2019 Oct. 31, 9:15pm — The Witch Walks the Fog
The fog has teeth tonight — cold ones. The enclosure keeps the damp off me, which is the whole trick of it: the chill I can feel, the wet I cannot. I stood at the treeline letting both be true, and Polly came out to supervise, picking her way through the mist like a proper familiar who disapproves of flying. Every witch should keep a familiar who refuses to fetch. She sat downwind of the broom, ears forward, watching the moon do its shameless work, and I swept fog for the both of us. The third rule holds: the broom does not fly you. The fourth I have just written: neither does the Dalmatian. Cocoa soon. Witch's honor. -Thalia