By day three, they'd built me a hut.
Not just a hut—a witch's hut, the kind you'd see in a fever dream after bad mushrooms. Crooked beams, moss on the thatch (sourced and stapled on, bless them), a door that creaked theatrically, and a chimney that puffed like it had opinions. The walls leaned suspiciously. It looked a thousand years old and vaguely cursed.
Perfect.
I set the mood inside like a woman possessed by theater. Candles—dozens—burned at dramatic angles. Skulls, real and painted, stared from every shelf. Herbs dangled from the rafters like aromatic bats. A threadbare bearskin draped over my crate-throne. Beaded curtains. Dust artfully sprinkled. No windows. Just atmosphere and implied menace.
And it worked. The queue outside coiled past the goat pens.
I'd become Saya the Seeress. Bringer of visions. Interpreter of dreams. Fortune-teller, counselor, mistress of foggy wisdom.
At that moment, I was gently dissecting the romantic fate of a plump, nervously giggling milkmaid named Bera.
She sat cross-legged before me, eyes wide, cheeks red, smelling faintly of cream and anxiety.
"It's just…" she whispered, "Jorek—he's the mill boy—he smiled at me. Twice. I think. Maybe once was indigestion. But the second time he definitely said 'hiya.' Do you think… do you think he knows?"
I narrowed my eyes, pretending to scan the infinite folds of fate and not just stalling to keep from laughing.
"The spirits speak of… grains," I said slowly. "Ground, but not yet risen. Dough that lacks the yeast of courage."
She blinked. "What?"
I waved a smoking bundle of thyme for mystic emphasis.
"He's scared, child. Like an unbaked loaf. You must butter him. Figuratively. Unless… well, that's your business."
She turned a shade of beetroot mixed with raw ham.
"But… how?"
"Next market day," I whispered, "wear red. Spill a little milk on your bodice. Make it look like an accident. Then compliment his grip strength."
She nodded rapidly. "Should I tell him I dream of him?"
"Only if the dreams are confusing. Or involve hay. Boys love hay."
I leaned close, lowering my voice to a husky whisper.
"Men are simple. Like one-string instruments. But if you know the tune…" I tapped my temple. "You can make them dance."
Her eyes were wide as churn bowls.
"First," I said, rummaging through my spice shelf and pulling down a vial of something amber and vaguely flammable, "dab this behind your ears. A mix of rosemary, cloves, and exactly one tear from a lovesick goat."
She nodded as if that made sense.
"But only a drop," I warned. "Too much and the hounds will chase you."
She obeyed.
"Now. Strategy. Day one: pass him once with confidence. Chest out. Chin high. Day two: walk past looking bored. Like he's your third-choice bread vendor. Day three: hum. Something moody. Boys can't handle mystery."
"What if he speaks?"
"You pretend not to hear. Then turn slowly and say: 'Did the wind just carry your name?' He'll lose structural integrity."
Bera blushed so hard I thought she might combust.
"And when it's time to escalate…" I leaned in so close I could smell the milk on her. "Tell him you had a dream. One where you were both stuck in the mill. Naked. Covered in flour. And he had to lift the sack."
"The… sack?" she squeaked.
"Exactly."
"But what if he kisses me?"
"Let him. Then pause. Look deep into his eyes like you see his past lives, and say: The grain is not yet milled. He'll chase you like a dog in heat."
I paced now, warming to my theme.
"And if it ever gets physical—which it will—you must remember the Four Sacred Caresses: neck, thigh, hair, ego."
"Ego?"
"Praise his strength. His hands. His wheat stacking technique. Men swell under compliments like wet bread in soup."
She was writing it down. Writing it down.
"And if you really want to break him…" I dropped my voice to a growl. "Use the Lux Technique."
She leaned in.
"Skin to skin. Full body glide. Like churning butter with your whole soul. Best on hay. Fresh. If you're rich, use a quilt. Or his jacket. Men love when you ruin their clothes."
Her jaw slackened.
"And remember: slow is powerful. Silence is powerful. Unexpected giggling is devastating. Also—thigh pressure."
"I—I think I need to sit," she whispered.
I lowered my voice. "I'm going to tell you something that changed my life—and broke five sailors, two merchants, and a very flexible priest."
She blinked. I smiled.
"It's called the Thrice-Curled Serpent. Don't ask why. It's got layers."
She nodded like a holy initiate and began scribbling notes on the back of a butter wrapping.
"You start by whispering something sweet into his ear. Doesn't matter what. Say turnip soufflé if you want. It's not the words—it's the tone. Like honey dripped into the soul."
"Got it," she whispered back.
"Then you nibble. Gentle. Not the cartilage. You're seducing him, not trying to marinate his head."
She gulped.
"Now," I said, circling behind her and miming the motion, "you trail a finger from his ear, down his neck, across the collarbone, and to his hip—slow, like syrup on a warm bun. That's the geometry of temptation."
"Geometry?"
"Men are very visual. Angles. Lines. Curves. They're all basically horny architects."
I leaned closer.
"Now comes the Whirlwind Churn. That's when you straddle him and move like you're churning butter with the fate of your soul hanging in the balance."
Bera choked on air.
"If he stares too much—blindfold him. If he talks too much—gag him. If he finishes too fast, you look him dead in the eye and say, 'That was the first round.' Men live in terror of round two."
She wrote furiously.
"And when you reach the moment—the big one—the divine quake—you scream something bold. Something prophetic. Something unforgettable."
"Like what?" she breathed.
"Like I AM THE MILKMAID OF DESTINY!"
She clutched her chest.
"They'll never forget you. Fear makes memory stronger."
She was fanning herself with her apron now. "And… and after?"
"After," I said, solemnly pouring a little oil into her palm, "you rub his legs. Feed him something salty. Then say nothing. Just vanish. Make him wonder if he dreamt the entire thing."
Her mouth hung open.
"Optional," I added, "leave behind one stocking. Or a goat. Something he can worship."
She stood, shaking, clutching her scribbles.
"Go, Bera," I said, "and may the milk flow strong and the churn never fail."
Another coin dropped into the bowl.
"Next!" I called.
And the line outside shuffled forward like hungry pilgrims at the shrine of absolutely terrible advice.