When I was five years old, I watched my first witch burning. I was still clutching my pointed hat, too young and naive to realize that it might as well have been a beacon, shouting, "Here's the next one!" I'd always liked my hat. It had a jaunty curve, perfect for shading my eyes during long days spent picking moonflowers or chasing fireflies. But after that day, I learned one of the first rules of surviving as a witch in a kingdom brimming with nobles, priests, and pyres: Hide your hat.
Now, you might think, Oh Mireille, that's just a silly metaphor! But no, I mean it quite literally. The hat has to go. Or at least, it has to look like it's gone.
There are, believe it or not, some practical steps and time-honored tips for hiding your witch hat. Not destroying it, hiding it. There's a difference, and yes, I understand that now, thank you. But in the moment of full-blown, gut-clenching desperation for a poor little witch like me, fresh off witnessing a public execution and halfway to an identity crisis, you try everything. And I do mean everything.
Because when the flames are still dancing behind your eyes and the smell of smoke clings to your skin, the last thing you want is to be caught with a pointy, embroidered death sentence sitting on your kitchen counter.
Here are a few things I tried. And, if you value your life and your dignity, I suggest you don't do the same:
Never burn it.
That's what I tried first, obviously.
Burning the hat. It felt symbolic. Powerful. Like something a mysterious girl would do in a story passed between village girls who never met her but desperately wanted to be her. The kind of story whispered over candlelight with wide eyes and held breaths; she disappeared after the trial, left nothing but ashes and a shadow in the shape of a curse.
One less hat, one less witch. Clean. Dramatic. No evidence.
Except I forgot it was made of stiff wool, not some flowy, cinematic silk.
So I took the hat to the edge of the garden, where the rosemary bushes grow wild and judgmental, towering like silent old women who have seen too much and are not impressed. It felt like the right place for something theatrical. Private enough to avoid questions, but dramatic enough to satisfy whatever part of me still wanted to believe I could reinvent myself with a single symbolic gesture.
I placed the hat gently on the flat stone I usually sit on when I'm being moody about things like fate, the rising cost of eggs, and boys who disappear after two compliments and a half-hearted attempt at eye contact. You know the ones. They say things like "you have a curious mind" and then vanish forever, leaving you wondering if you dreamed the whole conversation. I've written several poems about them. Bad ones. But still.
I even lit a candle. For ambiance. Don't ask why, I thought the moon might appreciate the extra effort. I was trying to be reverent, okay? Mysterious. Witchy in the romantic, misunderstood way, not the "you smell like burnt wool and sadness" way. Then I struck a match. One of the fancy ones, too, with a long wooden stem and a satisfying snap. I held it up like I was invoking some ancient rite, leaned in slowly, and touched it to the brim.
And I waited.
Nothing happened.
Not a dramatic whoosh. Not a gentle smolder. Just the faintest sizzle as the match fizzled out, leaving behind the distinct and underwhelming scent of disappointment and sulfur. The hat remained exactly as it had always been, slightly lopsided, faintly dusty, and immune to metaphor.
I tried again. And again. I even muttered a few phrases I'd read in an old charm book, the ones that usually involve salt and intentions and moonlight. Still nothing. The hat sat there like a grumpy old toad, entirely uninterested in its role as a symbol of transformation.
Eventually, I gave up and poked it with a stick for a while, as one does when grappling with existential failure. The rosemary bush to my left made a noise, probably just the wind, but it felt distinctly like disapproval.
So I leaned closer, muttered something vaguely threatening under my breath—like, "Return to dust, you accursed brimmed parasite,"—and lit the hat on fire.
And I swear to every spirit in the wind, it just sat there. Smoking.
Indignantly.
That's the only word for it. It didn't burn. It didn't sizzle. It didn't even have the decency to catch a little. It just released this slow, judgmental curl of smoke, as if to say, "Wow. That's cute. Try harder."
"I am trying," I said out loud. To the hat.
It didn't respond. Of course. It just continued to sit on the rock, looking personally offended, like I'd asked it to pay rent or wear beige. And the smell? Oh, the smell. It was this awful mix of singed lavender, old ink, and failure. I nearly passed out from shame alone. And the worst part? The hat was completely unharmed. Not even a single on the ribbon. Not a single crispy feather.
I tried again. And again. And again.
