Page 6

“I ’M FINE,” I INSIST for the third time in as many minutes, since the fountain mishap, though the sweat beading on my forehead suggests otherwise. “It’s just another false contraction.”

Atlas hovers anxiously beside me, his large hand supporting my back as I breathe through the pain. We’re standing in the town square, where half of Evershift Haven has gathered to witness my latest magical mishap—the transformation of the central fountain from its usual elegant water display into a spectacular chocolate milk geyser.

“I didn’t know chocolate milk came in that shade of green,” says Hecate, Bella’s dog familiar, who has materialized beside us to observe the chaos with undisguised glee.

“It’s not supposed to be green.” I groan, watching as several fairies happily bathe in the sugary substance, their wings turning sticky and iridescent. “It’s supposed to be water.”

“On the bright side, the children seem to be enjoying it,” Atlas says optimistically.

He’s right. A group of young witches and wizards have gathered around the fountain, gleefully collecting the magical chocolate milk in cups, jars, and in one resourceful child’s case, a hastily enchanted hat.

“This is precisely the sort of public display I was concerned about,” says my mother sharply, approaching from the direction of the town hall where she’s presumably been doing damage control. “Your magical outbursts are becoming a spectacle, Grizelda.”

“I’m aware, Mother,” I say through gritted teeth as another contraction builds. “Believe me, I’m not doing this for attention.”

“Obviously not.” She sniffs. “But a witch with proper training should be able to maintain control even in...challenging circumstances.”

“My wife is nine months pregnant, Brunelda,” says Atlas, his normally gentle voice taking on a protective edge. “Perhaps criticism isn’t the most helpful approach right now.”

My mother bristles. “I am merely pointing out—”

“That a pregnant witch’s magic can be unpredictable and powerful, yes, we’re all aware,” Atlas interrupts, surprising both of us with his firmness. “But Zelda is handling it remarkably well given the circumstances.”

I stare at him in surprise. My husband, the philosopher troll, who typically avoids confrontation at all costs, is standing up to my mother. For me.

My mother seems equally taken aback. She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again, reassessing the mountain troll before her. “Very well,” she says finally. “What would you suggest...Atlas, given your extensive knowledge of pregnant witches?” The sarcasm in her tone is impossible to miss, but Atlas doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I suggest we focus on helping Zelda channel her magic in a controlled environment,” he says calmly. “The prenatal yoga classes I mentioned use specific techniques designed for magical beings to maintain balance during pregnancy.”

“Yoga,” my mother repeats skeptically. “You believe downward dog poses will prevent chocolate milk fountains?”

“Prenatal yoga for magical beings isn’t just physical poses,” he says patiently. “It incorporates energy channeling, magical meridian alignment, and specialized breathing techniques that help stabilize fluctuations in arcane power.”

My mother eyes him with reluctant interest. “And you’ve seen this work for other pregnant witches?”

“Three in the past year alone, including a local witch, who was casting uncontrolled weather spells every time she sneezed before she started the classes.”

I remember that pregnancy well, including the unexpected snowstorms in July, and the miniature tornadoes in the library. By the end of her term, she had gained such control that she could direct her magical surges into creating perfect weather for garden parties.

“It’s worth trying, Mother,” I say, wincing as the contraction finally eases. “I’m open to anything that might help at this point.”

My mother considers this, her critical gaze softening slightly as she takes in my exhausted state. “Very well, but I insist on observing the first session.”

“Of course,” says Atlas readily. “Transparency is always welcome. As Kant said, ‘Science is organized knowledge. Wisdom is organized life.’”

“Kant was talking about empirical knowledge, not mystical yoga practices,” my mother retorts, but there’s less heat in her voice than before.

“Perhaps we could continue this philosophical debate at home?” I suggest hopefully. “After we fix the fountain?”

Atlas and my mother both turn to look at the chocolate milk geyser, which has now attracted a flock of sugar-loving pixies in addition to the sticky fairies.

“Yes, that would be prudent,” says Mom, already drawing her wand. “A simple reversal spell should—”

“Wait,” Atlas interrupts gently. “With respect, Ms. Greenwarth, I think we should let Zelda try first.”

My mother stares at him incredulously. “After everything that’s happened today?”

“Yes,” he says with firm confidence. “Magic is like any other skill. It improves with practice, especially under challenging conditions, and I believe in my wife’s abilities. She’s the Guardian of Evershift Haven, and this is merely a slight deviation from her usual skills.”

His faith in me, stated so simply and with such certainty, brings unexpected tears to my eyes. Pregnancy hormones, no doubt.

“Go ahead, Zelda.” He places a supportive hand on my shoulder. “Center yourself first. Remember the breathing exercises we practiced.”

I take a deep breath, then another, feeling my racing heart slowing slightly. Around us, townspeople watch with a mixture of curiosity and caution, some taking prudent steps backward. They’ve lived through nine months of my unpredictable pregnancy magic, so I can hardly blame them.

Drawing my wand, I focus on the fountain, visualizing it returning to its natural state. “ Aqua Restauro ,” I incant clearly, channeling my magic with careful precision. For a moment, it seems to be working. The green chocolate milk begins to clarify, returning to transparent water. The sticky fairies grumble in disappointment.

Then I feel another contraction building, stronger than the last. My concentration flickers, and with it, my control over the spell.

The fountain doesn’t revert to water. Instead, it begins to spray pumpkin juice, the orange liquid arcing high into the air before raining down on the square. Several townspeople shriek in surprise as they’re doused with the unexpected shower.

