The Witch's Candelabra

Chapter 2 - The Pawn Shop's Enchantment

Braids:

I perched behind the ancient, scarred desk in my father's pawn shop, my fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the worn wood. Each tap echoed softly in the cluttered, shadow-draped room, filled with whispers of forgotten histories. This week, keeping to myself was a necessary task amidst the cluttered confines of the shop.

The pawn shop was a labyrinth of forgotten stories, each item whispering its history: the tarnished brass telescope that seemed to still hold stardust, the velvet-lined jewelry box that hummed a long-lost lullaby, and the rusted swords that echoed distant battle cries. But ever since I was a little girl, I had found wonder in this ever-changing collection of potential treasures. The assortment of gadgets never ceased to intrigue me, though the charisma required to sell them was a different story entirely.

A customer, clad in a blue suit that hung a bit too loose on his frame, meandered down the main aisle. His eyes, bright with a child-like curiosity, darted from one relic to another, each piece telling its own silent, mysterious story. As I passed by, he looked up with an inquisitive expression. "What's this for?" he asked, clearly intrigued.

I paused, my gaze lingering on him with a thinly veiled mix of disdain and curiosity. In the dim light of the shop, my shadowed eyes might have seemed just a touch too cold, too distant. "It crushes nuts," I replied flatly. "Walnuts, in particular." I eyed his face again, noting his transition from startled to oddly joyous.

He eagerly announced his intention to buy the contraption. Following me to the counter, he watched as I rang up the sale on the old cash register. "Ten pounds," I stated, maintaining an expression of glassy-eyed indifference, my fancy black outfit adding to my aloof demeanor.

As the customer left, the bell above the door jingling in his wake, I didn't spare a thought for the irony of the transaction. In this pawn shop, amidst the clutter of discarded dreams and secondhand memories, transactions were just a part of the routine — another oddity in a place brimming with them. It was my normal, a world away from the ceilings of ghost-filled bars and the comfort of familiar spirits. Here, in the dusty reality of the pawn shop, I found a different kind of solace, one rooted in the mundane and the unremarkable.

"If you'll excuse me, my shift is over," I announced, already making my way to the creaking wooden staircase. The steps groaned under my feet, a familiar chorus to my daily routine. Reaching the top, I called out, "Dad, your shift is ready."

In the kitchen, I found my father, Jean-Louis, engrossed in one of his cherished activities. He was hunched over a thick, leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age. His passion for ancient texts and obscure historical accounts was evident in the way his eyes danced over the words, a look of pure contentment on his face.

"Braids?" Aunt Biddi's voice cut through the tranquility. I turned to see her lumbering over, her figure round and motherly in a way that only Aunt Biddi could be. From my perspective, she had always been larger than life, both in stature and in presence.

As a child, Aunt Biddi was my mentor and my warden. She kept me under her watchful eye, a strictness in her demeanor that rarely allowed for childish play. My father, occupied with the pawn shop and somewhat meek in Aunt Biddi's commanding presence, never interfered. She was always vocal about her beliefs on child-rearing, despite never having children of her own. Her opinions, strong and unwavering, shaped much of my early life.

I glanced at my father, who seemed too absorbed in his book to notice the exchange. Seizing the opportunity, I muttered a quick incantation under my breath — a little spell to slip away unnoticed. The words were soft, barely a whisper, but their effect was immediate. A shroud of unnoticeability enveloped me, allowing me to move past Aunt Biddi without drawing her attention.