(For some reason, indentation isn't showing up.)
Percilia Snicket drew her mouth tight. She could tell that this was going to be an unpleasant visit. Witches can tell these things.
She was eighteen years old, a Witch apprentice currently working under Esme Scratzvi, 84 years old and tough as nails. That assertion was more accurate than Percilia knew, for The Nail was, in fact, Scratzvi’s soul name. Their souls were tightly knit, and they always found eachother, across the ages. Mother and daughter, brother and sister, employer and employee, husband and wife, student and teacher, master and apprentice. It didn’t matter. They were always partners.
“I already don’t like them,” creaked Esme to Percilia, as they stood in front of the closed, sturdy door of the Maguires household. “I smell cut familiar connections.”
“And look at their flowers,” added Percilia, who cared a great deal about plants. “They clearly just bought som