CURSE THESE SKINNY WITCHES

The following book contains the documented consequences of two exhausted witches,

one poorly considered curse, and a town that forgot how to take care of its mothers.

Readers are advised that the events described here resulted in:

• Migrating pumpkins

• An evaporated elixir

• Several public crying incidents

• And the near collapse of the local wellness industry.

Turns out, when you remove perfection, something else grows in its place.

Proceed with care.

CHAPTER ONE

The Baby Brew

Nella Nettlesworth had always considered herself to be a reasonable witch. Then she became a mother. She stabbed her trowel into the soil with such an exhausted rage that even the neighbors could hear it. Daisydot Drive was such a pleasant street. Quiet. Peaceful. Or at least, it had been. Not once in all its history had there been a witch in such a state. Frazzled blonde curls bounced wildly around her face as she dug, milk stains on her clothes so old that any passerby could have followed the scent straight to her.

“What do you think you are doing?” Mabel whispered, dressed in a robe and mismatched socks as she hurried across the cobblestone path. “You’re going to wake the babies.”

Nella turned so fast her hair stuck in her mouth.

“I. Don’t. Care.” She drove the trowel down harder. “They never let us sleep. So why should we let them?”

“They are babies, Nella,” Mabel said, wrestling her mess of waves back into a bun. She stopped abruptly, gaze fixed on the ruined garden, soil all over the place. “I hope you’re planning to clean this up.”

Nella pushed up to her feet in a huff and immediately swayed like a poorly balanced broomstick. For one horrifying second Mabel thought she might fall straight back into the dirt, but she steadied. If only out of spite.

“Now you listen to me, Mabel Maywick,” she said, sticking a finger into her best friend’s chest. “I was up with them last night. All night. Not just for a few hours. All. Night. I know we agreed to take turns. But in my defense—” she gestured angrily to the doorway of their cottage. “This wasn’t my bright idea.”

In truth, Knotwood Hollow hadn’t had a baby in residence for over a century. Witches lived long lives here and guarded them carefully. Wellness was not a preference, but a practice—one that left very little room for anything as unpredictable as motherhood.

Mabel crossed her arms, her wrist now coated in spit-up she hadn’t seen on the collar of her robe.

“Ugh,” she sighed, hand fruitlessly wicking away at the spot. “This is my last clean robe.”

Already having returned to her excavation efforts, Nella looked up at her smugly. “Then why don’t you just do the laundry?”

“I’d have to do it by hand.”

Mabel’s eyes dropped to the tops of her teal slippers.

“And why is that?” Nella stopped for a moment to see if Mabel would finally admit that she was just as overspent as she was.

Mabel deflected, as usual. “What are you doing anyway?” She moved to Nella’s side, kneeling to the ground. “Isn’t this where—”

“Yes.” Nella confirmed, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “This is where we hid that infernal thing.”

Three months. Three long months had passed since they had brought their bundles of chaos into the Hollow. It was a year ago, to the day, when they had found that cursed potion buried beneath a peony bush. In a frenzy, Mabel had shoved it back to the spot it should have never left in the first place. They had returned it to its jar, folded so tight the parchment nearly ripped.

With her arm stuck deep into the earth, Nella rummaged around, grunting.

“Why did you have to bury it so deep?”

“I didn’t think we’d need it again. Besides, the town is already asking too many questions. Better to just let them think what they already do.” Mabel shrugged.

“Think what? That this is a miracle.” Nella scoffed. “No—I'm sorry. Two miracles?”

Sighing, Mabel nudged Nella out of the way and took over the hunt. Within seconds, her arm disappeared into the hole up to her elbow, fingers closing around the cool glass and yanking it free. It glowed faintly under the lantern light, dirt stuck under her fingernails. She twisted at the lid, jaw tightening as the crisp autumn air bit at her skin. Without a word, she handed it off to Nella.

In a swift and determined pop, Nella’s unnaturally strong grip uncorked the jar. The faint smell of ink and sugar drifted into the air. Greedily, she unfolded the parchment, flipping it over and over at least a dozen times. Nothing. It looked exactly as it had. The very same instructions they followed a year ago. The Baby Brew. A gentle concoction for witches wishing to welcome new life into their home.

Nella stood abruptly and marched into the house.

“Where are you going?” Mabel asked, pressing her hands to her thighs to thrust herself upward. “Oh, candlesticks,” she muttered and hurried after her into the house that was, miraculously, still quiet.

The place was more than a mess. It was a living portrait of months of intense sleep deprivation and two new mother witches who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.

“You aren’t going to be able to find one!” Mabel shouted into the living room.

