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“A BSOLUTELY NOT,” I declare, standing my ground in the middle of the nursery. “That crib stays exactly where it is.”

My mother purses her lips, her hand still raised from the levitation spell she was about to cast. “Grizelda, it’s facing east. Any witch worth her salt knows a magical child’s crib should face north to align with the earth’s energy fields.”

“This is my child and my nursery. The crib stays by the window where the morning sunlight can reach it.”

We’ve been at this all morning—debating, arguing, and rearranging every item in the nursery according to my mother’s outdated magical beliefs. The baby clothes must be folded in perfect thirds to “preserve their magical integrity.” The changing table must be positioned at a precise forty-five-degree angle to the door to “deflect negative energies.” It’s exhausting and infuriating.

“Fine.” Mim sniffs. “It’s your child. If you want to risk misaligning their magical meridians from infancy, that’s your prerogative.”

I roll my eyes and turn to straighten a picture frame, trying to contain my frustration. Atlas has wisely made himself scarce, claiming an urgent meeting at the gym. Traitor.

“Perhaps we should set up a magical protection circle,” she says, already opening her grimoire to an ancient protection spell. “A simple warding to ensure only positive energies enter the nursery.”

“I’ve already warded the entire house.” I gesture to the barely visible shimmer of protective magic that outlines the windows and doors. “Atlas and I did it together. His earth magic reinforces my arcane protections.”

My mother snaps her grimoire shut. “Troll magic is crude at best. It lacks the refinement and precision of true witchcraft.”

“That’s an outdated prejudice,” I retort. “Atlas’s magic is different from ours but equally powerful in its own way. When combined with my witchcraft, it creates protections stronger than either of us could manage alone.”

Mom looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue. Instead, she runs a critical finger along the dresser, examining it for dust. “I suppose we should prepare the nesting spell,” she says. “It’s traditional to cast it in the final days before birth.”

“I know what a nesting spell is, Mother.” I struggle to keep my tone civil. “I was planning to cast it this evening when the moon rises.”

“Why wait? A proper nesting spell can be cast at any time with sufficient magical focus.”

“Because I’m tired.” I exhale slowly. “My magic has been unpredictable, and I want to be at full strength for the casting.”

My mother makes a dismissive noise. “Nesting spells are elementary magic. I was casting them for expectant mothers when I was barely out of my apprenticeship.”

“Not all of us had the benefit of your perfect magical control,” I snap, my patience finally breaking.

“Clearly not.” She eyes the nursery, where several stuffed animals have begun to float in response to my agitation.

I take a deep breath, willing the toys to settle back into their places. Most obey, though a small plush dragon continues to circle the ceiling like a mobile. “Why don’t we compromise?” I’m desperate to end this confrontation. “We’ll cast the nesting spell together this afternoon. That way, if my magic fluctuates, yours can stabilize the casting.”

My mother considers this, then gives a curt nod. “A sensible precaution. I’ll prepare the necessary components.”

As she bustles out of the nursery, I sink into the rocking chair, feeling utterly drained. The baby kicks forcefully, as if sensing my distress. “I know, little one,” I whisper, rubbing my belly. “Grandma means well. She’s just...intense. Like me, I suppose. You’ll probably be just as stubborn.”

The plush dragon finally drifts down from the ceiling, landing in my lap with a soft thump. I stroke its fuzzy head absently, wondering if Atlas is having a better morning than I am.

***

B Y MID-AFTERNOON, MY mother has transformed our living room into something resembling an arcane laboratory. Herbs and crystals are arranged in precise patterns across our coffee table and carefully labeled vials of magical essences gleam in the sunlight from the bay window.

“Are you sure we need all this?” I ask, eyeing a particularly noxious-looking potion bubbling in a small cauldron. “A nesting spell is supposed to be simple.”

“This is simple,” she says with a wave of her hand. “A basic seven-circle enchantment with elemental augmentation and lunar harmonization.”

Nothing about that sounds simple to me. The nesting spell I had planned involved a gentle enchantment to attract nurturing energies and encourage household objects to arrange themselves optimally for baby care, like wipes warming themselves and blankets folding themselves neatly. “What exactly does your version do?” I ask suspiciously.

“It creates a comprehensive magical environment conducive to infant development and parental efficiency,” she says, grinding something that looks suspiciously like dragon scales in a mortar. “The house itself becomes attuned to the baby’s needs, anticipating them before they arise.”

“That sounds...invasive,” I say, picturing our furniture rearranging itself without warning every time the baby hiccups.

“It’s comprehensive. Are you ready to begin? The juniper essence needs to be added precisely as the potion reaches a rolling boil.”

I sigh and take my position across from her. Despite my reservations, a small part of me is curious to see my mother’s advanced spellwork up close. For all her faults, Brunelda Greenwarth is unquestionably a powerful witch.

“We start with the invocation,” she says, closing her eyes and raising her hands. “Repeat after me.. . ”

I dutifully repeat the Latin phrase, feeling the familiar tingle of magic building in my fingertips. So far, so good.

“Channel your energy toward the central crystal while I add the juniper essence.” She uncorks a small blue vial.

I focus on the clear quartz crystal in the center of the table, directing my magic toward it as instructed. The crystal begins to glow with a soft purple light, which is the color of my magical signature.

