No! You Can’t Hex A Four-Year-Old!

I’m sure, there are worse ways to be woken up at 3:47 a.m. A fire. An earthquake. The house being broken into… although that would be a very stupid idea on the part of the burglar. Breaking into a house owned by two witches? That’s less “criminal enterprise” and more “death wish with a few extra steps.”

But when you’re warm, curled up in bed with your wife, halfway through a very pleasant dream involving her, a bottle of champagne, a hot tub, and no children within a five-mile radius—being abruptly awoken by your eight-year-old son sobbing beside the bed is… less than ideal.

“Mama, I don’t feel well…” 

My eyes fought me. They tried, valiantly, to stay closed. But there was something about the way Nicki’s voice cracked, the sheer panic in it, that forced me upright. Beside me, Agatha stirred, grumbling something about needing just one night of uninterrupted sleep as she tugged the duvet higher up her body.

I blinked into the dark, heart thudding, as I reached blindly until I found a small, warm arm.

“Hey, buddy,” I mumbled, trying to smooth the worry out of my voice. “It’s okay…”

But the words died halfway out of my mouth the second I switched on the bedside lamp.

Nicki stood there in his Captain America pyjamas, bottom lip trembling. There was no denying it… he was absolutely, unmistakably covered in chickenpox’s.

I blinked. “Oh no.”

“I’m itchy everywhere.” Nicki whimpered.

Beside me, Agatha groaned and threw an arm over her face. “Tell me he’s not got spots.”

I didn’t answer right away, which, in itself, was the answer.

She sighed. The long-suffering kind... the kind only a centuries-old witch and mother of two could produce.

I reached for Nicki and pulled him gently into my arms. He practically melted against me, hot and clingy and miserable, his tiny limbs wrapped around my waist like he was trying to fuse into me for comfort.

“You’ve got the chickenpox, sweetheart,” I murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “But you’re going to be okay. It’s not dangerous, just… itchy. And annoying.”

“And contagious,” Agatha added dryly, already throwing back the duvet. “Let’s not forget that delightful fact.”

She swung her legs out of bed and padded toward the bathroom, muttering something under her breath about “Reece and his birthday party of germ ridden boys”. I heard the familiar creak of the cupboard, the soft clink of bottles, and water running as she dampened a cloth.

Nicki continued to cling to me, suddenly feeling heartbreakingly small for his age. I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, trying not to let the tight worry in my chest show. I knew he’d be fine. Rationally. But motherhood has never cared much for rationality.

Agatha reappeared a moment later, her expression slightly less sharp than before. She held out the bottle of Calpol and a small silver spoon like it was a peace offering, crouching beside the bed.

“Alright, plague boy” she said, her tone teasing but gentler now. “Open up. It’s strawberry-flavoured. Or so they claim.”

Nicki gave her a suspicious look but complied. He swallowed the spoonful with a scrunched face and a theatrical shudder.

“Ugh. Why does it taste like pink?”

“Because pink is the flavour of suffering.” She smirked.

But then she reached out, brushed her fingers lightly through his dark hair, and murmured, “You’ll feel better soon. Promise.”

It was so quiet, so uncharacteristically gentle, that I don’t think Nicki even noticed it. But I did.

And I knew, without her saying it, that if she could magic the chickenpox’s away… she would’ve done it already.

Agatha handed me the cold flannel next. It was perfectly damp and exactly the right temperature. Of course it was—she might be a nightmare most of the time, but she was my nightmare. And she was brilliant at this stuff.

I laid it carefully across Nicki’s forehead and smoothed it down with slow fingers. He let out a sigh and sank a little further into me, his eyelids drooping.

“Can I sleep with you and Mom tonight?” he asked, his voice small and tired.

I glanced at Agatha. She was already sighing and climbing back into bed. She didn’t answer with words… she just pulled back the covers and opened one arm, silently inviting him in.

“Just for tonight,” I said gently, nudging him in between us.

Nicki didn’t wait to be told twice. He burrowed in immediately, curling up like a sleepy little furnace pressed against both our sides.

Agatha looked over at me as I settled back in, one eyebrow raised. “So,” she whispered, “how long do you think until Ella starts scratching?”

I groaned and let my head fall back against the pillow.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t even put that thought out into the universe.”

She just smiled, wicked and far too amused for the hour.“Too late, hon,” she murmured, brushing a hand over Nicki’s hair. “This is only the beginning.”

                                      ***

By morning, the house was wrapped in golden light, a sleepy stillness hung in the air, like the day hadn’t yet realised what sort of a shit show it was going to become. 

Nicki clung to me like a sleepy koala as I carried him downstairs, still warm from his fever, and having been tucked between me and Agatha in bed, whilst pouting through half-mumbled protests about being itchy and definitely dying.

“You are not dying,” I told him for the third time. “You have the chickenpox. And a dramatic streak… just like your mom’s”.

“Same thing,” he muttered.