I even borrowed one of Osmarine's fancy alchemical lighters, you know, the ones that burn blue and hiss like something alive. She didn't know I borrowed it. If you're reading this, Osmarine, no you don't.
Still, nothing. The hat didn't just survive. It flourished. It looked better than before, like it had taken a sauna and come back with more confidence. After the fifth attempt, I kicked the rock. Immediately regretted it. Limped back to the house. Stubbed my toe on a cursed broom I haven't returned to the archive yet.
Sat on the floor. Glared at the hat, which I had to drag back inside because it wouldn't move on its own and I refused to let it win. It's now perched in the corner of my closet like a smug little crown of shame. I swear it watches me.
Moral of the story?
Don't burn your hat.
You'll lose your dignity faster than the flames will catch.
Use magic, but sparingly.
That was the second thing I learned, right after the hat refused to burn like a proper metaphor should. I'd imagined this cinematic moment, standing in the moonlight like a tragic heroine, hair blowing in the wind, casting my past into the fire with dramatic flair and poetic closure. The kind of scene people whisper about later, in candlelit kitchens over tea. "She burned it all, you know. Her hat, her life, her name. Walked into the woods and never came back."
But the hat didn't burn.
It just sat there in the rosemary smoke, looking vaguely smug, like an old cat who refuses to move from your favorite chair. It sizzled a little. Maybe smirked. And then, nothing. No flash of flame, no freeing catharsis, just a stubborn piece of enchanted millinery doing what it does best, being cursedly, frustratingly indestructible. So I stood there for a while, holding the matchbox, staring at this absurdly defiant object on the stone, surrounded by all the ambiance I had carefully arranged: the wild garden, the moody candle, the judgmental moon. And I thought. "Alright. Fine. If you won't die dramatically in a blaze of self-reinvention, then you'll just have to change."
Literally.
So I turned it into a bonnet.
Yes. A bonnet. A plain, brown, soul-crushingly dull bonnet. The kind of thing you'd wear while staring wistfully out of a farmhouse window, waiting for your husband to return from the war with a sack of turnips and a haunted look in his eyes. The kind of bonnet that screamed, "I have never hexed anyone in my life, and I do not intend to start now."
It had no charm, no flourish, no hint of magic at all. Just this perfectly ordinary shade of disappointment-brown, with stitching so unremarkable it felt like a deliberate insult. It was the hat equivalent of saying,
"Don't worry, I'm normal now. I blend in. I go to church on Sundays and fold my laundry and lie awake at night contemplating the bleak weight of existence like everyone else."
In short, I turned the hat into a symbol of quiet resignation. It was absurd, of course. But at the time, it felt like survival. Because if the world wouldn't let me stop being a witch, maybe I could at least look like someone who'd never owned a cauldron. Maybe I could pass for the kind of girl who didn't keep bones in glass jars or talk to trees when she thought no one was watching. So there I was, standing in the garden in my freshly transformed disguise, already itchy from the too-tight bonnet band and starting to regret everything, but committed nonetheless. Because sometimes, when you can't burn the past, the only option left is to hide it under something beige and boring and hope no one looks too closely.
It felt clever, at first. A quiet sort of genius, really, turning a cursed artifact of mystical headwear into something so aggressively average that even the nosiest of busybodies would glance over it without a second thought. I even patted myself on the back, metaphorically. Maybe even literally. I was alone. Who was going to judge me? Bertrand? Yes. Actually, yes.
But the illusion of cleverness lasted precisely until Lady Pomfrey showed up. I was in the front garden, crouched among the thyme and the creeping mint, half-heartedly pulling at weeds that weren't even weeds. I'd planted them there three weeks ago, on purpose, and they were thriving, unlike me. In truth, I was less interested in gardening and more occupied with staring down my neighbor's goose from across the fence. His name is Bertrand. He watches me like he's seen my sins scribbled across the stars. I've long suspected he's some sort of divine punishment in feathery form. Anyway, there I was. Bonnet securely in place. Hands dirtied just enough to look rustic, unthreatening. Back hunched in what I hoped was a very peasant-core posture. Trying, really trying, to exude the quiet, wheat-scented aura of someone who churns butter on purpose and doesn't know any incantations stronger than "please let this dough rise." And then I heard them.
The footsteps. The clack of shoes on stone, too sharp, too self-assured to belong to anyone but one particular person with a spine forged of salt and sanctimony. A sound that could only ever herald the approach of one woman, and believe me, I've tried pretending otherwise.
