Cassie’s shack is bare bones. There’s a narrow cot in the corner, a fireplace with an old iron pot crane to hang her cauldron, and the walls are lined with cabinets and shelves made from old stacked milk crates and a library card catalog. She has a beat-up wooden table and leather trunks she uses as benches.

I’m pretty sure she has a nicer place somewhere else. I’ve seen her in things—like her muskrat coat—that there’s no room for here.

I flip on her electric kettle. The place is rigged for electricity although there’s only one outlet, and it’s missing the plate. Cassie’s brought the dragon’s tongue in and broken...