Page 28 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

“Apparently she’s been called away to assist with an unexpected magical birth in the neighboring town. She thought it best to conduct Lyra’s assessment before leaving.”

My mother immediately switches to efficient mode. “The assessment should be conducted in neutral magical space. The living room would be best. Atlas, please move any amplifying crystals or enchanted objects that might interfere with an accurate reading.”

As they bustle out to prepare, I finish feeding Lyra, burp her, and change her into a special assessment gown my mother embroidered with protective runes. By the time we join the others, the living room has been transformed into a proper magical examination space.

Minerva Nightbloom, the magical midwife who delivered Lyra, stands in the center of the room. Her silver hair is twisted into its usual elaborate knot, and her eyes—currently a calm blue—brighten when she sees us enter.

“There’s our special girl,” she says, approaching with hands outstretched. “May I?”

I carefully transfer Lyra to her arms. The midwife immediately begins a series of gentle magical passes over Lyra’s tiny form, murmuring incantations under her breath. Small colored lights appear above different parts of Lyra’s body—silver above her head, purple near her heart, and a fascinating swirl of both colors around her hands and feet.

“Magnificent,” Minerva pronounces after several minutes of examination. “Her magical core is fully formed and unusually stable for her age. The integration of witch and troll magics is proceeding beautifully. See how the energies weave together rather than remaining separate?”

She points to the swirling patterns, and indeed, the silver and purple energies twist around each other in an intricate dance rather than remaining distinct.

“Is that unusual?” asks Atlas, watching the lights with fascination.

“Quite,” says Minerva. “In most mixed heritage magical children, the different magical signatures remain separate for the first few years, gradually integrating as the child learns to control them. Lyra appears to have natural integration already.”

“What does that mean for her magical development?” asks my mother, her expression caught between professional interest and grandmotherly concern.

“It means she’ll likely have fewer of the typical struggles mixed-heritage children face—less magical instability and fewer uncontrolled outbursts as she grows,” Minerva explains. “Though given the strength of her core, she’ll still require specialized training to harness her considerable power.”

As if to demonstrate this point, Lyra chooses that moment to sneeze, and the magical lights above her form expand explosively outward, temporarily transforming our ceiling into a miniature night sky complete with twinkling stars and a crescent moon.

“Case in point,” I murmur, gazing upward at the celestial display.

“Harmless manifestations,” Minerva assures us as the ceiling slowly returns to normal, “And actually quite controlled for her age. Most magical infants would have set something on fire or transformed furniture with that much power.”

“She turned a table into a cradle once,” Atlas says proudly. “At the bakery, before she was born.”

“That was me,” I remind him. “During pregnancy.”

“Ah, yes,” he acknowledges with a smile. “Though I maintain she was a contributing factor.”

Minerva completes her assessment with a few more magical tests, then carefully records her findings in an enchanted journal. “I’ll leave you with a developmental guide,” she says, handing my mother a small golden scroll. “It outlines what to expect over the coming months and suggests appropriate exercises to help channel her growing abilities.”

“I’m familiar with standard magical developmental protocols,” my mother begins, but Minerva cuts her off gently.

“This isn’t standard, Ms. Greenwarth. This is specifically tailored to Lyra’s unique magical signature. I’ve only seen this particular combination once before, nearly fifty years ago—another witch-troll child, who grew up to become one of our realm’s most respected magical innovators.”

This information silences even my mother, who accepts the scroll with unusual humility.

After Minerva departs, with promises to return for a follow-up assessment when Lyra reaches two months, we gather in the living room to discuss what we’ve learned.

“An exceptional magical core,” my mother summarizes, already studying the developmental guide with intense focus. “With proper training, Lyra could become extraordinarily powerful.”

“Power isn’t everything,” I say gently, remembering the pressure of growing up with my mother’s high expectations. “What matters is that she’s healthy and happy.”

“Of course,” my mother says, though I can tell the concept of magical achievement without pursuit of power is somewhat foreign to her. “There’s nothing wrong with helping her reach her full potential though.”

Atlas, who has been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “Perhaps we can find a middle path. We’ll encourage her natural gifts while allowing her the freedom to develop at her own pace.”

“A philosophical compromise,” says my mother, with only minimal sarcasm.

“Exactly.” Atlas beams, choosing to ignore her tone. “As Aristotle taught us, virtue lies in the middle way.”

My mother rolls up the scroll with a sigh that’s more theatrical than genuine. “I suppose there’s some wisdom in that approach, though I maintain that structured magical education should begin early.”

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