Witches Don't Kiss and Tell (Original)

Anar, a witch, brews up a deadly concoction to ensure that her sweetheart doesn't have to be bothered by an annoying man. Written for Floraison, a Floriagraphy and Original Character zine.

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

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“Miss Anar?” 

The girl’s eyes are wide like saucers, tracking Anar’s every movement. Curious. So curious—to the point where Anar wonders if she might be an apprentice in the making. Young little Mita watches as she tosses herbs in her mortar and pestle. She sways slightly at the sound of the grinding, standing on her tip-toes, fingers white-knuckled against the countertop as she steadies herself to peer over it.

Anar smiles at her. “Yes?”

“Mint, right?”

Anar blinks, looking at the handful of leaves that just left her palm. She hums softly. “Correct. You’ve been looking at pictures again, haven’t you?”

“Father brought a few more back from his last trip into the city. I—well.” Mita rubs her face sheepishly. “I like to watch. You, I mean. I like to watch the spells that you weave together.”

Yes, yes, perhaps I’ll ask her later on. Anar has never thought much of taking an apprentice but the more afternoons Mita spends in her shop, the more she considers it. Today, though, it is less just to watch. Mita has come for a potion of her own on behalf of her mother.

“For luck,” says Anar, swirling the pestle around the mortar until the leaves are fine and dusty. “The mint. There are many properties that can be found in its veins but this is the most common application. And the easiest to apply, I suppose. Do you know what else it can be used for?”

Mita’s brow furrows as she thinks and Anar laughs. “Don’t work too hard at it. I’ll tell you, little one. Wealth. Those sorts of spells take practice, though. Time and effort. They are also costly, which is why I don’t often find myself dabbling in such things. Perhaps when I was still in the city.”

A lifetime ago. The hustle and bustle of it all. Anar isn’t much of a people person and after years of brushing elbows with high-society, she’d settled out in the Steppe away from prying eyes and ears. The quiet is nice. Her garden flourishes in the rich, clean air, and the unfettered sun. 

Anar pauses in her thoughts and holds up another leaf, this one flat with spindly leaves. “Another test,” she says to Mita good-naturedly.

Mita grins. “Mugwort!”

“For?”

Mita’s nose wrinkles at that. “Divination. Ma likes to read the stars but Pa would rather read bones,” she says. 

It comes as no surprise. Mita’s Ma is the sort whose head is in the cloud. Her Pa is more practical, feet tethered to the earth, a good head on his shoulders. 

“The results aren’t much different no matter where you look at them.” Anar wiggles her eyebrows exaggeratedly and Mita bursts into laughter. “For the Mugwort,” she continues, her tone turning more professional, “we merely bundle it up around the satchel—no need to grind it up. Everything else, though—” She pauses as she presses a funnel into a small cloth bag and dumps the contents of the mortal right in. “We tie this off and it’s as good to go.”

“No words?”

“Not every spell needs words, little one.” Anar grins. “Sometimes all you need is just intention—I’ve done this one a million times so I just need to think about it.” She ties off the satchel with a pretty pink ribbon before handing the completed bundle to Mita across the counter. “Tell your Ma that she should go easy—this is the third one she’s ordered in two weeks.”

Mita rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’ve told her that a thousand times. You’ve told her that even more.”

Anar shoots her a knowing look. “And no doubt we’ll have to tell her a thousand more. Now off you go. Scoot.”

Mita tucks the spell into the back, gives Anar a mock salute, and slips out the door in a matter of minutes. 

Anar follows her and leans against the frame, watching as she skips down the street. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” she yells, hand cupped around her mouth as it curls into a smile. 

Talent. The girl has a knack. Anar will bring up an apprenticeship when the time is right and thinks that her parents just might find use in it. 

#

Anar’s days are simple.

Measure, mix, and repeat. Read out a recipe. Study some herbs. Measure more, mix more, and repeat once, twice, sometimes even thrice. Anar doesn’t just make spells, she weaves together bits and pieces of herself into bundles of flowers. She cultivates wards and breathes kindness into her work, tying bits and bundles together with silk-spun ribbons that gleam in the sunlight. 

