Eva’s enthusiastic manner left Mary and I at a loss and in no time we were in the kitchen, the finished coffee pot gleaming in the sun just as a grin could be seen gleaming on the glass worker’s face. She was gazing hungrily and the beans in the mortar as a ground them, her eyes following as I worked the pestle around, reducing the rough grinds into the fine powder that would give the best flavor.

 

 

With movements practiced from years of being a complete snob in the realm of coffee, I folded the filter paper and opened it up into a cone. That’s right, filter paper. I had learned that someone who had wandered into this world a while back had brought with them the secret to making paper, it’s been a craft that’s existed for centuries in the mundane world after all, and while comparatively pricier than paper back in my home world it wasn’t going to break the bank.

 

 

Filter paper specifically was in common use by alchemists and pharmacists, though using fabric that can be washed and reused for filtration was still preferred as a cost-saving measure. But fabric doesn’t remove as many as the harsh oils that can hurt the taste of coffee. As someone who takes her beans seriously, there’s no need to ruin things by sticking with that Hippocratic sleeve when better options exist. I can afford to splurge a bit.

 

 

The pot I had commissioned from Eva was sized perfectly to hold the filter paper, just like the Chemex pot I brewed at home. Exactly like the pot I had at home, or best as I could remember it. In another world, there’s no one to sue you for patent infringement, and honestly the idea of pour-over coffee makers is so old that I doubt they could successfully sue me if they tried. They’d be suing the manufacturer, Eva, anyways I think.

 

 

Once more, I poured near boiling water over the grounds, slowly, in nearly a trickle. The smell of brewing coffee rose with the twisting steam and permeated the room. Eva, watching with rapt attention, inhaled deeply and let out a deep, contented sigh. What a weirdo. It’s just coffee.

 

 

When the pot was filled, Eva looked towards me expectantly. For someone viewed as one of the rising stars in commerce for Porte, she sure wasn’t acting like the level-headed businesswoman she reportedly was. Her emotions played openly across her face. Her desire, no, her lust, was clear for all to see, “all” being Mary and I. She wanted the contents of that pot. She wanted that coffee, and the glint in her eye made it clear she would stop at no lengths to get some.

 

I poured two cups out, handing one to Mary before taking a slow sip of my own. I could feel my lips curling into a slight, subtle smile as if on their own accord, and my tongue and nose were filled with the delicious, intoxicating scent of nuttiness and floral tones, with just a touch of acidity to balance the sweet chocolate notes that hit the palate upon finish. Then, I asked.

 

“Oh… did you want a cup too, Eva?”

 

She pouted, but a hardness around her eyes betrayed darker thoughts beneath that only slightly softened when getting her cup. “You really are a witch.” she muttered. “I had thought before now you had wandered into the wrong job, but it looks like I was wrong on that.”

 

 

“What do you mean?” I asked.

 

 

Eva looked towards Mary. “She’s your apprentice, right? Shouldn’t she know a bit about the reputation witches tend to have?”

 

 

“It didn’t exactly seem important. And I thought she would have figured that out already from the way townsfolk reacted to me.” she replied nervously.

 

 

“I get the feeling I missed something here.” I interjected.

 

 

“Well, I’m assuming you know the basics of how witches differ from other magic users, no? It’s a basic thing you would have picked up on growing up...”

 

 

“She’s an Otherworlder.” Mary cut in.

 

 

“Oh. That explains so much. Like why she’s only an apprentice this late in life...”

 

 

“I did learn the basics at least. Witches tend to work with plants and nature, wizards take a more academic approach, and all that!”

 

“I at least taught her that much!”

 

Mary and I shouted at the same time.

 

 

“Though to be honest, I thought Mary’s reputation had more to do with non-magic related stuff more than anything else.” I added

 

 

“It’s more to do with the temperament of those who find themselves drawn to being witches. I like to think I’m somewhat familiar with the whole gamut of magic users, since I sell lab equipment to the whole lot. Compare it to the differences between a draftsman and an artist. They both have the job of showing objects, no? But can you imagine the typical artist being content with throwing together meticulous blueprints with labeled dimensions? Of course not, because that’s not what their soul cries out for them to do. At the same time you all know the reputation artists seem to gather about them, always known for being a bit...unstable, and being huge ones for suffering for their craft.”

 

 

“I think I know a few artists who’d take issue with that summary.”

 

 

“But you get the main idea, don’t you?”

 

 

“I can guess what you’re getting at.”

