Once there was a witch. She lived right outside town, a stone's throw from the creek. She raised chickens, and had an extensive garden. She kept fruit trees outside her house expressly so that passerby could have a quick snack.

They say the inside of her house is always changing, due to the fact that she stacks layers upon layers of beautiful murals on every surface. She frequented the town often, giving gifts, advice, and a smile or two to anyone in need. The townspeople all loved her.

There goes Lydia! They would all say. Off to do some good and tend to her garden. Her garden was an interesting topic. She had a stand where she sold her vegetables and spare eggs at a price much too low, and the people loved her more still for it. But they'd also seen her garden. And in the corners, on the walls, there were herbs and spices. Some who'd done research recognized them as various poisons. The people had never seen her use them, but it still reminded them to be a bit wary of the strange woman living just outside of town, a stone's throw from the creek. She was a witch, after all.

Lydia had black cat who lived with her. The cat did not belong to her, exactly, but they lived in the same house. Nobody in town could remember the cat having ever been a kitten, and nobody knew where it came from. Some days, it would follow her into town and sit patiently outside the bakery or at the tailor shop, watching the crowds in the marketplace. The children liked to pet it. It let them.

There was a rumor that a man from a nearby town had tried to steal the poisonous herbs from Lydia's garden. Nobody had seen it happen, so nobody could swear that it was true, but soon after, Lydia appeared in town with two cats. The new cat had brown and grey stripes, and it limped a little for a few days.

When people saw her in town, they'd smile and speak to her. Lydia would return the smile and nod hello. She would often give a snippet of rosemary to those who spoke to her, and the people always took the rosemary for their own gardens. But they began to pass by Lydia's fruit trees without picking, and they never repeated the rumors where a cat might hear.

Thyme had been a folk remedy in this town for as long as anyone's grandmother could remember. Lydia herself had taken to growing a small patch in her garden, right out front where people could see it. She included it in her potions solely to soothe the minds of her customers, being of the opinion herself that it held little to no medicinal benefit. But, the older ones would refuse to take it, doubt her effectiveness, and demands discounts if the concoction didn't overwhelming smell like the herb the minute it was uncorked, the little sprigs pointing up over the lip of the bottle like tiny saplings.

Today, she leant over her small crop, harvesting a batch with her silver scissors, under the watchful eye of her two cats, breathing in the scent of plums just turning, from where they hung, swollen and wrinkled. No one had picked any this autumn. She could not possibly finish them all herself, no matter how much pickling, preserving and pie-making she did. They would have to be thrown out. The thought saddened her slightly, but she knew why it had happened, as the smaller of the two cats fixed its amber eyes on her as she worked, deft fingers severing stalk from root. She would not retire her poisons, for poison was good for the soul, even better for sickness if one knew the correct ratios, and theft could absolutely not go unpunished. She was better than the village, she thought. If Lydia had been a common baker, and if this man had been a common thief, he would have been hanged by the next morning.

Surely this was a much softer fate, she thought, as the creature trailed behind her back into the kitchen, perching atop the stove where Lydia had placed a sprawling nest of blankets, and an only semi-ironic sign saying 'child broiler' above the oven door.