Page 5

“J UST A ROUTINE TRIP to the bakery,” Atlas had said after we finally tracked down our items and restored order to the nursery. “It’ll be fine,” he had assured me. “A perfect opportunity to show your mother more of the town.”

I should have known better.

Now, I’m standing in Bernadette’s Bewitched Bakery, watching in horror as the antique oak table—a family heirloom passed down through six generations of baker witches—slowly splits down the middle beneath Atlas’s carefully placed hand.

“I barely touched it,” he whispers, his expression mortified as the crack continues to spread with an ominous creaking sound.

My mother, who until now had been examining the enchanted pastry display with critical interest, turns at the noise. Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the scene of Atlas frozen in place, his massive hand still resting on the now-broken table.

“Strengthening charm,” she murmurs, flicking her wand discreetly. The crack stops spreading but doesn’t repair itself. “Temporary fix only.”

Bernadette emerges from the kitchen, a tray of freshly baked charm buns floating behind her. Her cheerful expression falters when she spots the damaged table. “Oh, dear,” she says.

“Bernadette, I’m so sorry,” Atlas begins, his normally confident voice tight with embarrassment. “I’ll replace it immediately.”

“Nonsense,” says Bernadette with forced brightness. “It’s just a table. These things happen.” Still, I can see the disappointment in her eyes. That table has been a fixture in the bakery for longer than I’ve been alive. Magical families have gathered around it for centuries, sharing enchanted treats and making memories.

“I can repair it,” I say, stepping forward before considering the wisdom of using my unpredictable magic on a priceless antique.

My mother shoots me a warning look. “Grizelda, in your condition—”

“It’s fine,” I insist, drawing my wand. “A simple restoration spell.”

Before anyone can stop me, I wave my wand in the familiar pattern for mending broken objects. I speak the incantation while focusing my will on the cracked wood.

For a moment, it seems to be working. The crack begins to close, and the wood fibers reach for each other across the divide. Then I feel the baby shift, and with it comes the now-familiar surge of uncontrolled magic.

The table doesn’t just mend. It transforms. The oak darkens and swirls, reshaping itself into an elaborate design that looks suspiciously like a baby’s cradle with four table legs. The surface curves inward, and decorative carvings of stars and moons appear along the edges.

“That’s...different,” says Bernadette diplomatically.

My mother sighs deeply.

“I can fix this,” I insist, raising my wand again, but Atlas gently places his hand over mine.

“Perhaps we should quit while we’re ahead. Or at least, before we turn it into a rocking horse.”

The logical part of me knows he’s right, but embarrassment and pregnancy hormones make a potent combination. “I’m not completely incompetent. I can cast a simple reversal spell.”

“Of course you can, dear,” says Mom in that insufferable tone that suggests exactly the opposite. “But should you?”

My magic is bubbling dangerously close to the surface, responding to my emotions. The star patterns on the table-cradle begin to glow ominously. I force myself to take a deep breath, then another. “Fine. Atlas, would you please plan to replace the table?”

“I’ll ask have Bram Stonehorn take a look. If he can’t fix it, he can build a new one.”

“In the meantime,” says Bernadette with a shaky smile, “Why don’t we focus on what you came for? Charm buns for the expecting mother, wasn’t it?”

The tension in the room eases slightly as she leads us to another table, this one mercifully still in its original form, and presents an array of pastries infused with beneficial magical properties. “The blueberry ones encourage restful sleep. The cinnamon promote healthy magical development, and the chocolate are just because chocolate makes everything better.” She grins.

I smile and nibble on a chocolate charm bun, feeling slightly better about the situation. Perhaps this outing won’t be a total disaster after all.

I should have known better.

Our next stop is Everglow Florist, where Atlas intends to order a special arrangement for the baby’s welcome celebration. The shop is a marvel of magical botany, with blossoms that change colors based on the viewer’s mood and vines that helpfully reach out to offer samples of their fragrance.

“Magnificent,” my mother says, genuinely impressed for once as she examines a rare moonbloom orchid that only opens during lunar eclipses. “The magical cultivation here is excellent.”

Flora, the shop’s owner and a distant cousin of the dryads, practically glows at the praise. “Thank you. We get several of our more recent additions from the Glimmerglow Grove, and I’ve been experimenting with cross-pollination between magical and non-magical species. It creates the most interesting hybrids.”

Atlas is carefully making his way through the narrow aisles, mindful of his size among the delicate displays. I watch him with affection and concern, knowing his genuine efforts to be gentle don’t always translate to success in spaces designed for smaller beings.

Sure enough, as he reaches for a catalog on a high shelf, his elbow brushes against a hanging basket of sensitive fairy lilies. The flowers, which respond to emotional energy rather than physical touch, immediately sense his anxiety and droop dramatically.

“Oh, no,” he whispers, trying to project calm toward the wilting blooms. “Don’t do that, little ones.”

Flora notices immediately. “The fairy lilies.” She hurries over. “They’re empaths, and they’ve absorbed your worry.”