Nella was on her faster than she could think twice.

“Who's going to wake up the babies now, hm?”

Mabel shoved her hands in her pockets, her brown eyes dismayed as she looked around. Her pride and joy, the cottage she had kept pristine her entire life, reduced to shambles. It smelled of stale lavender and the suppressed panic of two women who didn't know the proper name for a pacifier.

The living room was dominated by a couch buried under dirty clothes and three splayed spell books. On the maple wood coffee table, two half-eaten pies and a loaf of bread sat wedged between cracked mugs; beneath the clutter lay the dried, sticky remnants of tea, coffee, and sugar-plum jam. Even the floral rug had seemingly given up, bunched at the edges to reveal the few slivers of pine flooring not currently occupied by mess.

Nella slunk to Mabel’s side, a wide yawn preventing her from speaking.

“I’m going to go look upstairs,” she said finally with a long breath outward. Her footsteps were slow, having to drag herself up inch by inch, the railing gripped in her hand.

Mabel shuffled into the kitchen, as if stepping into someone else’s life. The scent of dried herbs, yeast and the undercurrent of failed magical brews hit her in a mocking wave. Copper pots hung from the ceiling hooks, a few were out of place, some crusted with experimental soups that wouldn’t let go. The chalkboard on the back wall that had once been penned with her goals and daily affirmations was now filled with nonsensical scribbles. Feeding times, diaper changes and sleep schedules that were more a delusion than a reality.

Mabel let out a sad, deflated huff, not knowing where to begin.

They had been on their own with all this babyhood nonsense. Not one soul in town had stopped by to offer anything actually helpful. Or ask them how they were. Or even brought food.

Meanwhile, Nella ransacked her room like she was looking for something that could save them from all their troubles. In a way it could. Not fully, of course. That would require traveling back in time.

She flung a stray boot over her shoulder, nearly knocking over the wilting plant resting in the window.

“Oops,” she whispered. “Sorry, Jerry.”

Though, to be frank, Jerry the house fern deserved an apology long ago.

Gardening tools littered her bed, the one she no longer slept in. Most nights, she passed out on the couch with Nash in her arms, too tired to even consider moving. She swept a pile of things aside; twine, a cracked mug, something that might have once been a clean blouse—and uncovered a small wooden box tied neatly with a white ribbon. Nella’s green eyes fixed on it.

“Oh, for—”

With a flick of her wrist, she sent it skidding across the bed. It hit the headboard with a dull knock, the ribbon slipping loose just enough to reveal the glint of glass inside. Waist-Away Elixir. Of course.

Vivian Violet, one of the most prominent wellness witches in town, had delivered it last week. She hadn’t stayed long. She stood in the doorway, perfect as always. “For restoring harmony,” she had said. Nella had not missed the way her eyes flicked over the state of her. The stains, the knots, the wrinkles. Then she smiled, and left.

In Knotwood, the Elixir was no longer just a drink; it was a social contract—a bitter, daily installment on the price of belonging.

Nella exhaled briskly through her nose and turned back to the room, stepping over the mess like it might rearrange itself if she ignored it long enough.

The few visitors that had come, well, let’s just say they never came when it mattered. Most only wanted to hold and rock the first babies Knotwood had seen in many cycles around the sun. They passed them around like novelties, prideful, like they had made them themselves.

Nella made a mental note to make them pay for it later. Not that she would remember.

“I got it,” Nella said, celebrating in a hushed victory.

She padded softly down to the living room and turned only to find a collapsed Mabel at the small kitchen table. Her face was pressed down into her forearm, a small sniffing sound coming from her nose. The smile Nella reclaimed faded, her heart aching a pinch at the sight. With a careful motion she set the wand down in front of Mabel and began trailing fingers along her spine. Lips pressed, she hummed a tune. A melody that soothed adults more effectively than babies. It wasn't much, but Mabel lifted her head. Tears clung stubbornly to her eyelashes.

“I’m fine,” she said, her sights now locked on the wand.

Nella smiled.

“Knew I could find one,” she declared, scanning the room. “Now where did I put that pesky piece of paper…”

She turned back to the living room, fruitlessly trying to find the parchment she had set down a mere moment ago.

“Here.” Mabel sniffled and shuffled to her side. “I plucked it from your robe before it fell out and we lost it forever.”

“I wouldn’t have lost it,” Nella muttered, her hand reclaiming the only wand they had left.

They paused, looking at each other for a moment. Bound by exhaustion, by confusion, by the shared responsibility of two very tiny lives who depended entirely on them. In a shared exhale, they took one another's hands and headed toward the couch. It took them too long, but eventually, they sat. Like if they rested for even a split second Mimmy would sense it and start to cry.

