From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by. Bridgid McGillicutty had lived in this house near the shore with her familiar, a black bird named Ramiro, since it was built.
For the most part she was content to watch the parade on C Street while Ramiro fetched her herbal teas and hasenpfeffer, on command. Ramiro though craved something more. He could be a randy bastard and he loved to chat up the young girls on their way to the beach. Sometimes this could cause problems.
“Mistress,” he had said just that morning, as he introduced his latest bikini clad acquisition, “this is Mandy. She followed me home and I intend to keep her. She’s quiet, doesn’t eat much, and she’ll stay in my room. You’ll find her very non-interruptive.”
“Absolutely not,” Bridgid said, “turn her out immediately or you’ll find yourself in my cauldron.”
The pair turned and walked dejectedly back downstairs; Ramiro muttering away under his breath.