“Did you see all the books that are out about witches and their secret lives?” asked the bleached white, spiky, haired woman, sipping her Mandarin Orange tea.
“I did,” nodded the woman across the table from her. “We don’t have secret lives, at least not any more secret than anyone else’s. This tea is delicious,” she said, closing her eyes.
“I mean, we’re everywhere and we do everything. A coven meeting is kind of like the PTA, just not about kids or school.”
“I get that.”
“And our spells, chants, poppets, potions, medicine bags, and all the rest, are simply an art form. A creative thing we do, like everyone else.”
“I mean we make our own candles, after all.”
“We do, at least most of the time.”
“We only hex once a year and we garden, grow herbs and…”
“Yes, all the things other people do.”
“So, where’s the secret?”
The woman laughed, as a fire ball hovered over her outstretched hand.
“Well, those things, sure,” snickered the woman.