Lady Pomfrey.
The terror of the hedgerow. The absolute overlord of the neighborhood's moral compass, despite the fact that she once drank three glasses of rhubarb wine at a funeral and accused the vicar of consorting with "celestial filth." She is, in short, the self-appointed guardian of all things Proper and Respectable and Thoroughly Unmagical. And today? Oh, today she had that walk. You know the one. That stiff-backed, arms-crossed strut of a woman who has discovered Something and intends to weaponize it before lunch. She rounded the corner of my fence like a holy inquisitor arriving at the site of a rumored heresy. Her expression was carved from granite and judgement.
"Mirielle!" she called out while waving her right hand to the air and the other to the corner of her mouth, and her voice, my gods, her voice could curdle cream. It was the sound of lemon squeezed directly into a paper cut. I froze. Every part of me tensed like I was a rabbit in the presence of a very judgmental fox. The bonnet shifted slightly on my head, as if reconsidering its loyalties. The rosemary plant I had been fake-weeding practically leapt from the soil like it wanted to escape too. I hurriedly stuffed it back into the earth.
"Oh! Lady Pomfrey!" I said, my voice climbing two octaves higher than it had any right to. "What a—what a surprise!" A lie. I'd seen her approaching through the cracks in the garden gate for a solid three minutes. I'd even considered vaulting the herb patch and making a run for it, but Bertrand had blocked the escape route. As usual. She halted right by the edge of my garden, nose slightly wrinkled like she'd just gotten a whiff of something foul, or worse, unorthodox. Her gaze dropped to my bonnet.
"That's a new bonnet," she said, eyes narrowing. "Is it?" I replied, far too quickly.
She took a single, ominous step forward and tilted her head just slightly. "It smells… strange." I blinked. "Strange?" She leaned in, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound on the scent of moral decay. "Like rosemary. And... is that regret?"
I deadpanned and looked at her, how can she smell regret?! I let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to a woman being haunted by her own hat. Too loud. Too bright. The laugh of someone trying to distract from the fact that their headwear was technically still humming with barely contained arcane energy. "I—I use herbs for skincare," I said, desperately. "Very rural. All natural. Very... rustic peasantry chic." Lady Pomfrey's eyes didn't leave my bonnet. "Hm," she said, in the exact tone you might use if you'd caught someone shoplifting holy water.
Lady Pomfrey leaned in so close I could see the reflection of my impending doom in her spectacles. She sniffed once, sharp and discerning, like a snob at a perfume counter, except instead of floral undertones, she was picking up traces of witchery and lies.
"It's just," she said slowly, her eyes narrowing into paper-cut slits, "every time I see it, it's the same shade of brown. Same stitching. Same little snag at the corner—"
She pointed.
I died.
Internally, of course, but still. I felt my soul crumple into a little paper ball and roll under the rosemary bush in sheer shame. She was right. The snag. I'd forgotten to fix the stupid snag. It had been there since Week One of The Great Bonnet Plan™, when I accidentally snagged the corner on my cauldron hook while dramatically spinning. Yes. I spin dramatically. It helps the spell settle. "Isn't that strange?" she asked, in the tone of someone who had just stabbed you in the ribs but was offering you a very small bandage. Sweet. Too sweet. Sugar-laced cyanide. I coughed. "Nostalgic consistency," I said, hoping she'd mistake panic for wit. "Like my emotional damage." She did not laugh. She didn't even smirk. Her expression remained frozen in its usual resting state: Tight-Lipped Condescension. It was the face of a woman who had never once danced barefoot under the moon, or considered using love potions recreationally. I, meanwhile, had done both. Twice.
And now, thanks to one slightly overworked glamour spell, the world's most judgmental widow, and a bonnet that refuses to cooperate unless I bribe it with lavender oil and compliments, I've had to come up with no less than six fake reasons for why my Very Normal Bonnet™ always smells like a witch's herb cabinet and occasionally hums during thunderstorms.
Here are the current working excuses, listed in order of descending believability:
"I'm in mourning. For a goat. The scent brings me peace."
This one almost worked, until she asked for the goat's name and I panicked and said Christopher Robin.
"I make artisanal salad dressings in my spare time."
Believable! Except I accidentally added eye of newt to a vinaigrette last week and had to banish it mid-dinner.
"The scent wards off ticks."
