Page 15 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

“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.

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