Mabel unfolded it and examined the piece of paper. It was just like any other potion recipe: a list of ingredients. Chamomile petals for soft sleep and dreams. Three thimbleberries plucked from opposite sides of the same bush. A drop of honey stolen from a buzzing hive, and pumpkin seed carried in a pocket for seven days.

Mabel blinked.

“...That’s it?” she said.

Nella leaned in, squinting.

“That’s it.”

They stared at it together. A small, fragile silence settled between them and they both felt a dash of relief.

Nella let out a breath that resembled a laugh.

“So we did do it right.”

Mabel nodded. “We followed the recipe.”

But it still didn’t feel—right. A deep knowing that this could not possibly be how motherhood was meant to go prickled at Nella’s senses.

“Turn it over.” Nella readied her wand.

She pressed the tip to meet the blank back of the paper and a small ripple of light bloomed. Then, ink. Ink they hadn’t read before diving headfirst into something no one had attempted in decades.

Mabel’s stomach sank.

“Oh no,” she whispered, fingers immediately knotting in her brown locks.

Nella shook it, as if the unveiled words were an illusion—a mirage her tiredness inspired. The Baby Brew recipe now hung in the air, Mabel’s hands slapping against her face.

“Well, that feels like important information,” Nella said, lowering the page to the coffee table.

In a desperate attempt to find comfort, she picked up an old mug and sniffed it. Her face turned sour.

“Guess no tea then,” she grumbled.

But Mabel’s gaze wouldn’t leave the words. A Caution to all witches venturing into the joyous journey of motherhood. This Brew should only be drunk if you have the following: A Matron of Milk, A Nestkeeper, A Broth Brigade, the tome: The Accounts of the Mother Witches of Knotwood Hollow, and a cauldron full of patience.

With a sudden motion, Mabel snatched the parchment, stood, and began to pace as she read.

“Lack of communal support may result in: bone-deep exhaustion.”

“Check,” Nella sighed, her head propped up on her hand. The other, waving the wand in meaningless swishes.

“Emotional Wobbles.”

“Check.”

“Domestic Wand Disorder, half-finished charms, cottage clutter, and compulsive crying—the baby’s and yours.”

“Check. Check. Check. And… check.” Nella sank deeper into the cushions. “I wish this couch would swallow me whole.”

“That could be arranged,” Mabel said flippantly, scanning the sentences over and over again as if they might change. After a long moment of contemplation, with no brilliant solutions, she sat back down, flicking the parchment onto the table.

“When we concocted the brew, I assumed the difficult part would be the magic.”

“Apparently not,” Nella mumbled. “Apparently the difficult part is the baby. Not the potion making, or the pregnancy part. The actual baby.”

She leaned her head on Mabel’s shoulder. “I thought it would just be cute.”

“I know,” Mabel sighed, resting her head on Nella’s. “Me too.”

“Maybe this is why no one has babies anymore,” Nella muttered, already beginning to drift.

Mabel reached over and grabbed her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I know you had your reservations. I’m the one that pushed. Now look at the state of this place… of us.”

“We both drank the brew, Mabel,” Nella said, a tired, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “It isn’t like you held me down to the floor and forced it on me. I’m the one who found the thing. You're simply the one with any follow-through around here.”

Mabel laughed, exhausted. “So… you’re not mad at me then?”

“No,” Nella said. “I’m not mad at you. I am mad at just about everything else though.”

She pushed herself upright, grabbing a spare cloth from the ground. With a grumble and a curse she shoved the fabric under her robe.

“And, I am extremely tired of all this leaking.”

Mabel’s hands pressed into the sofa, longing for the life they had together. Two best friends, taking on the town. They had been in peak physical shape before all this—running the most successful flower shop the Hollow had ever seen.

“I’ll go put on some tea,” Nella said, already sagging from the effort of it, as though the babies might wake simply to test her.

Mabel reached for the loaf of bread on the table, gave it a quick suspicious sniff, then took a generous bite.

“Grab the jam too, please,” she said, though she knew she shouldn’t.

All the witches of Knotwood were meticulous about appearances and would never be caught dead eating carbs. To put a sugary spread of fruit on top. Unthinkable.

“We should go to this,” Nella called, stifling a yawn at the stove.

Mabel got up, sweeping the clutter into haphazard piles with her foot. Baby clothes, blankets, toys and books that seemed to have absolutely no use yet.

“Go to what?” She reached down to the floor and grabbed two mugs that were decent enough to drink out of.

“Brunch.”