Lavandula in the City

Yurenko Dula sits on the edge of a carved wood chair. There is a candle on the desk, which she strikes. It sizzles into a bright flame illuminating her client’s bone-tired features.

He is in his 40s, sad, balding and wishing to speak with his late wife. Yurenko taps her pointed purple nails on the desk, and takes out the crystal at her neck and puts it on the desk, looking for any glow, any light. For the first moment nothing happens.

She concentrates on it, forging sparks of energy within it until she can see ashes forming a tiny shape – a tiny dragon made of haze and shadow. He is trapped in the confines on the gem, and he twists his head to look at his creator, sending silent black flames to ricochet from his prison walls. 

“Your wife is sending a message, indeed..” Yurenko lowers her voice and meets the man’s shaking eyes. “She feels trapped in the afterword. This stone will help her to feel connected with you once more.”

Yurenko puts the chain around the man’s neck. The small dragon inside throws back its head as if laughing. Yurenko and the man stand. He has tears in his eyes as he pulls her into a fast embrace. He smells of burnt toast and liquorice. 

“Tell your friends of my services,” she says sweetly through clenched teeth. 

As the man leaves, she snuffs out the candle and the spell she put on the gemstone necklace. In a day or two it will all go back to being a wild berry and cluster of twigs. 

She breathes the scent of engine oil, old cigarettes and iron from the open window.

It was easy enough to pass herself off as a fortune teller, or a psychic reader or a mystic. Her sessions were a mixture of truths and falsehoods. Diving the future hadn’t been her finest skill.

Armageddon the toad sat still on her desk and would croak in response to each lie she told. And her consumers would remark on the odd ‘taxidermy’. 

Now, he sits on the windowsill. He hops onto her open palm; a solid slimy comfort. He rolls out his tongue to taste the air.

 “You’ve been burning my best leaves.” He makes a low croak. It’s true – she’d infused a few with small spells, others had been burnt or torn to shreds.

“You’d better watch them then, my sweet lumpy friend.”

“I was –croak– kipping.”

The witch shoves a crisp ten pound note underneath the frog’s slimy behind. “Have today’s rations instead.” 

A rap at the door gives Yurenko pause. She places Armageddon back in his sleeping spot with a quick poke on his forehead.