“Your tea is ready, my cherub,” she called.
They took their tea by the bay window on the tower’s 7th floor as they had every morning for 16 years. Elinor smiled – even with crow’s feet and grey shot through his stubble, Ralph’s thoughtful charm had not faded. She poured his tea from the old pot, then subtly dripped a shimmering red liquid from a vial. He ignored it, as he did every morning, and swirled away the traces with a spoon.
“Delicious, as always, my delight,” he clasped her hand across the table, stroking her fingers.
With her sorcerous sense, she watched the red liquid spread through his body, finally finding the familiar trails around his heart, following the flow of so many potions before. She had hesitated with the first dose, after months of longing, only a plain, nameless apprentice at his father’s court. Two months and five bottles later, they were wed in secret, leaving some witless princess jilted.
They were scorned, the witch and her slave, but she kept him happy in their beautiful lie.