Technically true. It also wards off men, children, and all forms of structured employment.
"It's perfume. From the east. Very exclusive."
I said this while the bonnet was literally sprouting mint leaves. Lady Pomfrey asked if it was still growing.
"I have a deeply personal attachment to this bonnet. It belonged to my great-grandmother. She wore it while milking a cow that survived a tornado."
I blacked out halfway through the story and just started adding cows.
"I'm trying a new 'earth witch' aesthetic. It's the latest thing. All the girls in the capital are doing it."
This only made her suspicious. Lady Pomfrey hates the capital. Something about corsets and progressive thought.
At this point, I should just tell her the truth. But instead, I smiled, took a slow breath, and reached into the herb patch to "pluck" a nonexistent weed while whispering a very small spell to make Bertrand the goose honk on command. Just in case I needed a distraction. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that Lady Pomfrey can smell deception from three leagues away! But she absolutely cannot handle loud birds.
The truth? Magic is lazy. It doesn't just vanish when you want it to. It lingers, like that one embarrassing high school haircut or the scent of burnt toast in the morning.
If you lean on it too much, especially for small, pointless things like disguising a hat or hiding how you really feel, it starts to pile up. Like soap scum in the corners of your bathtub, or the creeping suspicion that your neighbors know exactly what you're up to. Or worse, like your kitchen broom quietly plotting a revolt. But that's a tale for another time. The glamour spell does work. Technically. It's shiny and convincing, until it's not. It's a bit like putting on your fanciest mask, beautiful, but it starts slipping after a while. Here's the catch: it only lasts if you don't wear it for more than three hours straight, avoid direct sunlight like it's got a vendetta against you, and stay far, far away from those over-curious aristocrats who haven't smiled since the spring of 1421. Because those people? They see through magic like a window with no curtains. So yeah, magic's a handy trick. But it's also a slippery, lazy little beast that loves to give you away at the worst possible moment. I learned the hard way that magic has a scent. Not like roses or freshly baked bread, more like… old socks that tried to pass as perfume. Most people don't notice it, but goats? Oh, goats definitely know. They wrinkle their noses and give you that look like, "Yep, you're definitely not just wearing a bonnet, lady."
And it's not just goats. Children pick up on it too, probably because their noses are still in training, and dogs, who have zero chill about sniffing out your secrets. Then there was the tax collector, yes, that poor, unfortunate soul, who fainted right on my doorstep and later threatened to sue me for "phantom dreams." I'm still not sure what those are exactly, but apparently, my magic gives off some seriously spooky vibes. But the absolute worst part? The hat knows. Every time I transform it, I swear I feel this little judgy pulse, like the thing's keeping score on a tiny, invisible scoreboard strapped to my soul. It's silently mocking me, waiting for the moment the spell slips, the glamour flickers, and the bonnet reveals itself as a five-foot-tall, shadowy, wide-brimmed monstrosity in the middle of the town festival while I'm standing there, awkwardly clutching a basket of overpriced plums like I own the place.
So yes, use magic.
But sparingly!
Because one day you'll be right in your own yard, your hat smirking under its flimsy glamour, Lady Pomfrey glaring at you with all the subtlety of a ravenous hawk, and Bertrand the goose giving you the kind of judgment that hits deep in your soul.
And on that day?
You'll realize the truth.
You never really hid the hat.
The hat was just humoring you.
Like a sassy best friend who knows you're bluffing but plays along anyway.
Blend In With the Nobles.
My current favorite trick? Folding the hat into my dress. Yes, folding it, like you would laundry, or maybe a particularly stubborn mess of emotional trauma you're trying to shove out of sight. Specifically, I tuck it right into my bustle. Now, here's the thing, I didn't even know what a bustle was until recently. I mean, I'd heard the word tossed around, but when I saw one up close, I had a genuine, full-on existential crisis about how much fabric could possibly be allowed on a single backside. The nobles here? Completely obsessed with fashion that looks like they're smuggling livestock under their skirts. It's all puffed sleeves, ruffled collars, and skirts so wide you'd think they had their own postal codes.
So naturally, I saw an opportunity.