I settled him on the sofa, surrounded him with pillows and a soft blankie before turning the TV on. Scooby-Doo flickered to life. I watched his face soften immediately, all misery temporarily suspended by the promise of meddling kids and ghost villains in rubber masks.

That’s when I heard Agatha’s voice drift down the stairs.

“Hon?”

I turned. Something in her tone wasn’t teasing this time.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come up here?”

I frowned, already halfway across the living room.

“Everything okay?”

“Just… come.”

When I reached Ella’s room, I found her already awake, clinging to Agatha’s hip in her little unicorn-print pyjamas. Her dark curls were mashed to one side, sleep still in her blue eyes, her head resting against Agatha’s shoulder as she rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles.

Then I saw it.

The spots. Clear as day.

Dotting her cheeks, curling at her hairline, peeking down her neck and along the edge of her jaw.

“No,” I whispered.

Agatha looked at me over Ella’s head, her expression softer than usual. Tired, resigned, but somehow still impossibly calm.

“She woke up itchy,” she said quietly. “Didn’t want to get dressed. Said her socks felt ‘mean.’ I had a feeling.”

Ella lifted her head just slightly to look at me. “Mama,” she mumbled, her voice a whisper, “am I turning into a bug like Nicki?”

My chest clenched. I moved forward, brushing her hair gently off her forehead.

“No, babygirl,” I said. “You’ve just caught the same little bug he has. But you’re going to be okay. Promise.”

Ella pouted, rubbing her face against Agatha’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna be itchy. I wanted to go to school. It’s library day.”

“I’ll read to you,” Agatha said, pressing a kiss to her hair. “And I promise, I’ll even do the funny voices”.

Ella sniffled, clearly unimpressed by the trade-off.

I looked at Agatha, already rocking our daughter like it was the hundredth time she’d done it this week.

She met my eyes, arched an eyebrow, and deadpanned, “Two down…”

                                        ***

The afternoon rolled around quickly, as both kids lay on the sofa, sunken into a sea of pillows and soft blankets like two tiny, dictators of misery and drama. Nicki had commandeered the left side, arms folded, looking like he was personally offended by his own immune system. Ella was curled on the right, whining intermittently like a siren on low volume.

The Scooby-Doo marathon was still playing on the television, although by this point no one was watching it.

“I’m not scratching,” Nicki declared, hands suspiciously close to his neck. “I’m just… adjusting.”

“You’re itching,” Ella accused, scratching at her side in perfect hypocrisy.

“You’re itching!”

“I’m itchy because you gave me the pox!”

“I didn’t give it to you, Ella! You caught it because you never stop touching my stuff!”

“You sneezed on my cereal!”

“That was an accident! And it was my cereal you were eating!”

“Both of you,” I said calmly from the kitchen, “need to stop before I duct tape oven mitts to your hands.”

They froze for half a beat… and then resumed scratching.

Of course they did.

In the kitchen, Agatha stirred a pot of chicken soup on the hob, steam curling gently into the air. It smelled like actual comfort and safety in a bowl... her version of healing magic, brewed low and slow with herbs, bone broth, and just the smallest pinch of witchy smugness.

"How’s it looking?” I asked, siding up to her.

“Like it’ll be the best thing they complain about all week,” she said, lifting a spoon and blowing gently before tasting it and moving the spoon to my own lips. She nodded in approval and began ladling soup into bowls.

“One for each of our tiny plague spreaders. One for you. And one for the woman keeping this entire bedevilled household standing.”

“Your modesty is inspiring.”

She smirked. “You’re lucky I don’t charge”.

She handed me two bowls, and I carried them carefully into the living room...only to catch Nicki furiously rubbing his shoulder against the sofa cushion, and Ella going at her arm with a hairbrush she’d somehow smuggled downstairs. 

“Right,” I said, setting the bowls down on the coffee table. 

I flicked my fingers.

Both kids suddenly found themselves wearing padded oven gloves—ridiculously oversized, chintzy, and covered in a pattern that looked like it had come from my grandmother’s kitchen in 1953.

They froze.

Nicki stared at his hands. “What—what is this?!”

“Oven gloves,” I said calmly, as I spun on my heel walking back into the kitchen. “Since you clearly can’t be trusted with access to your own skin.”

Ella flailed her arms a little. “I can’t even pick up my spoon!”

“Then I’ll feed you.”

“Noooooooo.”

Agatha handed me the last bowl, eyebrows raised. “Nice work.”

“I’m learning from the best.”

“Obviously,” she said, already reaching for her own spoon.

From the living room, we could hear Nicki mutter, “I look like a sad sandwich.”

Ella added, “I look like a grandma.”

Agatha called out cheerfully, “You look like you’re not scratching. That’s the point.”

They both groaned in perfect, spot-covered harmony, their spoons held awkwardly through the padded material.

