It is pretty and trim and green-and-cream and really ought not to be able to hold itself up like that, and yet here it is, somehow defying the laws of architecture. It is surrounded by a neatly bordered garden of ornamental and useful plants of all sorts: here vegetables, there herbs, there spell components, there rows of flowers.
There is a sign out front. It says only: Magic. Not, Beware, Magic or Magic Emporium or anything like that. Just: Magic.
Sitting on top of this sign is a cream cat with smoke-dark points of color on each paw, his ears, and his face and tail.
All in all, you could be forgiven for thinking that a witch lives here.
"Admirable criteria. I'm not sure how much my lost-people window will help, unless you're planning to stay in this general area for some weeks. They are not that frequent, and when they appear, they are sometimes short on sense. Also, about half of them are female. No comment on whether they'd look good in crowns. I suspect it might depend on the crown."
"Do you think so?" asks maybe-a-witch, who has managed to go for a rather long time without realizing that she needs to introduce herself now. "For cosmetic purposes, quite possibly! And yet my parents do not qualify me."
"You said husbands," says maybe-a-witch. "And I like the Enchanted Forest, I don't want to go marry the princess of Linderwall or wherever; I imagine they'd oblige me to live there."
"Did I say I wanted to marry you? I did not say I wanted to marry you! But yuo'd totally look good in a crown. And you've got sense."
"Tony is flirting," Sherlock translates. "And Tony's flirting is not principally matrimonial in nature."
And she turns to Tony. "Yes," she says gravely. "I do indeed have sense."
"...Not to speak to the likelihood of such an event," says Sherlock, "but technically the need to find a suitable future monarch-consort and the need to find someone to create suitable future monarchs with are separate items that could be dealt with separately. And there are two of us."
And she bites into her biscuit.
"But," she says, "why is there a need to find the first thing, if we consider the second potentially unrelated? Do you two not particularly like monarching?"
"Monarching is boring," says Tony. "I take after Dad; I'd rather drink, flirt, and tinker with magic artifacts."
"Oooh, magic artifacts," says she-who-has-not-yet-been-asked-for-her-
"Please tell me you've heard of the Skyvault," says Tony. "Otherwise I might have to take away your 'Magic' sign."
"Of course I've heard of the Skyvault," says she-of-the-"Magic"-sign dreamily. "If I thought arbitrary visitors were allowed I'd have hiked all the way to the castle just to look at it."
"Will I be allowed to touch it - get a really good look?" asks maybe-a-witch, bouncing in her chair. "Or does it repel people who aren't members of the family, or something?"
"You can't mess with it," she cautions. "I mean, no casting spells on it, no hitting it with sticks. But you can walk up and stare at it to your heart's content."
"And can I wear my funky magic-seeing glasses while I look?" she says. She leans over and opens a drawer and gets them out; they're black metal and multicolored lenses that can drop down in front of the wearer's eyes in arbitrary combinations. "Some big enchantments are shy and don't like it when I do that."
"The arch isn't really an enchantment," says Tony. "It's a... well, anyway. Funky magic-seeing glasses are fine. How do they work?"
Maybe she is not a witch.