“Oops,” I mutter, lowering my wand in defeat.

Atlas, now dripping with pumpkin juice, merely shrugs. “At least it’s nutritious.”

My mother, who somehow managed to remain completely dry by raising a perfect spherical shield around herself, lowers her protection with a sigh. “Perhaps we should leave this to someone not currently gestating a magical being,” she suggests, stepping forward with her wand raised.

With a complex series of movements too fast for me to follow, she casts a spell that not only returns the fountain to its proper water state but also cleans every surface splashed by chocolate milk and pumpkin juice, including the sticky fairies, who look considerably less pleased about this development.

“Impressive,” says Atlas sincerely, running a hand over his now-clean tank top.

My mother accepts the compliment with a small nod before turning to me. “Shall we return to your home before you transform the town clock into a rubber duck or some such nonsense?”

Despite her critical words, I detect a hint of concern in her voice, and perhaps even a touch of sympathy. Progress, of a sort.

As we make our way home, I feel like the townspeople are watching us. Some look amused, and others concerned, but most seem to have accepted that a pregnant witch with unpredictable magic is just one more quirk of life in Evershift Haven.

We’re nearly at our cottage when we encounter Bella from the Enchanted Espresso, hurrying toward the town square with a concerned expression. “Zelda? Is it true you turned the fountain into green chocolate milk that then became pumpkin juice?”

I sigh heavily. “News travels fast in this town.”

“Are you kidding? Hecate can’t keep a secret.” Bella grins. “It’s the most excitement we’ve had since Mallory’s cat familiar accidentally transformed into a tiger last Samhain.”

“Glad I could provide entertainment,” I say with a hint of hurt feelings.

Bella’s expression softens. “Hey, no one’s upset. We all know pregnancy magic is unpredictable. My cousin turned her husband blue for a week before she gave birth.”

“Blue?” Atlas asks, intrigued.

“Bright cobalt,” Bella confirms. “It wasn’t a bad look, actually. Brought out his eyes.”

Despite my embarrassment, I laugh. It feels good to know our neighbors are taking my magical mishaps in stride.

“I should get to the square,” Bella says. “Hecate says the sugar-high pixies are trying to organize a synchronized swimming routine. Can’t miss that.”

As she hurries off, my mother watches her with a thoughtful expression. “At least the townspeople seem understanding of your...situation.”

“Evershift Haven is special that way,” says Atlas proudly. “We embrace the unexpected. It’s what makes our community magical in more than the literal sense.”

My mother makes a noncommittal sound, but her rigid posture relaxes slightly. Perhaps she’s finally beginning to see what drew me to this town, and to the kind-hearted troll beside me.

As we approach our cottage, I’m overcome with a wave of exhaustion so profound I stumble slightly. Atlas catches me easily, steadying my elbow with his large hand. “That’s enough excitement for one day. Time for rest.”

For once, I don’t argue. The magical outbursts have drained me completely, and the contractions—false or not—have left me aching and weary.

“I’ll prepare a restorative tea.” My mother is already moving toward the kitchen as we enter the house.

I blink in surprise at this uncharacteristic gesture of nurturing. “Thank you, Mom.”

Atlas helps me settle on the sofa, arranging pillows behind my back and tucking a blanket around my legs with tender care. As always, his solicitous attention makes my heart swell with affection.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, heading to our bedroom.

In his absence, I study my mother as she moves efficiently around our kitchen, measuring herbs with practiced precision. There’s something different about her today—a softening around the edges that I can’t quite define. She abruptly speaks without turning around. “Your Atlas is not what I expected.”

“Oh?” I try to keep my tone neutral, though my pulse accelerates at this opening.

“Mmhmm.” She adds a pinch of something to the brewing pot. “He’s clearly educated, thoughtful, and his devotion to you is evident.”

Coming from my mother, this is practically a ringing endorsement. I wait, sensing there’s more she wants to say.

“I still think a troll is an unusual choice,” she continues, her back still to me, “But perhaps not as unsuitable as I initially believed.”

Before I can respond to this unexpected concession, he returns, carrying my favorite quilt from our bedroom and a small wooden box I recognize as containing my collection of magical crystals.

“I thought these might help stabilize your energy,” he says, carefully arranging the crystals around me in a pattern designed to balance magical fluctuations.

My mother observes this with obvious interest. “A nontraditional arrangement,” she notes, bringing me a steaming cup of tea, “But the resonance pattern is sound.”

“Thank you.” Atlas accepts the assessment with a gracious nod. “I’ve been studying magical harmonics as they relate to physiological processes. The traditional pentagram arrangement doesn’t account for the unique energy pathways of pregnancy.”

My mother’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Indeed. Few practitioners recognize that distinction.”

I sip my tea, watching this unexpected moment of professional respect between my husband and mother. The tea is perfect—soothing and subtly infused with magical properties that ease both my physical discomfort and my magical instability. “This is delicious.”

“An old family recipe,” Mom says dismissively, though I detect a hint of pleasure at my compliment. “Nothing special.”

“Yet remarkably effective.” Atlas looks at me as if studying the subtle glow of balanced magic now surrounding me. “Your knowledge of herbal combinations is impressive, Ms. Greenwarth.”

My mother actually flushes slightly at the praise. “Yes, well... One picks up a few tricks over twenty decades of witchcraft.”

As the restorative tea works its magic, my eyelids grow heavy. My last conscious thought before drifting into a much-needed nap is that perhaps this visit isn’t the complete disaster I feared. Perhaps, like so many things in life, it’s simply a complicated blessing in disguise.