Page 14 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

“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.

Chapter 5—Grizelda

“I’M FINE,” I INSISTfor 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.”

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