The Dark Side of Town
A witch you will not recognise lives north of the river on the dark side of town. The side where people go to be changed, stolen, or sometimes simply lost. It is a stark contrast to the mortal-inhabited south, where the days keep a regular time and any clouds passing overhead come only in the usual whites and greys. To the north, the streets are often flooded with the strange mists of dawn that linger in the alleyways like ghosts long after the sun ought to have burned them away.
A sole bridge connects the mortal world with that of the fae. Few know it exists. The witch does not dare set so much as a toe upon it. She prefers the narrow alleys and winding streets of the dark side. Besides, the scent of mortal-tended flowers brings on her hay fever like the devil himself has thrown pepper in her face. A common reaction among her kind. The witch stays well clear.
Her ramshackle abode can be found just down the street from a bakery selling pastries filled with half-remembered dreams in place of cream, two silvers for a bite. Every morning, she wakes to the scent of fresh creations. The bakers rise early as midnight to prepare their wares for the day – a feat of self-discipline the witch will never be able to match. She is a being who loves her sleep almost as much as she loves a large meal.
The smells emanating from the ovens, as strong as if the bakers were deliberately directing them towards her open window, are enough to rouse her from her dreamless sleep and set her perpetually empty stomach growling louder than a yowling moon cat. There are a handful of the silver and midnight blue moggies who have claimed her rooftop as their own, and their frequent fights have dislodged more than a few tiles. The remains still lie in green terracotta shards over the purple cobblestones outside her door.
Despite the appealing scent of apple Danishes every morning, the witch rises and leaves for the day without a bite. She has never once been inside the patisserie. Her nose might try to deceive her, but her stomach was not made for physical foods. Instead, she dons her cape, scoops up her cap, and heads out on the hunt.
She flashes a toothless smile at passers-by, dares them to look her in the eye. Those who know her wave in greeting but keep their heads downturned before she can settle her beady eyes on theirs. They have learned, either through word of mouth or through their own folly, to avoid her gaze.
When she comes upon an unsuspecting fool – perhaps a cloud painter on his way to the workshop who returns her generous smile – she takes what she wants without breaking stride and breaks her fast on the dreams and memories of the night before in a ten-minute stroll. If he is lucky, the painter is left with a vague sense that he has forgotten something and continues unsteadily on his way.
If he is not so lucky, he will remain standing in that street until his wife comes looking for him. There will undoubtedly be much sorrow. By nightfall he will have been whisked away by hares in hospital gowns to take a restorative dip in the sea.
Those are the ones who get off easy. Her dinners should be more afraid.
Foolhardy mortals who decide to lose themselves in the twists and turns of the southside are always so happy to offer a stabilising arm to an old woman hobbling down the street. At first the aching bones bothered her – a once great being who used to cross whole cities in a heartbeat, now reduced to a shuffling walk – but now her aged appearance is all part of the game.
One look is all it takes, and those goodwilled souls find themselves without a single memory. Her meals are rendered shells, little more than ghosts.
The witch returns home satiated.