The Herbalist's Plea

Lily, bless her cotton socks, stood there wringing her hands like a damp dishcloth. Honestly, the nerve of some people. Sneaking into my woods, discovering my deeply embarrassing secret, and now *pleading*. As if I had a spare ounce of magic lying around for some village blight. My brambles were looking more pathetic than a wilted daisy at a weeding competition.

“Please, Mistress Amy,” she chirped, her voice annoyingly bright, like a robin on a particularly cheerful morning. “You *have* to help us. The blight… it’s getting worse. My little brother, Thomas, he’s barely breathing.”

I snorted, a sound that was probably more of a rusty hinge creaking. “And you think I, the Thorn Witch of Blackwood, who can barely muster a decent thorn these days, can wave a wand and make it all better?” I gestured dramatically at a particularly sorry-looking bramble bush. “See this? This is the pinnacle of my magical prowess right now. It’s more likely to give you a paper cut than a cure.”