Page 13 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

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.

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