signed_sabrina | [peter]

With no neighbors on either side of Leviathan, well, existing in Darrow at current, Sabrina finds that she's not only in charge of the store-- nobody's going to care if she indulges her sense of drama. She can do whatever she'd like, and what she'd like is to make it clear that someone still looks out for this shop and can provide assistance.

Assistance of a witchy nature, that is.

A lovely, only mildly ominous cauldron set over a little fire pit has been sitting in the backroom for far too long without attention, and by the time she gets it wheeled out, a fire lit and water boiling, morning has become afternoon. Sabrina's grateful for the breeze that kicks up as she settles on the front steps, sorting dried and fresh herbs into little piles.

Honestly, she really only misses some of her co-workers; her time at Petros has left her with a distaste for most of the locals. Even being aware of how not mortal the thought process doesn't stop her from not really considering them to be fully real. It's the kind of thought she keeps to herself, and it leads down a lot of other paths not worth traveling at this date.

No, the better alternative is to weigh out lavender sprigs while humming and singing. "I admit that in the past I've been a nasty; they weren't kidding when they called me, well, a witch..."

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It wasn't exactly surprising. Sabrina had always leaned pretty hard into the whole cartoon witch thing, with the black cat and spell books and daughter of Satan thing. Still, the cauldron was kind of a lot.

And also kind of funny, if he was being honest, and not a giant pussy afraid of evil witches waiting to come get him in the night.

"Uh, hey," he said, strolling down the street with his hands in his pockets, pretending like the eerie quiet of Darrow didn't completely freak him the hell out.

Growing up outside of Salt Lake, the streets weren't exactly bustling, but this was... weird.

Sabrina looks up from her work and smiles, admittedly cheerful.

Honestly, sometimes life makes more sense to her when there's a base level of chaos. It's when life had become about homework and planning for a career and not hexing her foes that she'd become, well, depressed. And Sabrina's willing to admit that now, even if she's not at all sure what to do with it.

"Hey," she says, and then as she registers it's Peter, she casts a slightly sheepish look to the cauldron. "No one was using it, and I wanted to try an old recipe from my aunt. I guess she made it on the stovetop more often than not, but every once in a while..." A tiny shrug. "I promise it's all plants and minerals, anyway."

"What is it?" He asked, rubbernecking to get a better look inside while still keeping a safe enough distance. He believed her, that it was mostly harmless, but he still wasn't used to spell work like this.

Charlie had never done anything like this, but still, something about it reminded him of her.

"Oh, it's my aunt's recipe. Or it's going to be, I hope. If I had any idea that I'd be so far away, I would have paid better attention." If she'd known that she would be stranded so far away from her family, from the coven, from the world where her powers fit in... mostly. Is she really going through some weird homesickness right now?

Picking up a spring of lavender, she holds it out to Peter. "It's basic, but it's going to be a calming brew. Only a speck of magic, and easy to put in trendy mason jars and give to people. Fully informed people," she tacks on at the end. "Of course."

"Right," he said, reaching out with only a little reluctance to take the sprig of purple. Lilac or lavender or something. The smell reminded him of his grandmother and he quickly dropped it back into its little pile.

"Your aunt's the one who taught you all this stuff?"

"They both did," she answers, deliberately not noticing the lavender anxiety. "And my cousin. My parents--" She's about to say they died in a plane crash, such an old story that it somehow shocks her to realize that's not right. "My mother died in a plane crash. My father is complicated. But luckily, I had other family to look out for me, get me ready for, well, witch school."

Sabrina blows out a breath. "Anyway, Aunt Hilda did a lot of work in the kitchen."

"Did you know her? Your mom, I mean," he asked, edging closer to take a peek inside the cauldron.

He had to wonder if his grandmother went to something like witch school, or if hers was just a secret cult of weirdos. He kind of assumed the latter.

"No, she died when I was a baby. She was a human, though." One whose involvement in the circumstances of Sabrina's conception and birth seems unclear. Maybe it's better, she's starting to think, to not know for certain, not when every answer seems to be worse. "My dad was the witch-- warlock, I mean. Except, that turned to not be true, that he had, um, sired me. Soap opera drama is a lot less fun when it's about you."

He grimaced at the word sired. It made her sound like a horse or something. Gross.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he said, though he wasn't sure if he'd call it soap opera. They tended to have fewer severed heads, right?

[peter]

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