If they're already carrying half the kingdom's wool industry around their hips, what's one more hat? It's basically camouflaged in plain sight. The perfect hiding spot! Honestly, sometimes I half expect the hat to start whispering, "Nice try, Mirielle," as it nestles in there, but hey, it's better than carrying it on my head like a neon sign screaming "WITCH ALERT!" It's so snug in my bustle that I'm pretty sure it's plotting revenge, or at least planning a dramatic escape during the next village gathering. But as far as I'm concerned, it's doing its job, which means I'm one step closer to not getting burned at the stake. Win-win, right?
One problem is that my witch hat is... how do I put this delicately? Completely uncooperative. Maybe even possessed. Definitely shaped like a dramatic villain's shadow at high noon, because of course it is. Like it's waiting for its big, over-the-top entrance every time I try to sneak it around. And no matter what I tried, burning it which, surprise, didn't work, disguising it because apparently a hat with an identity crisis is not easy to fool, bribery, don't even ask, but let's just say the hat does not respond well to promises of cake, it stubbornly refused to stay hidden for more than five minutes.
So, naturally, I had to get creative.
One afternoon, after a wardrobe-related disaster involving a sentient scarf which I swear rolled its eyes at me, and three very angry doves that now refuse to look at me without judgment, I stood in front of my mirror, eyeballing my ridiculous dress. That's when it hit me; what if I just... shoved the blasted thing in there?
Cue me awkwardly wrestling the hat into my already complicated bustle, while simultaneously trying not to trip over my own feet or send the entire thing into an accidental, catastrophic collapse. The hat, as if it had a mind of its own, flopped dramatically like it was performing a Shakespearean monologue, probably complaining about the indignity of being stuffed into layers of frilly fabric. At that moment, I could almost hear it muttering, "Really? In here? I deserve better!" But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, and if stuffing a spiteful, melodramatic hat into my dress is what it takes to avoid becoming a human torch, so be it.
I'm fairly certain the doves are still gossiping about it. And I'm pretty sure my bustle is developing a personality of its own. But for now, the hat is hidden. Sort of. And I'll take that as a small victory. Thus, the bustle plan was born. Is it elegant? Absolutely not.
Does it technically count as smuggling a cursed, uncooperative object into every single social event I attend? Oh, without a doubt. But here's the kicker: it actually works. The nobles, bless their over-starched souls, take one look at my ridiculously over-fluffed backside and gush with all the enthusiasm of people who've never questioned their life choices:
"Oh, how avant-garde! Such volume!"
"Très chic! Like an opera house had a baby with a sofa!"
"I adore your silhouette, darling. So bold, so daring!"
Meanwhile, wedged deep in the folds of tulle and satin, the hat sulks like an angry accordion. It occasionally creaks or mutters ominous things in Old Hexan, usually things like, "I dream of crows." I just smile politely and pretend it's my stomach complaining about the third helping of dessert.
Honestly, it's a win-win. The nobles are distracted by my puffed-up fashion statement, and the hat stays under wraps… for now. But every so often, I swear I hear it plotting. Something about "next time, a shadowy brim wide enough to block out the sun." I just hope it doesn't hold me to that.
At parties, people compliment me, usually about the boldness of my silhouette or the sheer audacity of my backside's volume. I smile sweetly, curtsy with all the grace I can muster, and the bustle wheezes. Yes, wheezes. Like an old accordion that's been through one too many operas. Honestly, it sounds like the hat is trying to sigh in despair every time I move.
Once, someone, probably drunk on their third glass of elderflower wine, reached out to touch it, maybe thinking it was some kind of exotic fabric or a newfangled accessory. The moment their fingers brushed the folds, zap! They jumped back like they'd just been struck by lightning.
Did I mention that the hat can shock people? Of course, I played it cool and blamed static electricity. Because honestly, who doesn't get shocked by their own clothes at a fancy party? It's just so fashionably dangerous these days. Meanwhile, I'm standing there, trying not to laugh while the hat grumbles something about "infernal mortals" and "lack of respect," and I'm like, yep, just your typical evening mingling with aristocrats and an emotionally unstable piece of headwear. Welcome to my life.
And if you're probably wondering, "How does a commoner like you even get invited to a noble's party?"
Well, that's all thanks to Mrs. Pomfrey. She's got this habit of dragging me along whenever her noble friends invite her to those lavish gatherings. Honestly? I don't enjoy it one bit. The endless small talk, the glances, the endless pretending to care about embroidery patterns, it's exhausting. But how could I say no? Especially when the food is involved. Oh, the food. The way they pile those platters with roasted pheasant, glazed root vegetables, and cheeses that taste like little bites of heaven, I mean, seriously, how much do they pay those cooks? They must be magicians. And don't even get me started on the desserts. Fluffy pastries, fruit tarts that look like jewels, creams so smooth they practically melt on your tongue… Honestly, if I ever got my hands on their secret recipes, I'd hire those chefs in a heartbeat.
