The witch had one arm. A long, thin, stick of a thing, almost translucent when held in front of the many candles burning on the table behind her chair.
“Where’s the eggs? You’re to bring four eggs. Fresh ones. Where are they?”
The young woman pulled a scarf from her sack. She set it on the table, and unwrapped it.
“Fine. Good. Sit down,” the witch said, picking one up, judging its heft. “And you want your mother to be cured, you say?”
“No,” the girl said. “I want my step-mother to die.”
The witch threw her head back, cackling.