The Fate of Jaryl

The warm, orange light of dusk filtered in through the off-white curtains of the young witch’s hovel.
She sat in her old rocking chair, waiting, and watching the sun droop below the horizon.
Any minute now, he would come.
Moments passed, the sun was gone, and the rickety door to the hovel opened.
Jaryl stepped into the house, pulling his thick coat around him and then closed the door.
“Worst winter ever.”
Charlotte considered him with a smirk.
“Where have you been, my love?” she asked, but she already knew the answer to that.
She was aware of her wayward husband’s activities in the village.
“Down at the tavern.” he replied, elusively.
“True?”
“Aye.”
Charlotte arose from the chair.
“Would you lie to your wife, Jaryl?”
“’Course not!”
He was giving her an outraged look.
She kept her smile in place.
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“Aye,” he replied softly this time. “’Course, I do.”
“Come, embrace your wife.”
They stood together, enfolded in each other’s arms.
Some harlot’s sickeningly perfume wafted into Charlotte’s senses and her hands curled like claws into his shoulders.
“Fool.” She yanked him back, glaring into his eyes.
“Char?” He seemed confused. That would not last long.
“I am a witch, Jaryl. I see all!”
“Char, what’re you—“
“You know damn well.”
His eyes were wide with realization and he opened his mouth to speak, to refute and deny.
But all talking was done.
Ancient words left her in a harsh whisper and Jaryl cried out in alarm as he began to shrink before her gleaming eyes.
Jaryl was gone and a black, long-tailed rat squeaked in his place.
Smiling, Charlotte pulled a piece of cheese from her pocket and tossed it to the floor.
“A rat.” she mused. “How appropriate.”