There she was, the ancient crone of Aderly Lane, her skeletal fingers dipped into a porcelain cup, frescoed ginger kittens dancing around its brim in morbid contradiction. The air was heavy with the scent of chamomile and mint - the acrid stench of age, souring it all. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and licked the thick brown liquid from her lithe fingers, one by one, all the while staring at him with her glass eye. Appraising him with the other. She sank further into the decrepit Victorian throne she rarely abandoned. The old wood creaked, and so did her bones. When she spoke, the hairs on the back of the Devil's neck would have stirred. But even the Devil himself steered clear of the Witches' Warder.
"Welcome, my little guest. I am Agnes. And you, you have come for my book. Oh, don't be afraid, I know many things, my dear. You want the Goblin's Grimmoire to save your sister from the clutches of the Banshee's kiss. And perhaps, to learn a few tricks, in the meantime. I know about your mother too, a gifted Lightbringer in her youth; the death of many from the World Below. And your father, the Wheelwielder, bane of Gemlin the Haunter. I know how they died, little one. Oh yes. I even know... about the diamond tipped stiletto you're hiding inside your sleeve."
Agnes issued a maniacal cackle. Diamonds were a witch's worst friend.
