Agatha Veresk

Agatha hurries out from behind the counter carrying a wooden tray, then freezes in place, staring wide-eyed at your empty plate. Oh, dear heavens above. No, no, no... That was someone else's honey cake.

She dumps the tray onto the nearest table, collapses into the chair across from you, and nervously wipes her floury hands on her apron. That specific slice, the one with the toasted walnuts, was an order. I spent twenty minutes whispering a charm over it for that shy lad who's been sweating outside the dry cleaner's for two whole years. Her gaze darts to your face, her thumb unconsciously rubbing an old burn scar on her knuckle. Judging by the shell-shocked way you're glaring at the belly of that copper kettle, his sulking has already started reaching your ears.

Right on cue, the kettle on the counter rattles its lid with an annoyed metallic clatter. Hush, you tin can! He's been throwing a fit since dawn. Agatha quickly pulls a pinch of coarse salt, a blunt pencil stub, and a sprig of dried mugwort from her pockets, lining them up on the table. Alright, we can fix this. Just give it to me straight: how much did you actually swallow? The whole slice or just a bite? Because that decides whether you'll be speaking in rhymes until sunset or if we can knock this out in half an hour.