Of Witches and Toadies

by fauxpunker

Agatha wasn't a witch. Mostly. Sure, she did some minor divination on the weekends-- never on the Sabbath, of course-- and she sold the occasional Ecrivain's Special during the week. But that wasn't witching. Not really.

Being a proper witch was more than just a job— it was a lifestyle. She did rather enjoy the art of Special brewing, but she had no interest in joining a coven, or owning a familiar. And while she was mostly certain that making a pact with devil was just a rumor to frighten folk, she lacked a strong desire to find out for sure.

So it was with no small amount of surprise that she answered the knocking at the door of her hat shop to find a deputy inquisitor from the Church of the Almighty Toad King.

"Can I help you, your grace?" she asked, her voice innocent and saccharine.

The man looked at heavy-lidded and half closed eyes.His mouth drooped and the corners and pulled is already saggy cheeks down that much more. Never before had Agatha seen a Toady more physically resembling the name.

"Yes," he said, the word coming out almost as a sigh. He stepped forward bumping the door, and Agatha, out of his way.

Agatha didn't quite fall, thanks in part to a nearby display of bowlers, but she took a moment to collect herself lest her mouth get her hauled off for blaspheming a church official. This one certainly did not get the job because of his personality.

"I'm sorry, your grace, but I'm not open for another hour yet. Still have some tidying up to do," she said, glancing at the hats scattered all over the floor from breaking her fall.

The man didn't say anything but looked around the room with indifference. He shrugged a leather sack off his shoulder and sat it on the floor. Languidly, he reached in with both hands he fumbled around with the contents.

Anger, like a newborn baby exiting the womb, began to kick and scream within Agatha. It was bad enough that he had barged in the way that he had. Now he was ignoring her completely. And she still didn't even know why he was there.

"I'm trying to be polite, your grace, but unless you're going to tell me what exactly it is you're doing here, I'm going to need you to kindly bug—" The words stuck in her throat as soon as he removed the object from the bag.

"I take it from your reaction that you know what this is?" The inquisitor lifted the odorous snuffleator to his face and strapped on a pair of thick goggles attached to a leather mask with an elongated snout. A small, brass box covered in tiny crystal flecks rested on each cheek.

Agatha nodded, "I do. What I don't understand is why you have it in my shop."

He flicked a switch on one of the brass boxes. Fans whirred to life and the snout lifted and curled into a loose "S" shape. The crystal flecks began to shine, undulating through the colors of the rainbow.

"I have it on good authority that you are in possession of certain caffeine containing agents." Agatha doubted he could have sounded more bored if he tried.

"Sir, this is hat shop. There is nothing illegal about hats. The worst thing you'll find here is mercury and that'll make you mad as a hatter if you're not careful. Which I always am, of course." She opened her eyes as wide as she could and a toothy grin.

He regarded her for a moment before a single word shuffled from his mouth. "Indeed."

Turning from her he moved toward the back of the shop. With each step he turned his head slowly from side to side. Loud sniffing, interrupted by an occasional snort, came from the snuffleator. Agatha wasn't quite sure if the machine itself made the noises or if it was amplifying the inquisitor.

"Your grace, if I may?" She asked.

"You may stop talking. Or, I shall arrest you for obstructing an official investigation."

Visions of shoving the snuffleator's snout where the sun doesn't shine filled Agatha's mind. This man needed to go.

"Of course, your grace. I just thought I could save you some time by taking you my work room. Wouldn't be very bright of me to just leave stuff laying around out here, now would it?"

Again he regarded her for a moment. The goggles magnified his half-closed eyes, making them look like the drowsiest saucers she had ever seen.

"Lead the way," he said.

"Of course, your grace. Just let me grab the key. Can't have just anyone wandering into the workshop," said Agatha. She bounded over to wooden crate that served as a the sales counter. An ornate cash register with swirling brass inlays sat at none end. A few keystrokes and it opened with a bright chime. She removed a heavy iron key and told the inquisitor to follow her.