So yeah, Mrs. Pomfrey might drag me there for the gossip, but I stay for the food. Because even a poor witch knows where to find the best feasts in town.
So yes. Blend in with the nobles. Stuff your cursed hat into your fashion like a well-meaning burrito, careful not to let any of that magical sass peek out and spoil the illusion. Smile like you just heard the juiciest secret but aren't about to spill it. Curtsy with the grace of a swan who's desperately trying not to trip over their own feet. Sip tea with women whose smiles are sharper than their diamond necklaces, and whose sweet words hide the kind of plotting that could sink a ship.
And if, when, someone comments that your bustle creaked? Oh, lie. Lie so hard your lungs start questioning your life choices. Claim it's just the fabric settling, or that your corset is a little too eager to join the party. Maybe even say it's your new avant-garde dance move "The Bustle Bounce," very exclusive, very chic. Because let's be real, the hat's life depends on it. That sneaky, grumbling bundle of brim and brimstone tucked under all those layers is basically alive. It's like it's silently keeping score of every fib you tell, every suspicious glance you dodge, every inch you manage to keep from turning into a dramatic shadow monster in front of the entire noble court.
So yes. Lie with the conviction of a cat burglar caught mid-heist. Because if you don't, the hat will let everyone know exactly who you really are, and it's not the quiet, well-behaved commoner they think they're sipping tea with.
So, if you really don't want to get caught in the bright daylight looking like a witch who forgot her invisibility cloak, here's the secret: hide your hat. Stuff it into your bustle, fold it like laundry, heck, treat it like your emotional baggage. Because trust me, that hat knows when you're trying to keep it a secret. It's got a mind of its own, and it's not above throwing a little tantrum right when you need it to behave.
Blend in. Smile like you've never cast a spell in your life. Nod politely when Lady Pomfrey squints at you like she's about to call the witch hunters. And for the love of all that's holy, when your bustle creaks or your bonnet starts muttering ominous things, just lie. Lie like your hat's reputation, and your social life, depend on it. Because honestly? Between you, me, and the judging goose next door, sometimes survival is just about convincing everyone, including your own magical hat, that you're nothing more than a very boring commoner with an unfortunate taste in headwear.
. ⁺ . ꝯϱ . ⁺ .
The day started like most others, with the sun creeping over the rooftops, spilling warm light into my crooked little cottage, and the unmistakable plop of my hat falling off its usual perch. That hat. Always has opinions. Sometimes I swear it knows exactly when I'm trying to sneak out without it, as if it has some sixth sense for rebellious witches. "Not today," I muttered, scooping it up and stuffing it into its new hiding spot: a woven basket lined with lavender sachets. I shoved the basket under my work table for good measure. Lavender was supposed to mask any lingering magical aura, or so Lady Pomfrey insists. Not that the hat smells magical per se, but if I've learned anything from her, humans will sniff at anything that seems remotely unusual.
I tied a scarf around my head instead, partly to keep my wild hair in check, mostly to convince the world I'm a completely normal, harmless woman. Then I stood in front of the mirror and practiced my best "I'm perfectly ordinary" smile. It's all in the eyebrows, really. Raise them too high, and I look like I'm about to scream at a squirrel. Too low, and I look like I just smelled something terrible which, honestly, isn't always a lie. The perfect neutral expression? Somewhere between polite boredom and mild indigestion. I swear I nailed it. Probably. Hopefully. The hat, meanwhile, was quiet, for now. But I know it's just waiting for the moment I let my guard down. Because hats like mine? They don't stay hidden forever.
The market was alive with chatter when I arrived, like a beehive on espresso. Cobblestone streets jam-packed with a jumble of villagers and nobles, all bustling around with the kind of energy only people chasing bargains or juicy gossip can summon. The scent of freshly baked bread hugged the air, cozy and warm, but then it tangled, unpleasantly, with the sharp tang of fish that made me wrinkle my nose just a bit. I pulled my scarf tighter around my face because, well, fashion, and also to hide the faint suspicion that my hat might be watching from its secret basket, judging my every move.
