Heavy tome resting on lap, glass of scotch — 15 year old single malt, if you’re wondering — upheld in dainty hand, swirling slowly as witch considers the text before her.

Mind not the slow, steady drip coming from above.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.