It is back-breaking at times. Anar stretches on her stool, working the kinks out of her back. She rubs the spore spots on her hands idly. Capsaicin, she thinks. “Mint,” she murmurs aloud. “Just a quick past,” is easy to say even though she knows her break won’t be much of a break.

But the cool ointment will be a boon against her skin, bitter-cold sinking into those swollen joints to drown out those twinges. 

The few moments are worth it. And then she looks at her pile of work, haphazard files, and papers that nearly fall over on her desk. Anar sights, her bangs puffing up. “Another break,” she says to herself. “It’s lunchtime anyhow.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s nearly three in the afternoon, Anar sets her things aside, dons her cloak, and locks the front door behind her. It’s not as though anyone else is setting their watches by her meal times.

#

“I know that look,” says Didar, setting down a cup of coffee onto the table, shortly followed by a plate laden with a pastry.

Instead of greeting her back, Anar huffs. “I don’t have a look.”

Didar raises an eyebrow as she leans back, wiping her hands on her apron. “You always have a look, and today it is exhaustion that you wear. You’re working yourself to the bone again.” She clicks her tongue. It is an accusation, not an opinion because Didar knows that she is right. 

“Cruel to me, aren’t you?”

“Me? Cruel?” Didar scoffs. “I will always speak my mind, Anar. You know this.”

Anar does. It’s why her heart skips a beat at the sight of her, why just the sight of Didar’s heart-shaped face, or how her plaited hair hanging over her shoulder remains in her mind for days. Didar’s expression is sharp and her green eyes bold. She doesn’t bother to hand her a menu. “Nasma is already working on your sandwich. We’ll get you right back to—”

“Didar!”

Didar’s face immediately sours. She doesn’t turn immediately, pinching the bridge of her nose. Anar watches as Didar sighs and takes a deep breath before shooting her an apologetic look. 

“Nasir,” she greets, turning on her heel. “Good afternoon to you.”

He is a decent man. Handsome enough with a charming smile. Hair that curls about his forehead in messy ringlets. Anar doesn’t pretend to know him but his grandmother is a frequent client. Still. There’s something about him that rubs her the wrong way. His smile, while sweet, seems off. 

“I was wondering if—”

“Nasir,” cuts in Didar, “I’m working.” She says this gently though Anar recognizes the exasperation that tinges the edge of her words. 

“A few moments won’t hurt anyone.”

“I have tables.”

“A question—”

Didar scoffs. “If it’s the same one as always then the answer hasn’t changed.”

Oh. Anar watches, cradling her chin in her palm. A persistent man, then. She’s had her fair share of those as well. Didar, though, isn’t the type to sit back and do nothing. Anar has no doubt that she’s been honest to the point of rudeness.

“Nasir, with all the kindness that I can muster—not right now.”

“Then when? Tell me a time and I’ll make it happen.”

Didar sighs, her bangs puffing away from her forehead. “I’ve said no time and time again, and yet you bother me here.”

“Just a chance,” says Nasir. He leans against the hostess's podium. “That’s all I’m asking for. I’m a nice guy.”

“I’m sure,” says Didar, leaning forward to fiddle with the plate on Anar’s table. Anything to look busy and distracted. “The answer is the same.”

“But—” 

“It will not change Nasir.” Didar gives him a falsely sweet smile. “And tell your grandmother that no amount of treats will change that, either, as tasty as they are.” 

Nasir doesn’t immediately answer. His lips curl into a frown, his jaw tensing. Like most men, he doesn’t enjoy the repeated rejection. He opens his mouth and Didar cuts him off again.

“Take the loss for the day,” she says. “You’ll have another chance to bother me tomorrow since you cannot seem to take no for an answer.”

Oh, that annoys him. Nasir’s gaze turns cool but he remains polite. “Well,” he drawls, “I bid you a good day, then. May your patrons treat you with the same kindness you’ve imparted upon me.”