Setting into my own bowl of soup, I hesitated for just a moment, before looking sideways at Agatha and casually asking

“So… you’ve had chickenpoxs, right?”

Agatha didn’t even blink. “1670. Give or take a decade. It was winter. Everyone thought it was divine punishment for mocking a priest. It wasn’t, although I did mock the priest… and he deserved it.”

I smiled. “Of course you did.”

Agatha brought her spoon to her mouth, her blue eyes flicking toward me. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

She gave me a look. “No, you’re not. You’re doing the thing. That internal monologue thing you do when you’re trying to convince yourself of something”.

I sighed. “I’m sure I’ve had it. I think.. I mean, I must have. Every kid did, right? It’s a rite of passage.”

“Must have?” she echoed, brow raised.

“It was a long time ago!” I said defensively. “There was measles, and mumps, …chickenpox…honestly, it all blurs together. I remember spots. Maybe. Or a rash...”

Agatha gave me a long, slow look as she moved her spoon around her bowl.

“You’re feeling itchy, aren’t you?”

 “No,” I said immediately.

She said nothing. She didn’t have to, the slow smirk sliding across her lips said it all.

I stared into the middle distance. “…Maybe a little.”

She set her soup down with a sigh that sounded far too satisfied for someone who should’ve been concerned.

“Where?”

I crossed my arms. “Somewhere that doesn’t need to be discussed in ear shot of two children.”

Agatha grinned. “Ah. There. Classic first spot location.”

I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s probably nothing. A heat rash. Maybe a reaction to the new laundry detergent I brought. Stress… It’s been a stressful week Agatha!.”

“It has,” she said, nodding solemnly. “Mostly for me, watching you lie to yourself.”

                                        ***

I woke in the middle of the night, warm, groggy, and heavy-limbed, with the unmistakable need to pee.

Half-asleep and groaning softly, I dragged myself out of bed, padding towards the bathroom. The floorboards creaked under my feet as I crossed the landing. As if on autopilot, I rubbed my eyes with one hand and lifted the hem of my sleep shirt with the other, scratching lazily at an itch on my stomach.

Except…My fingers stalled.

I froze.

I could feel them.

Raised. Warm. Small, angry little bumps blooming across my skin like a cruel joke.

I flicked the bathroom light on and squinted into the mirror.

There they were.

Spots. Covering my stomach. Crawling up my sides. Faint but unmistakable. It wasn’t just one or two—it was a full-on infestation.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I whispered, staring at my reflection.

I looked flushed, worn out, vaguely sweaty in that feverish, unpleasant way. My hair was doing something of its own accord, and my eyes had the unmistakable glaze of a woman who’d officially joined the ranks of the infected.

I was officially matching the kids… it was like a cursed club; and I had just earned my membership card.

I let out a long, slow sigh, fingers gripping the cold edge of the sink.

That was when I felt her.

Before she said a word. Before the floor creaked again.

Agatha.

I didn’t need to look. I could feel her presence like a heat at my back, quiet and smug and always, always perfectly timed.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her silhouette lit by the soft yellow glow of the bathroom light.

“Looks like you didn’t have the chickenpox after all,” she smirked, voice still thick with sleep but far too pleased.

“Don’t say it,” I warned, eyes still locked on the mirror.

She didn’t. Not exactly.

Instead, she walked in, bare feet silent on the tiles, and came up behind me. Her arms wrapped around my waist, her chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

I let out another sigh, this one more resigned.

She tightened her grip slightly, rubbing slow, soothing circles over my hip—just far enough from any spots to be comforting, not itchy.

“I’m not going to say it,” she whispered into my neck.

“Good.”

A pause.“But if I was, I’d say-“

“Agatha.”

She laughed quietly, kissing my shoulder. “You’re so grumpy when you’re contagious.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“True.” She nuzzled into my neck. “But I make great soup. And I love you, even when you look like a blotchy strawberry.”

I closed my eyes, leaned back into her, and muttered, “We’re gonna need more calamine.”“

I’ll make a list,” she said. “Right after I put you to bed, plague queen.”

She pressed a kiss to the side of my head and stepped back, turning to walk out of the bathroom with all the grace and smugness of someone who’d called it days ago.

But just as she reached the door, she paused. Turned slowly. And gave me that look.

The one that meant she was about to do something incredibly unnecessary—and completely in character.

“Agatha,” I warned.

She grinned.

Then flicked her fingers.

In an instant, my hands were encased in the same ridiculous floral oven gloves I’d conjured for the kids… vintage, padded, and utterly useless for anything but dramatic humiliation and proving a point.

I stared at them.

“Seriously?”

She winked, already backing into the hallway.

“Prevention is key hon,” she said sweetly.

“Agatha!”

But she was gone, striding down the hall like the world’s smuggest witch.

I swear she cackled.

Loudly... Like she’d just won a game that only she was playing.

I looked down at the gloves, then at my reflection, and sighed. This house was cursed…. And Agatha was the happiest witch in it.