Page 16 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

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.

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