"Mireille!" screeched Henrietta, the baker's wife, from across the crowd with the enthusiasm of a town crier on her third cup of morning tea. "You're late! The young lord from the castle's already taken all the cherry tarts!" I froze for a heartbeat, because honestly, who wasn't late when there were cherry tarts at stake? But I smoothed my face into what I hoped was a casually disinterested expression and said, "I wasn't here for tarts." Totally believable. Totally not lying through my teeth.
"Just looking for rosemary," I added, because nothing says 'witch in disguise' like pretending to be a harmless herb enthusiast.
Henrietta's eyes narrowed so hard I thought she might need a chiropractor. "Rosemary? Again? You're practically growing it out of your ears, dear. I'd have thought you'd need something else by now, like a husband!" She cackled like I'd just told her I was secretly the queen of some hidden realm.
I blinked, then blinked again, because what even is this conversation? A husband? Really? The idea was so absurd it made me want to snort-laugh and choke on my own air. "Maybe next week," I replied, sidestepping like a pro dancer avoiding a sudden puddle. Henrietta never knew when to quit, but I had to admit, her endless enthusiasm was part of the town's unofficial entertainment.
Behind me, a group of children gawked, wide-eyed, probably convinced I was some sort of enchanted creature with magical herbs sprouting from my scalp. Meanwhile, a noble nearby gave me a suspicious side-eye like he was trying to decide if I was the next plague or a new fashion trend. I smiled, carefully, like balancing a teacup on a wobbly table, and kept hunting for rosemary, because nothing says 'blending in' like pretending you're utterly normal while plotting how to smuggle your cursed hat through another social event without it declaring war on the village birds.
The rest of the market passed in a blur of ordinary chaos, if you don't count Lady Pomfrey unleashing her trademark fury on a poor merchant over the cost of ribbons. "Three copper for blue? This is robbery! They're not even indigo!" she huffed, waving a frail finger like a tiny conductor leading an orchestra of outrage. The merchant looked like he'd just been accused of witchcraft, funny, considering my day, while a small crowd gathered, murmuring about the "ribbon rebellion."
I busied myself pretending to care deeply about picking out sage, thyme, and a few sprigs of lavender that I absolutely didn't need but couldn't resist because it smelled like a fancy spa and made me feel momentarily less like a cursed hat smuggler. Bits of gossip floated past me like breadcrumbs, a whispered scandal about the emperor planning another grand banquet, and nobles already scrambling to make themselves the center of attention. Which, for me, meant staying as far away from the palace as possible for at least a week. Nobles equal questions, and questions equal disaster. Basket now crammed full of herbs and mildly suspicious amounts of floral scent, I was halfway home, mind drifting to thoughts of sneaking some cherry tarts when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
Csepel von Stein, the self-proclaimed "protector of the kingdom," was standing there like he'd been airbrushed into the scene by some overly dramatic artist who really loved brooding heroes. He leaned casually against the lamppost, looking utterly flawless, his dark coat untouched by market dust, boots polished to a mirror shine that could probably blind small animals, and his sword just peeking out like a shiny secret from beneath his cloak. Honestly, if statues could sigh, he'd have been doing it with flair.
He wasn't looking at me, not yet, thank every star in the sky, but his very existence was enough to make me wish I'd stayed in bed and eaten cherry tarts instead. Because witches and their cursed hats aside, Csepel von Stein was basically the kingdom's official witch hunter, minus the dramatic fiery torch, for now. And seeing him here in broad daylight was like spotting a dragon casually grocery shopping, rare, terrifying, and potentially catastrophic.
I clutched my basket like it was a life raft and forced my legs to keep moving because the moment you freeze in front of a witch hunter, you might as well start rehearsing your "I'm innocent" speech or prepare to be turned into a cautionary tale.
So I smiled. Not a polite smile. Not a nervous smile. The kind of smile that says, "I am so normal right now I might just win an award for Normalcy." My shoulders relaxed even though I wanted to launch into full-on panic mode, and I walked like I was headed to a knitting circle rather than trying to smuggle a sentient, muttering hat through a crowd that included the kingdom's most feared hunter.
My thoughts, meanwhile, were a chaotic jumble of "Don't look suspicious, don't look suspicious," mixed with "If I get caught, can I bribe him with cherry tarts? No? Worth a shot."
