The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One

by Amanda Lovelace

the man with the witch-killing look in his eyes drinks deeply from the chipped lilac teacup, his trembling hands making it clink against the saucer as he places them back together. my stomach churns in circles as the dark liquid dribbles down his chin in lines. he eagerly slides the cup & dish to me across the old, rickety table & i waste no time turning the cup over onto the dish to get rid of the excess. when i turn the cup right-side up, i spot the clusters of soggy brown & black leaves that litter the bottom in various shapes & sizes. i study it for a moment & immediately look away, nervously wringing my hands in my skirts. there’s no question what that means. “well? what does it say?” he asks. i keep my eyes down. “the leaves say you’re going to . . . pay.” “p-pardon?” he sputters, his eyes filling to the brim with terror. “they say . . . you’re all going to pay,” i whisper. - the leaves never lie.