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"A witch?"

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"A witch?"

The words echoed throughout the small room, resonating deep within my bones. Waves of shock trickled through my body, crawling just beneath my skin, and my fingers curled into tight fists. A witch. Aunt Tessa had called me a witch. Called my mother a witch.

My mother had been a witch.

My thoughts swirled in a hurricane of disbelief. I glanced around the room, at the wooden shelves filled with unlabeled vials, at the mixture of yellowed scrolls and leather books, at the overwhelming amount of herbs and strange flowers. "A witch," I repeated softly.

"Yes," Aunt Tessa said. She watched my face carefully, her lips pursed. "That's right. You're a witch."

I couldn't help it. I snorted. I looked around the room again and grinned. "Alright," I said, "Where's the hidden cameras? Where's Ashton Kutcher? Now, I know I'm being punked." 

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