“My ex-husband actually started to sleep with a sports cup on,” Brit said the next morning as she set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Isaac. “That cat used to torture him. Of course, he kind of deserved it for also always being mean to the cat. Which probably prompted more of the crotch attacks. Initially, I came up with the name as a joke but, well, it’s kind of stuck.”

Enough time had passed that the pain of the feline assault had faded to a dull ache. “Testiculies somehow got out of the room after his...revenge. I couldn’t figure out how.”

“Oh, he has his ways. Pretty much goes wherever he wants. Kind of like the cat in Alice in Wonderland. Only more of an asshole.”

Isaac frowned. “So, do I need to sleep face down from now on?”

Brit chuckled. “I imagine he was paying you back for laughing at his name. Now that he’s delivered his message you two could probably co-exist. Just don’t poke any more fun at him. That was one of the things my ex couldn’t do. Just leave Testiculies be.”

Duly noted.

***

The next morning Brit informed him the chores were done, and they’d start on his training.

The slithering scarf spell proved relatively easy. A prick of a finger, blood drawn with a quill in a vaguely “S” pattern on the anaconda scales, and then affixing the scales to a suitable piece of fabric was all it took. Despite Brit’s insistence that he knit his own, Isaac found (when the gleamstress left the room) that the process worked on really anything. He had one of his socks slithering around the room in no time. From there he smuggled a length of rope from Brit’s barn and soon had it squirming around on command as well.

The scissor spell proved a bit more intensive. Brit ushered him into her knitting room and sat him down at her craft table. She’d stacked several boxes of assorted fabric scraps next to it.

“The first step is to have an appropriate set of scissors.” She produced a large pair of antique tailor shears. “The older the better. Ones well used. Cut to the metal dulls. Sharpen. Repeat.” Brit picked them up, delicately, as if they were made of glass and not steel. She cradled them across her palms, a reverent knight with a holy blade. “All magic seamstresses would have a set. A pair long owned and used by them. But for you, these will suffice. They have sat unused for a long time and need some love. You will sharpen them and then cut.” She nudged one of the boxes next to the table. “Cut, cut, cut. Until they dull again. Then sharpen and cut. Until the pieces get so small they disappear. Use only the hand you intend to cast the spell with. Questions?”

Isaac shook his head. He knew how to listen. He’d been a student most of his life, in much worse circumstances than this. Much.

He did as she instructed and sharpened the blades by hand. Then he cut and cut. Linen, cotton, leather, wool, yarn, paper, cardboard, tinfoil, toothpicks, plastic. Scraps of every material he could think of were in the boxes and he hacked away at them until his hand ached and fingers blistered. The next day he did more. Brit worked alongside him on her own project—beanies for newborns with stitched symbols to protect against illness.

After hours of cutting, she had Isaac sharpen the scissors one last time until the points were like razors. A self-inflicted laceration then, to the tips of the index and middle finger of his right hand, deep enough to bleed heavily but still bandage treatable. He smeared the blood along the blades and handle, then dropped them into a plastic bag.

“Put them somewhere safe, where they won’t be found. Mine are buried in the yard. We’ll give your fingers a day or so to heal, then see if you can snip.”

Isaac nodded and dropped the bagged scissors into his Everbag. She looked at him oddly when he did. “Safest place I know of,” he said and clipped it shut. He smiled.

She didn’t.

***

The next evening, they dined on meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Baked apple pie rested on the kitchen counter. Isaac was getting comfortably used to this country cooking. Across the table, Brit hadn’t been her normal, chatty self. She had focused on her meal, barely making eye contact, responding to his attempts at small talk with one syllable mutterings. He found it odd, but he wasn’t a gregarious fellow himself under most circumstances, so he certainly didn’t behoove someone else not being talkative.

When the plates were clean, she went into the kitchen and came back, wiping her hands with a dishtowel, which she then tossed to him. “Cut it. Let’s see if you got it.” Her brusqueness startled him, but he complied. He held up the towel with his left, made a “V” with his right, and snipped the air next to it. The rag fell apart, cut clean.

“Well done. You’ve picked it up fast. Faster than anyone I ever taught. Faster than me. Faster than the witch who taught me.”

She seemed more irritated than impressed so he made a faux sheepish grin and said, “You’re a good teacher I guess.”

“Knock it off.” She sat down, eyeballing him sternly. “If we’re talking about teachers, name me a few of yours. Who’ve you studied under?”

Isaac’s face darkened as he dropped the act. “It’s probably better that I didn’t.”

“Why am I not surprised? You don’t even want to speak a name. That must mean these aren’t good people, then right?”

“No. Not good...people.”

Brit plucked a broom from the corner. “Here, cut this.” He hesitated. “Go ahead, just like you did the rag.”

Feeling very much like he was being scolded by his grandmother, he did as instructed. He snipped his fingers alongside the broom and the handle fell in two, as cleanly cut as with a table saw. The harder material did make his fingers ache a bit.

The stitch-witch pursed her lips, begrudgingly impressed. “Very nice Isaac. Only you shouldn’t have been able to do that. The spell is confined to the materials you practiced on. All those hours you cut. Those should be the limitations. Those are my limitations. Only now I see we don’t share limitations.”

Her gaze fell to his satchel, resting against the leg of his chair. “It’s funny,” she continued, “when you dropped the scissors in, the bag didn’t move. It didn’t stretch down under the weight. The sides didn’t bulge at all. It was like the scissors dropped into nothingness. If I opened it up, I’d find only an empty satchel, wouldn’t I? But that’s not what you find, is it? When you look in you see whatever you want? Whatever object you put in there is just there, but only for you?”

Isaac didn’t care for the line of questioning, but he stayed in his seat, enduring it out of respect, and hopes they were still going to have dessert. “Right.”

“It’s a bag of emptiness then? A bag that can never be filled?”

“I call it my Everbag.”

“Cute. I’ve heard of those. Never seen one.” She sighed. “It takes a nasty kind of magic to make one from what I’ve heard. You have to capture the last dying breath of someone who sold their soul, right?”

He nodded. “It’s the ultimate emptiness.”

She shook her head. “Foul things. Foul things cast that kind of magic.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“We’re done here. You’ve learned what you came to learn. Tomorrow morning, I want you to go.” She had a hint of regret in her tone, a motherly angst about throwing one of her children out of the house. “And do me one favor...”

Isaac nodded.

“Forget you were ever here. Forget me completely. And never come back.”