Baba-Yaga looked around the kitchen. The kettle came off the boil. The ingredients jumped out of the pot on the stove, and as she watched the onions and carrots slowly, oh so slowly, reassembled themselves.
The watch ticked back steadily. She hissed at it to go faster, the old pedlar had said nothing about this.
She frowned at her hands, flat on the table, veins pronounced, knuckles swelled with rheumatism. She believed she was somewhere around 120 years old.
She sighed loudly. This would take an age.