 

 

“Witches are similar. Wizards are closer to the draftsman or engineer, with meticulously researched circles, language and numbers being their specialty. Sorcerers, or mages and some people call them, tend to take a more brute force to things by using their energy and will to wrought changes on reality. Witches, on the other hand, will use nature and the earth for their magic. It’s much closer to the way artists tend to go about with their craft, and as a result they’re known as being a bit ‘off.’”

 

 

“Off?”

 

 

“Like telling the local lord to get his city downgraded to a town to save on taxes. That’s not normal and has been causing the guilds all sorts of trouble. The worst combination is having a witch with enough technical know-how to get things done outside of their magic. That always leads to madness infecting everyone else.” Mary squirmed in her seat. Eva was acting rude for a guest, but Mary’s reaction showed she just saying the uncomfortable truth.

 

 

“But I don’t think I’m that bad.” Mary winced at this.

 

 

“If anything, I thought the same. The first time I was here you were perfectly polite. And my draftsman analogy wasn’t a whim; the blueprints you handed me were impeccable. I saw the hat, knew you were an apprentice, but I assumed there were just extenuating circumstances.”

 

 

“Thanks?”

 

 

“But, bullying me like that over coffee,” she paused, seeming almost theatrical. “That’s the kind of behavior I’d expect from a witch.”

 

 

“Rude.”

 

 

“Hardly. Misanthropy is practically expected from witches. They aren’t the kind of person who integrates well into society. They’re living half in the world of humans, and half in nature. Really it’s almost concerning to come across a witch who fits in with society. They’re either poor at their craft, or plotting something. I know Mary here is a special case, but she’s all the more dangerous for it.”

 

 

“Now that’s just slander!” Mary shouted. Not too convincingly however. I still remember my initial impression of her.

 

 

“I know you’re good at your job, why do you think I hired you for that glamour potion? And, as I said, your reputation proceeds you. It almost threw me off that your apprentice was so well-mannered.”

 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

 

 

“Witches tend to have a certain personality in the first place that leads to them becoming witches. But that’s not all there is to it.”

 

 

“Huh?”

 

 

“Their very craft has an affect on their temperament. To be a witch means becoming in tune with nature. You can’t spend your time getting in touch with nature, getting in touch with the seasons, the moon, the earth, the plants, the winds, the animals...without it becoming ingrained. To a certain extent witches become wild, uninhibited. They’re often content to live in a shack and work their magic, and to make potions and spells to help or harm. That’s another part that makes Mary here different from other witches. They tend to be even less in touch with the human side of things than she is.”

 

 

“You seem to know a lot...”

 

 

“Of course I do. I’m a businesswoman, and one who specializes in glassware for magic users too. It’s important to know your customers. A witch not acting like a witch should is a red flag, so showing a bit of that wildness is reassuring in a way. Just don’t go completely overboard like Mary’s famous for.”

 

 

“I was just teasing you a bit...”

 

 

“Not giving me coffee? That was outright cruelty!” Her expression screamed she was suffering despair and agony rooted in the depths of her soul. I figured out pretty early on in this conversation that’s she’s prone to theatrics.

 

 

“Hardly.”

 

 

“You’ve wounded me, but...”

 

 

“But?”

 

 

“Maybe agreeing to go into business with me might make me better?” Like the flip of a switch the look of despair was gone, replaced with the smug look of confidence suited more for the boardroom of a corporation than the cozy kitchen of Mary’s cottage. “You’ve got a product here, and a good one. There’s no magic involved in how it works, meaning your Magicians guild doesn’t get to take a cut of the profits. And it’s delicious. You may not be the detail-minded number-cruncher I’d initially thought, but I can handle that side of the deal anyways. And, thankfully, you aren’t the stereotypical witch living in a one-room shack with a complete disdain for the worldly realm. A witch with the balance of traits you have may be concerning to others, but you seem like an asset I’d want to have on my side. So what do you say?”

 

 

Concerned, I looked to Mary.

 

 

“It seems like a good way to get research funds. Why not?”

 

 

“Okay.” I said firmly, “it sounds like a deal.”

 

 

We shook hands. At that moment, Mary muttered. “Good luck dealing with her flights of fancy.”

 

 

“What do you mean by that?!”We both shouted at Mary. “Nevermind...”

 

 

We stood there awkwardly.

 

 

“Ehem...” Eva broke the silence. “I need to sort out some details first, but I’ll be sure to come back to discuss the contract. Also...” She paused, then resumed speaking in a sheepish tone. “Could I get the coffee I had asked for as my payment? I want to try out the coffee pot I made for myself.”

 

 

What an odd woman. I really hope I never end up being that weird.