My mother adds three precise drops of juniper essence to the bubbling cauldron. The potion hisses and changes color from murky green to a clear, shimmering blue. So far, the spell seems to be proceeding exactly as she planned.

That’s when I feel a strong kick from the baby, followed by a sharp contraction that makes me gasp. My concentration wavers, and my magic surges unexpectedly, flowing into the crystal with far more force than intended.

“Grizelda,” my mother warns, but it’s too late.

The crystal pulses with blinding light, and the potion in the cauldron bubbles over violently, spilling across the table and onto my mother’s open grimoire.

“No.” She lunges to save the ancient book, but the damage is done. The potion seeps into the pages, causing the magical ink to run, and the protective enchantments to fizz and spark.

Worse, the crystal continues to pulse, sending waves of uncontrolled magic throughout the house. Around us, objects begin to respond chaotically to the interrupted nesting spell. Baby supplies from the nursery burst through the door, with burp cloths and diapers flying through the air like confused birds. The changing table scrapes across the floor before levitating and floating toward the front door.

“What have you done?” Mom clutches her soaked grimoire.

“I didn’t mean to.” I’m busy attempting to regain control of my magic. “It was the contraction that broke my concentration.”

Outside the window, I see more baby items floating across the front yard—onesies flapping like tiny ghosts, pacifiers orbiting around the garden gnomes, and strangest of all, the crib we were arguing about earlier soaring majestically over the fence and down the street.

“Oh, no.” I groan, rushing to the window. “The spell is sending everything away instead of nesting it.”

“Because you inverted the energy flow,” says my mother while frantically trying to dry her grimoire with a heat spell that only makes the pages curl at the edges. “Your surge reversed the intent from ‘gather and arrange’ to ‘disperse and distribute.’”

“We need to stop it,” I grab my cloak from the hook by the door, “Before half of the nursery ends up scattered across Evershift Haven!”

My mother follows me outside, still clutching her damaged grimoire. “The spell can only be reversed with the proper countermeasure, which was in my book—now illegible thanks to your lack of control.”

“Not helping, Mother.” I watch in horror as a parade of baby clothes marches down the street, led by a particularly determined mobile that chimes merrily as it floats along. I attempt a simple reversal spell, pointing my wand at a nearby floating blanket, but another contraction hits at exactly the wrong moment, and instead of returning to the house, the blanket multiplies into six identical copies, all floating in different directions.

“Wonderful,” my mother mutters. “Now we have to retrieve the original and destroy the copies before they become permanent.”

“Let’s split up,” I say, already waddling as fast as my pregnant body allows toward the town square, where most of the items seem to be headed. “You go left, and I’ll go right.”

My mother hesitates, looking deeply skeptical about my ability to handle the situation, but another explosion of magical energy from our house—sending the rocking chair rocketing into the sky like a wooden spacecraft—convinces her of the urgency.

“Very well, but be careful. In your condition, any further magical mishaps could have serious consequences.”

She hurries off down the left fork of the road, her cloak billowing dramatically behind her. I turn right, following the trail of floating pacifiers and baby socks toward the center of town.

I’m halfway to the town square when I literally bump into Atlas, who is carrying an armful of baby toys and looking bemused.

“Honey,” he says, catching a teddy bear as it attempts to escape his grasp, “I think these belong to us?”

“Nesting spell gone wrong.” I groan. “Everything from the nursery is escaping. We need to catch it all before someone gets hurt.”

“Like from that?” Atlas points upward, where the crib is now performing aerial acrobatics above the town hall.

“Exactly like that.” I groan again. “My magic surged during the casting, and instead of nesting, everything is flying away.”

“Don’t worry,” he says calmly. “As Epictetus said, ‘Make the best use of what is in your power and take the rest as it happens.’”

“I don’t think Epictetus ever had to deal with an enchanted crib doing loop-de-loops over a government building,” I say with a hint of irritation.

Atlas chuckles and hands me the toys he’s collected. “Hold these. I’ll get the crib.”

Before I can protest, he backs up a few steps, then runs forward and leaps with astonishing agility, his powerful troll legs propelling him onto the roof of the town hall. From there, he times his jump perfectly to intercept the flying crib, catching it mid-loop and landing with grace on the town square fountain.

“Show-off,” I mutter, but I smile at his heroics.

“I got the crib,” he calls down to me. “What else is missing?”

I do a quick mental inventory. “The changing table, the rocking chair, about two dozen outfits, the mobile, the diaper bag, and... Oh, no, Mr. Snuggles!”

“Mr. Snuggles?” Atlas repeats, looking concerned.

“The enchanted plush dragon. The one that sings lullabies when you squeeze its tail. It was the first gift we bought for the baby.”

He nods solemnly, understanding the significance, since I wouldn’t even entertain buying anything until I was well past the second trimester. At my advanced state of...maturity...there was a lot that could have gone wrong. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

As I look around at the magical chaos spreading throughout Evershift Haven—baby items continuing to fly in all directions, my mother chasing floating booties down the street, and the rocking chair now giving an impromptu ride to an opportunistic garden gnome—I worry this disaster is beyond even Atlas’s calm philosophy to fix.

Somewhere in the midst of it all is my mother’s ruined grimoire, soaked with a potion that was supposed to create the perfect nest for our baby but has instead scattered our carefully prepared nursery to the four winds.

If this isn’t a metaphor for how parenthood will go, I don’t know what is.