Didar heaves a sigh of relief once he is out of sight. “Gods,” she murmurs, dropping into the chair opposite her. “That man.”

“A common occurrence?” Anar doesn’t need the answer, though; she can tell by the way Didar cringes. 

“He usually comes around earlier in the morning. His grandmother is near and he shares breakfast with her, so on the way back to his home…” Didar waves vaguely. “He isn’t a bad man. Genuinely kind, I think. But he just won’t take the hint.”

Anar hums, pulling her coffee close and taking a sip. “Is it kind to be so… obstinate?”

Didar rubs her face. “Likely not. I only meant he means no harm. He truly just wants a date, but if I were to entertain it…” She sighs, leaning back in her chair. “It is nothing against him. Our interests don’t align. That is all.”

Anar leans over and nudges her with an elbow. “No desire to marry?”

“My affection lies elsewhere, is all.”

Anar’s heart lurches at that. There is hope—there’s always been hope that the candle she burns isn’t one-sided. Didar is receptive enough with her tinkling laughter and casual touches. Still, she’s never pushed those boundaries, never tested the waters. 

She has propriety, at least.

“In any case, I do have to get back to work. It’s a slower day but I have another table.”

“Didi,” says Anar as she moves to stand. “What would you do to remove the man?”

Didar’s face crinkles slightly and she chuckles. “Do you have such a thing? Honestly, I’d be right as rain if I never saw his face again.” She tilts her head. “You aren’t thinking of something drastic, are you?”

She knows Anar far too well. “Of course not,” she replies, pretending mild offense. But then they meet gazes, their demeanor cracks, and they burst into raucous laughter. 

“You won’t do anything too terrible, will you?” asks Didar, mostly as a tease.

Anar intentionally does not say anything. Instead, she just takes Didar’s hand, squeezes it, and then requests a refill of her coffee. That touch lingers, Didar’s thumb rubbing over her knuckles before she walks off. 

Didar can take care of herself, there is no doubt, but no amount of curt words will change this man’s mind. But Anar is protective. Even if she had no affection for her, Didar is an old friend, and Anar would still stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. As she thinks about the entire exchange, she plots, thinking of her herbs and plants, and their uses. 

Nasir is harmless enough. Mildly annoying in his doggedness but inoffensive in most matters. 

Anar, though, is not. As she plots, her mouth curls into a cruel smile. 

#

The solution is, of course, simple: Anar will just take care of the problem. 

“Rarely do I get to use you,” she says sweetly as she digs through the shuttered-off part of her garden. The locals know not to come here for these are her more… unique ingredients. And though most, whilst unpleasant, are still relatively harmless, there is one sacred sister that is planted in the far back corner, out of sight. 

Anar wears gloves. “Beauty defined by death,” she sing-songs as she cups the plant, petting over its leaves, turning them to and fro. “By beloved Belladonna and her sweet, succulent end.” She thumbs over a plump berry, watching the way the dark skin shines in the midday sun.  “Nicely ripened,” she muses. “Perfect for a tincture meant to be a nuisance.”

She plucks a handful and drops them into her pouch. When she stands, she stretches out her back, groaning as if this is just a normal day of work for her. “Later,” she says, patting her satchel, “after the rest of my spells. A little… side project as it were. Overtime.” 

Anar laughs like the tinkling of bells pealing through the air. It certainly is the sound of a woman mad or with revenge on her mind.

#

She does not use much. And really, Anar’s intention isn’t necessarily to kill the man. 

All it takes to kill an adult is ten berries. She holds them in her palm and sighs, forcing herself to use only three. “His size,” she mutters to herself as she calculates her measurements. “He’s tall and of decent build. As long as he follows the instructions he won’t keel over.”

But he’ll get sick. He’ll be a mess of night sweats, hallucinations, and a very angry stomach. Anar grins as she mixes her paste, crushing the berries into an assortment of other goodies—all things to relieve headaches. “How lucky,” she says to herself as she dumps in a handful of mint. “Most men don’t go around for medicines like this. How… soft.”

