Madame Tansy was a self-described witch who lived in a quiet cul de sac on the edge of town, next to a stretch of wild, untamed forest. She wasn’t the kind of witch with green skin or a crooked hat (though she did own one for Halloween). No, Tansy was a “rent-a-witch,” the kind you could book for hexes, blessings, house clearings, or an herbal sachet to keep your mother-in-law from dropping by unannounced.
She had business cards printed on pressed lavender paper that read:
Madame Tansy
Rent-a-Witch Services
“No problem too big, too small, or too weird.”
Love spells, luck charms, cursed item removal, spirit negotiations.
Inquire within. No refunds.
Her house was full of ivy, cats that came and went, jars that rattled on their own, and the smell of rosemary and old books. She had a steady stream of clients—lonely folks, skeptical teens, desperate exes, and the occasional conspiracy theorist.
One gray spring morning, a knock came at her door. She opened it to find a couple—mid-thirties, respectable in the way freshly ironed people are. The woman introduced herself as Rachel, and her husband as Tom. Their smiles didn’t match. Rachel’s was tense and too quick. Tom’s was hesitant, as if he had lost the knack for it.
“We’re here,” Rachel said carefully, “about a love spell.”
Tansy raised an eyebrow. “You want to fall in love again?”
Rachel laughed nervously. “No. We already are. Were. We just… We’ve been having problems. Fights. Distance. And we thought maybe some magic could help.”
Tom cleared his throat. “We’re not superstitious or anything. But we figured… can’t hurt, right?”
Tansy smiled a smile that had seen many such requests. “Love spells don’t make love. They stir it up, pull it forward. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes…” She let the sentence trail into the scent of burning mugwort. “Come in.”
They sat in her cluttered parlor. Rachel held Tom’s hand tightly, as if it might disappear. Tansy mixed herbs—damiana, rose, cinnamon, vervain—into a clay bowl, murmuring words older than fences and plastic. When the ritual was complete, she gave them each a charm: tiny glass hearts with
threads of red thread wound inside.
“Sleep with these under your pillow. For three nights. Then come back.”
They left, hopeful, wary, relieved.
Three days passed. They returned. Tansy opened the door before they knocked.
“Well?” she asked.
Rachel’s eyes were red. Tom looked tired.
“We didn’t fight,” Rachel said.
“But we didn’t talk either,” Tom added.
“It’s like the spell made everything quiet. But not… fixed.”
Tansy nodded slowly. “Love’s not a potion, darlings. It’s a garden. You don’t pour glitter on dead roots and expect roses.”
Tom blinked. “So what do we do?”
Tansy motioned for them to sit again. This time she didn’t reach for herbs.
She reached for a deck of soft, worn cards. Tarot.
“Let’s see what kind of magic you really need.”
She dealt three cards. The Lovers—reversed. The Tower. The Wheel of Fortune.
“Oof,” Tansy muttered. “That’s not hearts and roses.”
“What does it mean?” Rachel asked, gripping Tom’s hand again, this time less out of love and more like a reflex.
“It means something broke,” Tansy said gently. “Or needs to. Not your marriage necessarily—but a pattern. Something between you that’s been holding everything else hostage.”
Tom looked down. “My job keeps me traveling. I’ve been gone more than I’ve been home.”
Rachel didn’t say anything, but the air tightened. Tansy leaned forward. “You want the real magic? Try this. Every night for a week, write one truth on a piece of paper. About yourself. Not each other. Something you’ve
been too afraid to say aloud.”
Rachel frowned. “That’s not really a spell.”
“Oh honey,” Tansy said with a knowing smirk, “Truth is the most dangerous magic there is. Especially between two people who want to love each other.”
They left, not smiling, but thoughtful.
Weeks passed. Tansy forgot about them in the way one forgets leaves on a river. She had other clients—one woman needed her haunted coffee table exorcised, another needed a spell to stop attracting narcissists.
Then, one sunny afternoon, she found a note slipped under her door. It read: “We did what you said. It hurt. It healed. He’s quitting his job. I’m starting my art again. We don’t need the spell anymore. But thank you for the real magic.—R & T”
Tansy smiled and tucked the note into a drawer full of similar things—thank-you notes, old photos, tiny tokens.
Because sometimes the best magic wasn’t found in cauldrons or candles.
Sometimes it was found in courage.
And truth.
And the quiet work of choosing each other again.
Every day.
Just like magic.
About Matthew Spence
Matthew Spence was born in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Gaslamp Pulp.
Website: https://www.facebook.com/WestVirginiaRebel
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