to its twin in the human world, had always reminded me a bit of a cluster of different mushrooms growing haphazardly: there were bridges spanning between the mass of different towers, labyrinth-like hallways and constantly changing styles of architecture. My room pulled off the medieval-castle-flair, with stone walls, small, slitted windows and a high, shadowy ceiling. In the past it might have been the private study of a professor, or maybe even a small classroom, but as the building was expanding, there was no need for it anymore. When I found it, it had been abandoned, the furniture covered with tarps and spiderwebs collecting in the corners.

The spiders were still there, simply because I didn't have the heart to kill them, but the room was otherwise clean. Circular and stuffed to the brink with tomes, candles, small trinkets and herbs, I had made myself at home.

I'd found the room quite by accident, during my first weeks at school. Thanks to my faulted sense of direction convincing me east was west and the other way around, I climbed the horrendous staircase while searching for my Herbology classroom. Only after arriving at the top, close to lung failure and longing for one of those oxygen tents they erected for mountain climbers, did I notice the glaring lack of other students or a teacher.

Since that second day of school I came here regularly, whenever I had some free time. It probably said a lot about my social skills, but I loved the solitude of my little tower, where I could experiment with potions to my hearts content. At home there was always someone around, my parents, my grandma, my aunts and uncles, my younger siblings and cousins - but here I was on my own.

Well, almost. I risked a glance at Aiden, the boy sprawled on the mustard-yellow couch, one arm thrown over his head. The furrow between his dark brows had smoothed out and his breathing was deep and regular. The warm dream I'd woven for him seemed to have rooted. As usual, while he did wear the Saint Morgan's school uniform, he still managed to make it look like a casual outfit - no tie and a sloppily done shirt, that gaped open around his collarbone, showcasing the words best chest and tanned skin. A small pin glinted at his collar, declaring his status as a sophomore.