“I’m so sorry.” He looks mortified for the second time that day. “Can they be revived?”

“Yes, but they’ll need emotional transfusion.” She’s already retrieving a small crystal from her apron pocket. “I’ll need to channel positive feelings into them.”

My mother steps forward. “Allow me. I have extensive experience with empathic flora.”

She takes the crystal from Flora and holds it near the drooping flowers, closing her eyes in concentration. The crystal glows with a soft blue light—a color I’ve rarely seen in my mother’s magic, which tends toward more assertive purples and reds. Gradually, the fairy lilies begin to perk up, their delicate petals unfurling once more.

“Impressive,” says Flora, genuinely surprised. “Most witches can’t achieve that level of emotional projection.”

My mother hands back the crystal with uncharacteristic modesty. “I’ve always had an affinity for restorative magic.”

This is news to me. In all my years, I’ve never seen my mother tend a garden or nurture a houseplant. Her magic has always been practical, efficient, and occasionally intimidating—never gentle or nurturing.

Atlas catches my surprised expression and winks at me, as if to say, “See? There’s more to her than you thought.”

The moment of harmony is short-lived, however. As my mother turns to examine another display, Atlas reaches for the flower catalog again, determined to complete our original mission. This time, it’s not the fairy lilies that suffer but a rare specimen of singing snapdragons.

The flowers, which normally hum a gentle melody, take one look at Atlas and begin to wail in a high-pitched chorus that sounds eerily like a baby’s cry. The sound triggers another contraction—stronger than the previous ones—and my magic responds instantly, causing all the vases in the shop to overflow with water.

Flora scrambles to manage the sudden flood, while my mother attempts to quiet the hysterical snapdragons with a silencing charm that only makes them sing louder, now in perfect four-part harmony.

“Perhaps we should continue this another time,” says Atlas over the cacophony, already guiding me toward the door.

“Excellent idea,” my mother agrees, following close behind as water begins to seep into her sensible witch’s boots.

“I’ll send you a catalog by crystal mail,” Flora calls after us, valiantly trying to stem the tide with a containment spell.

Outside, I lean against a lamppost, breathing through the fading contraction. “This is a disaster.” I moan. “We’ve destroyed a priceless antique and flooded a flower shop, all in one morning.”

“Not a complete disaster,” says Atlas optimistically. “The bakery visit was partially successful. We did get charm buns.”

My mother snorts. “If that’s your metric for success, Mr. Mountainheart, I shudder to think what you consider a triumph.”

“Getting through the day without turning any more furniture into baby equipment would be a good start,” I mutter.

“Perhaps we should call it a day,” he suggests gently. “You look tired, Zelda.”

He’s right. The magical surges and contractions—even the false ones—are taking their toll, but something in me rebels against admitting defeat so easily, especially in front of my mother. “One more stop. We still need to pick up the special baby blanket from Magical Threads. It’s just around the corner.”

Atlas and my mother exchange a look I can’t quite interpret, but they both nod in agreement.

“One more stop, but then straight home for rest.” He nods as if that’s settled.

As we walk toward Madame Threads’ shop, I’m between Atlas and my mother, physically and metaphorically. My mother remains stiffly formal, but I notice her casting appraising glances at Atlas when she thinks I’m not looking. For his part, Atlas continues to be unfailingly polite despite her critical comments.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “I’m reminded of a saying by the philosopher Heraclitus. ‘Even a soul submerged in sleep is hard at work and helps make something of the world.’”

My mother gives him a sharp look. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that sometimes, what appears to be failure on the surface is actually progress beneath. Today might seem like a series of disasters, but perhaps we’re building something important through these shared experiences.”

I expect my mother to dismiss his philosophical musing with a cutting remark, but instead, she considers his words thoughtfully. “An optimistic perspective,” she says finally. “Though I must point out that Heraclitus was also known as the ‘weeping philosopher’ for his pessimistic view of human nature.”

Atlas’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “You’re familiar with pre-Socratic philosophy?”

“I wasn’t always a cranky old witch,” she says dryly. “I was quite the scholar in my youth.”

This revelation stuns me into silence. My mother, a philosophy scholar? The woman who measured my childhood potion ingredients down to the microgram and insisted that practical magic was the only magic worth studying?

Before I can question this new information, we arrive at Magical Threads, where I pray—to any deity who might be listening—that we can retrieve a simple blanket without catastrophe.

I should have known better.

The moment we step inside, Madame Threads’ enchanted scissors spring to life, snipping wildly at an innocent bolt of fabric. My mother quickly freezes them with a flick of her wand, but the damage is done. Half the inventory has been reduced to confetti-like scraps.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize to the horrified proprietor. “Pregnancy magic. I’ll pay for everything.”

We leave without a blanket or my dignity and decide to cut through the town square on our way home. That’s when another contraction hits, and it’s the strongest yet. I stumble, grabbing Atlas’s arm and accidentally sending a surge of magic directly into the central fountain.