Of course.

It took him longer than he was happy with to get to the dungeons, and when he arrived, a short, pear shaped brunette in a drab, grey robe and a tall, pointy hat glared up at him. Her black eyes pierced his very soul as she grumbled, "You're late."

Ephraim nodded, muttering apologetically, "Lost track of time while fencing."

Circe rolled her eyes, turning on her high heels and marching to the door, which a frightened guard immediately opened for them.

Even in her high heels, she was a full head and a half shorter than Ephraim, and while her rear was every bit as robust as his mother's, her breasts were rather small. She looked not a day older than 30, though rumors had it that she was much older than any other resident of the castle.

Ephraim guessed that was just par for the course when it came to witches.

As they passed the cells, the convicts inside clambered to the doors, throwing jibes, insults, and pleas their way until a simple glare from Circe silenced them each in turn.

Ephraim swallowed and asked, "So, what are we-"

"Not in front of the prisoners," she hissed, throwing a glare over her shoulder.

Ephraim nodded, promptly closing his mouth.

As Circe led him deeper into the dungeons, the prisoners grew less frequent, and they even came upon some cells in a sad state of disrepair.

The witch ignored these cells, instead marching to the iron door at the end of the hall, which Ephraim recognized immediately.

"Your lab?" he blurted out, confused. "You sure your apprentice wouldn't be a better assistant?"

Circe looked over her shoulder again, but this time, instead of her trademarked glare, she gave him a smirk. "Not this time," she answered, pulling a set of keys from her pocket and unlocking several locks that the door was fitted with.

I find that answer vague and unconvincing, he thought, though he knew better than to say it aloud.

She finally opened the door, stepping aside and motioning for him to go first.