Every step felt like walking on a tightrope made of spider silk, delicate, terrifying, and definitely not made for someone who trips over her own shadow. Breathing deeply, I told myself: "Mireille, you've got this. You are just another average girl carrying a basket of herbs. Nothing unusual here. Absolutely no magical, judgmental, potentially murderous hats involved."
Spoiler alert: I absolutely did not have this.
I rounded the corner, heart pounding like a runaway drum, trying to pretend I wasn't mentally drafting my will. The market sounds faded a little, just enough for me to hear the unmistakable snap of a twig behind me.
Great. Just great.
I dared a glance over my shoulder. Csepel von Stein had decided to follow me. Not that he'd made a dramatic announcement or anything. No, he was just walking quietly, all serious and broody, like a shadow with really expensive boots.
"Lovely day for herbs, isn't it?" I blurted out, immediately hating myself for sounding like a nervous squirrel.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't answer. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step closer, eyes scanning me from head to toe as if trying to decide whether I was a threat or just an innocent woman who'd wandered into the wrong story.
I clutched my basket tighter, almost crushing the poor thyme inside. The bustle shifted ominously, and for a terrifying second I thought I heard a low growl.
"Just... admiring the market," I added, trying to sound casual while simultaneously calculating how fast I could run if things went sideways. Spoiler: not very.
He smirked. A dangerous smirk that said, "I know exactly what you're hiding, and it's probably not rosemary."
I swallowed hard and prayed my hat stayed put. Honestly, at that moment, I would have traded every tart I'd ever eaten just for a moment of invisibility.
But instead of accusing me or lunging for a torch, Csepel sighed and said, "You're fortunate today, Mireille. The emperor demands no witch hunts during the banquet week."
I blinked, stunned into silence. My mouth went completely dry. My eyes widened like saucers, and my heartbeat sounded like a frantic drum solo inside my ears. I was halfway between turning and running so fast the pigeons would think I was a thunderstorm, and collapsing in a puddle of nervous sweat. My eyes probably went three sizes too big, and my mouth hung open like I'd just swallowed a live frog.
No, no, no! He wouldn't know, right? Right?!
"Huh…" The word slipped out before I could stop it, but inside, I was about as pale as a freshly washed sheet. My heart was doing somersaults in my chest, and my brain desperately scrambled for a safe escape route. Please take it back. Please don't let those words mean what I think they mean. Please don't light that torch, don't drag me to a pyre, don't yell "WITCH!" at the top of your lungs. Not right now. Not before I've had breakfast. I forced my eyes to stay calm and steady, but my hands were shaking like leaves in a storm. Because if you want to survive as a witch in this kingdom, you don't fight the hunters. You out-weird the weird, out-smile the suspicious…
"What… what does that mean?" I managed, voice somewhere between "utter disbelief" My eyebrows probably looked like they were having a contest to see who could touch my hairline first. Csepel raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my stunned expression. "It means," he said slowly, "that even the emperor knows some traditions are best left undisturbed, at least for a week."
"Witch hunt for a week…" My mind is empty, I feel like I can't think anymore. I couldn't process what was happening. Csepel just looked at me like I was the one who had lost her mind. "No, girl. I mean the emperor ordered a pause on witch hunts. Nothing personal." My spirit tried to sneak back into my body, but it tripped over my jaw on the way down. "Oh." I managed, wiping a bead of sweat that wasn't really there. "That's… that's good news. Very good news." I smiled like I'd just dodged a dragon and simultaneously won a pie-eating contest.
"So… no torch, no pitchfork, no screaming mob?" I whispered, like asking might make the whole thing vanish.
Csepel raised an eyebrow. "No. I'm just here to ensure the market runs smoothly." I forced a shaky laugh, clutching my basket like it was a shield. "Right. Market. Definitely normal market stuff. Nothing suspicious. Definitely not a terrified witch about to have her cover blown." As I shuffled away, I could almost hear my hat grumbling from its hiding place, "I told you to stay home today."
Well, mostly ordinary. The hat still hums sometimes, but that's a story for another day. Back in my crooked little cottage, I unpacked my herbs and brewed a pot of tea, letting the warm steam chase away the day's lingering nerves. The hat sulked in its hiding spot beneath the table, grumbling in Old Hexan about being left out of the fun. Honestly, it didn't have much to complain about. Another day had passed, and somehow, we were still alive. And really, isn't that what counts?