She was proud of her heritage handed down, generation after generation, by the women of her family. As for her title of witch, while she heard it bandied about, she didn’t take offense. Love potions by the handful for hopeful maidens and their mamas – a lucrative trade for a woman like herself without a husband or father to care for her.
A wheel of cheese for a tincture to soften chapped skin. Besides, the whole village benefitted from her concoctions which she used in exchange for items she needed. She’d never tried too hard to hide her healing powers. The fact they were correct didn’t surprise her. When she woke this morning and went about her chores, feeding the hens and collecting their eggs, tending her herb garden and other mundane tasks, she never expected a mob to descend upon her screaming, “Brujería! Witch!” Ysabel pulled at the rope binding her to the stake, her mind still cloudy with disbelief. Getting roasted to a crisp while the townsfolk looked on cheering? Not something she would have fit in to her schedule. I’m going to die.And painfully, too, which really wasn’t how she’d pictured spending her day.
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