Tilda swiped at her brow and scanned her eyes once more over the list of ingredients. 

_Cinnamon_. Check. 

_Blue lotus_. Check. 

_Eye of newt._ Check. 

_Vocal cords of a virgin_—she swung her hand up to drop the bloodied sinew into the bowl beside her and watched with great fascination as clouds of red burst forth to muddy the moon water. _Check_. Those had been quite a pain to harvest, very meticulous work to ensure their integrity. But Tilda was the best in her field. Even for the best, there would be no avoiding the cleanup that awaited her in the shed later that evening.

_Tongue of dog. _She cast her purple irises towards the hearth, pulling her lips to the side in contemplation.

The creature was a small thing. It shivered, not from the cold, she’d imagine, but from fear. Imagination was not needed, in fact, she could scent it. Its abnormally long torso seemed to curl in on itself, tail tucked between its stunted legs. A ‘sausage dog’ was what the merchant had called it when she’d bartered her for the varmint. Tilda thought this was a ridiculous name for it, but then again, humans had all sorts of ridiculousness about them. 

It gave her a lot to think about, however.

Would it make for a good sausage? She’d be forced to remove the foolish costume it had come with if she planned to take it that far. Silly cotton antlers quivered above its head. Slimy and pink, the ingredient slipped out of its tiny maw, lapping nervously at the thick air of her cottage as she approached it with her hunting knife. 

Tilda stepped forward and hovered over the creature. 

It took two tiny steps backwards. Was it technically four steps? In all honesty, arithmetic had never been Tilda’s strong suit.

Her shadow loomed over it, blade braced to make quick work of it. Its tongue slipped out again and she grasped for it.

It whimpered, nearly backing itself into the crackling flames to evade her. When the hood of its festive garb slipped over its beady brown eyes, it gave her pause.

She found it to be a rather pathetic display. It was rare that Tilda found herself amused. But as she peered down at the trembling creature, blinded and incapacitated by a reindeer costume, a strange noise burst forth from her throat.

The creature tilted its minuscule head, peeking one uncertain eye out under its wrinkled brow. 

She followed its line of sight, gaze connecting with a jar upon her storage shelf. _Canine Drool._ It startled her that the creature possessed such intelligence. Not only would the ingredient be a viable substitute, more potent and soluble, but it would also be more palatable.

“Very well then,” she croaked, standing to her full height. “I have use for you yet, creature. There is a stubborn puddle I need cleaned up. I suppose you’ll need your tongue for that, won’t you?”