Too bad he’s annoying. Too bad he bothers her dear sweet Didar. Once should be enough, but to request a man to leave twice, thrice—however many times Didar has requested. Well. Anar’s mouth twists into a sour frown. 

“Brought this upon yourself, didn’t you?” What a satisfying thought and it brings a grin back to her face as she bottles up the tincture and gives it a label and a date.

Later, when Nasir drops by her quaint little spell shop, Anar greets him with a smile as she does everyone else. “What a surprise,” she says, “when you called in this request.”

“Yes, well, the regular powders just aren’t cutting it and even I can only handle so much.”

Anar hums at that and places the bottle on the counter. It is small. Inconspicuous. Once opened, it’ll smell like mint and pepper. “I’ve formulated something very special just for you.”

Nasir’s head tilts and his eyes widen. Anar doesn’t like that look; it’s the same sort of one that a man gives a prize-winning pig. The last thing she needs is for him to turn his affections toward her. Anar taps the jar, bringing his attention back to it. 

“Now listen, Nasir, and listen very closely. As you know tinctures are only tinctures, but once my intent is woven into them they become spells. And spells have rules—which I repeat only once.”

“Miss Anar—”

“Once, I said, so you better listen. A dollop into your tea only once a day. The size of a pea, no more, no less. In the morning is best but midday will suffice, but when taken close to bed, you’ll have terrible dreams. It may upset your stomach, and you may vomit and spit, but isn’t that better than the pain? But as I said, these are the rules, and if you don’t follow them…”

“If I don’t follow them?”

Anar shrugs. “I’d venture that it wouldn’t be smart.”

“And if my head still hurts?”

“Take your other medicine—and that is a warning, not a suggestion.”

Nasir thumbs at his chin before nodding. Coins are exchanged. He palms the bottle with flair. “You know, Miss Anar,” he says as he reaches the door, “I had thought you unkind but perhaps I was wrong. Thank you and good day.”

Anar watches him go and feels no regret. “He’s more likely to muck it up, isn’t he? Well, I’ve warned him at least. The rest would only be his own damn fault.”

Still. She hides a grin at the thought.

#

Nasir, in typical male fashion, does not follow Anar’s instructions. 

It does not take long. Anar catches sight of him several days later whilst having lunch at the diner. Nasir looks a mess, pale and sweating profusely. Babbling incoherently about monsters in the night. Didar clicks her tongue as she pours Anar a fresh cup of tea. 

And then Nasir retires to his home, going unseen for days to come. 

A week passes by. Anar spends her day off working in her garden, weeding the green bits that threaten her herbs. “Annoying,” she mutters. “You just have to—”

“Nasir is dead.”

Anar jerks, smacking herself in the face with shock. “Ow,” she hisses, reeling back. Her head spins a little and her nose is sore. “Didi—”

“Don’t you Didi me.”

Anyone else would take that tone as an accusation. Anar knows Didar like the back of her hand; she hears the subtle amusement that curls around her words. When Anar finally meets her gaze, Didar watches back, her eyes glinting. 

“Did you have something to do with it?”

“That’s a bold accusation.”

Didar hums and leans against the fence that pickets her garden. “One that received no answer.”

Anar doesn’t want to lie, and so she says, “I made him exactly what he asked for.”

“Which was?”

“A tincture for his headaches. Perhaps the ingredients were a little unorthodox but they work all the same. The instructions were simple but very specific. If Nasir didn’t follow them…Well.” Anar stands and brushes the dirt from her skirt. 

“So you did have something to do with it.” There is no judgment. In fact, there is a romanticism to her tone, a quiet sort of awe that laces her voice. 

“Didi,” says Anar, stepping close. She reaches out and takes her hand, thumbing over the backs of Didar’s knuckles. “As a witch, my intentions are very clear.”

Didar’s face crinkles as she smiles. “And those would be?”

“That I kiss and never tell.” 

Anar sweeps her hand close and kisses each and every knuckle, and Didar—sweet, kind Didar—bursts into laughter that blooms like the sun.