The old woman stood in the forest glade under a bright waxing moon. With the knob-end of her broomstick, she traced a circle into the ground. One by one, she pulled the objects from a burlap bag: a lock of hair, tied with a pastel blue ribbon, a feather from a crow’s wing, an old rusty nail. She placed the objects tenderly in the circle, muttering unintelligible words under her breath. This was one of the strongest spells she knew and if it bounced back on her, she’d be sunk. For a long time, she danced around the circle, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting, until she was so tired that she could barely walk.
That should do, she thought to herself.