I'm not superstitious.
I'm not.
I mean, fine, a little. But that's just... conditioning, okay? When you grow up in the dock-shadows of Seebulba, where your neighbor's dog gets possessed twice a week and some sailor's always selling toenail charms against ghosts, you absorb things. You don't whistle after sunset. You leave bread for the house spirits. You don't look a cat in the eye unless you're ready to marry its demon.
It's not superstition. It's survival.
So when I saw the crooked sign reading "Madame Enaba — Fortune, Fertility, Final Warnings" swinging in the breeze like it had personal vendettas, I did not squeal. Not out loud. Just a very dignified gasp. And a tiny backstep. And maybe I clutched my tits a little. For comfort.
I wasn't going to go in. I wasn't!
...Then I stubbed my toe on a rock and took it as a sign.
Also, it was getting dark, and my feet were filthy, and the dragon had definitely said "find herbs" not "get your aura dissected," but here we were.
I pushed open the door.
Instant regret.
It smelled like incense and goat piss and wet wool. Something was bubbling in a cauldron, something else was twitching in a birdcage, and the entire ceiling was draped in dried herbs or possibly cursed laundry. A hundred beads clinked behind me as the door shut. Trapped. Great.
The room was dim, smoky, way too full of suspicious jars, and hotter than a sauna inside a fever dream. I was sweating instantly. Also barefoot, which somehow made it worse. Like my soul had fewer layers of defense.
"Sit," croaked a voice like two rocks fighting.
I yelped. Don't judge me.
She was already there. In the dark. No warning. No creaking chair. Just... there. Old as dust, eyes like moldy coins, wrapped in layers of something fibrous and aggressively purple. One long, gnarled finger pointed at a stool that looked like it had tetanus.
"I don't usually do this sort of thing," I said quickly, backing toward the door. "I'm not really the fortune type. More of a free-spirited chaos nymph. Super independent. Very unhexable."
"Sit."
I sat.
"I don't believe in fate," I mumbled. "I believe in bad decisions and good legs."
She didn't blink.
"And if anything weird starts whispering," I added, "I will scream. Loud. I do that."
She reached out, grabbed my hands like they were overdue rent, and sniffed me.
"Wh—don't do that! I washed! Kinda!"
Her fingers were cold. Bone-cold. Witch cold.
She turned my palms over. Hummed. Then frowned.
"Oh no," I said. "Don't frown. Frowning is worse than cackling. I expect cackling. What is it? Death? Doom? Taxes?"
"You," she rasped, "are an open wound wearing perfume."
I blinked. "That's... poetic. Also rude."
"Your luck is borrowed. Your charm is stolen. Your soul is wearing someone else's name."
I jerked my hands back. "Excuse you?!"
She just cackled. There it was. Took her long enough.
"I don't owe anyone anything," I snapped, which was a lie, but I said it well. "I earned all this. Mostly. Some of it. Whatever, it's mine now."
"Mm." Her eyes flicked down to my bare feet. "Still walking the world like it owes you an apology."
"Maybe it does," I muttered, curling my toes under.
She stood suddenly. Too fast. Joints cracking like kindling. "Do you want the truth or the comfort?"
I hesitated. Which was stupid. Always choose comfort. That's the rule. That's the whole point of wine and tits and lying to yourself in the mirror before you hustle another city.
But something in her face—
—wasn't a face anymore.
It was a mask of shadows and smoke and memory. Her eyes didn't glow. They dimmed the room. And her voice—
Her voice didn't echo in my ears.
It echoed backward. Into me.
"I want the truth," I said. Very softly.
She nodded once.
Then everything changed.
Not the room. Not the jars. Not the smell.
Me.
The sweat on my back went cold. My breath caught without my permission. And for a moment, a heartbeat, a blink—I wasn't in my body.
She leaned forward, just enough for the candle to light up her face from below.
Her eyes were green. Murky. Like the bottom of the river.
She took my hand again, rough and fast.
I didn't stop her.
Then she said, soft as rot:
"I see water."
"I see a basket."
"I see smoke. Screaming. A word unspoken. A name stolen."
I froze.
I was in a basket.
No, not again.
Scratchy blanket. Sloshing water. Smoke behind me. Red light. Distant screaming.
That wasn't guesswork. That wasn't cold-reading hustle. That was inside me.
I clawed for the memory. No—I fled from it. But it found me anyway.
"…What basket?" I said, too casually. "I don't even like picnics."
She didn't blink. "You were wrapped in scratchy cloth. Lavender and panic."
The words hit me like a rock to the sternum.
That exact phrase. Lavender and panic. From the dream.
My mouth went dry.
"No," I said. "No, you don't get to use my dreams against me. That's cheating."
She tilted her head. "Dreams are just truths you're not brave enough to remember."
"Or cheese hallucinations," I snapped. "Dragon cheese is powerful. You don't know my digestion."
She let go of my hand.
I almost fell backward from the release.
"Tell me," she said, "do you ever wonder why no god ever claimed you?"
That shut me up.
She smiled. Slow. Wide. Terrible.
"No patron. No saint. No mark. No sign. Just… stray magic. Sticky luck. Like something torn loose from a prophecy."
I swallowed hard.
"You're not cursed," she said, voice like dirt being shoveled onto a coffin. "You're misfiled."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means," she croaked, "whatever was meant for you… missed. Or was stolen. Or sank."
I stood. "I'm done."
"You should be."
"Thanks for nothing."
"Come back when it gets worse," she said.
"It won't."
She laughed. "Oh, sweetheart. It always does."
I bolted.
Didn't take the herbs. Didn't pay. Didn't even close the door.
Ran barefoot all the way back to camp with splinters in my heels and a very clear new rule carved into my heart:
Never trust a witch who knows your dreams without you telling them.