Agatha led him down a flight of stairs behind the sales counter. She turned the key and the lock opened with a hollow clunk.

"Here you are, your grace. The light switch is just to the left as you step inside." The door wailed like a wounded cat as she pushed it open. He nodded, the snout flailing ridiculously as he did, and she watched him fixedly as he stepped past.

Three lights popped to life revealing a heavy wooden table with a small, steam powered sewing machine at one end, and various measuring and cutting tools occupied the rest of the space. Several bolts of colorful cloth filled a shelf along the back wall. Half made hats hung from racks along the side walls and scraps littered the floor.

Again the inquisitor began walking and turning his head, sniffing and snuffling with each step.

"What is that?" He asked, pointing toward an open cabinet beneath one of the hat racks. Vials of liquid covering nearly every color imaginable filled the shelves.

"That's where I keep my dyes, of course," she said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

"Why are there so many?"

"Because I like to have options! More options creates more room for creativity." She smiled and spread her arms wide before her.

He fumbled through the jars in the cabinet and Agatha winced.

"Please, do be careful. Some of those are quite expensive," she said. While he was busy, she shot a nervous glance toward the cloth filled shelf.

"Odd names for colors. Newt. Frog's breath. Unicorn tears. What are you really up to?" He turned to look over his shoulder and glared at her.

"I've already told you, your grace. I make hats. What's your nose telling you?"

The inquisitor sniffed long and loud right in front of the cabinet.

"Nothing," he said.

"See?" she said, and crossed her arms.

The man growled to himself and moved along the wall. Each step took him closer to the cabinet of cloth and Agatha felt tension begin to squeeze her chest, slowly and deliberately, like a python wearing down it's prey. It sent a thrill up her spine.

He stopped.

For nearly a full minute the inquisitor stared at the cabinet, almost willing for something out of place to appear before him. When nothing did, he began emptying it, sniffing fiercely as he did. Felts and wools flew over his shoulders as he simply batted bolts out of the way.

"You are going to pick that up when you're finished, yes?" She asked.

The man didn't answer.

Agatha's lips curled into a smirk and she stepped over to knee-high, tin box beside the workshop door. Kneeling down, she released a latch and gently opened the front.

"Rise and shine," she whispered into the box.

Grumbling a bit louder, the inquisitor stepped back from the cabinet. He started to go back to the dye cabinet but the hollow clunk of the lock snapped him out of his frustration. He turned around in time to see a little copper automaton climb on top of the sewing table. It's body was little more than a cylinder and the limbs were skeletal. The face, however, had been made to look like a little man with a monocle and his lips pursed like he was whistling.

"What is this?" Asked the inquisitor.

The little copper man replied with low pitched whistle and the inquisitor stumbled to the floor, a dart sticking from his neck.

Agatha moved to the table and picked the automaton up.

"Perfect answer as always, my friend. Now, back to your box," she said putting the machine back on the ground. Its little feet clanked sharply against the floor as it ran across the room.

Standing over the unconscious inquisitor, Agatha crossed her arms triumphantly. She had finally done it; she he had beaten the odorous snuffleator. No small feat, and one that would certainly make her side work as a witch much easier. She pushed the cloth cabinet to the side, revealing a loose stone in the wall. Sliding it out of place, she reached in and pulled out a small, hinged box. She flipped open the lid, revealing a dark, finely ground powder. Smiling, she inhaled the earthy aroma. The secret ingredient she put in every batch of Ecrivain's Special she brewed.

Looking down at the inquisitor, Agatha said, "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the first. Though, I do expect you'll be the last."

She put the coffee back in it's hiding place.

"Now, let's fix that memory of yours," said Agatha, and she began tracing runes on the inquisitor's forehead. Her fingertip glowed and a light steam drifted from the man's ears. She molded his memories so that he would remember finding nothing but high quality merchandise at very reasonable prices. For good measure she planted a couple of new bad memories in his mind as payback for his rudeness. When he woke up she would tell him he hit his head and send him on his way. In the meantime, she had hats to sell.

After all, Agatha wasn't a witch. Mostly.