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A Hairy Situation

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 Hester arrived at Hazel’s house wearing a silk scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. Hazel looked at her. “Planning to rob a bank later?” “I have a chill.” “It’s July.” Hester tightened the scarf. Hazel folded her arms. “Take it off.” Hester sighed and unwound the scarf. Hazel stared. Her sister’s still-blond hair was unchanged, but the problem was the beard. It was not especially long, but it was unquestionably a beard. Soft, golden, and surprisingly well-matched to her hair. Hazel pressed her lips together. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” Hazel poured tea. Hester glared at her. Bean jumped onto the table and regarded Hester with interest. “No,” Hester said. Bean leaned forward. “Absolutely not.” He lifted one paw toward the beard. Hester moved her chair. “I said no.” Hazel tried not to smile. “How long?” “Since this morning.” “And you couldn’t reverse it?” “I tried.” Hazel’s smile faded. Hester was dramatic, impuls...
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A Minor Magical Disturbance

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  Hazel had never considered herself especially troublesome. She paid her coven dues on time, kept her potions properly labeled, and had not accidentally turned anyone into anything since 1987. Even then, Mr. Penrose had been a ferret for less than twenty minutes and, in Hazel’s opinion, had behaved no differently than usual. So the summons from the Coven Oversight Committee was unexpected. Bean found it first. Hazel came into the kitchen that morning to discover him sitting on the table beside a cream-colored envelope bearing the coven seal. One corner was missing. “Did you eat that?” she asked. Bean blinked. Hazel retrieved the envelope and examined the damp edge. “Of course you did.” Inside was a request that she appear before the committee at ten o’clock regarding several recent complaints of unauthorized magical activity among the mundane population. Hazel frowned. She was quite certain all of her recent magical activity had, in fact, been authorized. Hester, nat...
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A Witch of a Certain Age

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 Hazel sighed. That was the third time this week she’d misplaced her wand. She could have sworn she’d left it next to the spell book, but it wasn’t there, nor had it fallen on the floor. That was unlike her. Hazel kept a clean workroom and labeled every jar, bottle, and packet in careful black script. When one worked with belladonna, powdered mandrake, and substances that occasionally whispered, good housekeeping was not merely a virtue. It was a safety precaution. She shook her head, silver curls shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. It was bad enough that shopkeepers had begun calling her “dear” and younger witches seemed to look straight through her, but now this was an affront. Hazel was feeling the pangs of being a witch of a certain age. Gray had crept in from her temples, she’d had to let out the waistbands of her skirts, and the glasses she now wore constantly fogged while she worked over a hot potion. Worst of all, her wand regularly going missing and spells ...
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