My grandfather had known old Merle. That didn’t mean he had ever met him, but I knew enough about the old man that I didn’t feel foolish waltzing up to his doorstep with the chance I may get blasted by a wayward charm.
I knew his wife, Morgan, was supposed to be something of a nut, but, from what I had heard, he was just as bad, if not worse. But, who am I to judge? I can’t even get a friggin level thirty spell to work. I was almost twenty-five and I couldn’t even work a simple rain spell. I was a pathetic excuse for a witch.
I felt slightly embarrassed going to ask a centuries old wizard to put my house back together so I could move on with life. It wouldn’t make me very happy to have to build a new house because of one confounded charm. And it was almost impossible for a witch to get an apartment in the city. Witches like me were the reasons why.