Page 3 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

As I walk back to my shop, I find myself wondering what other philosophers Atlas Mountainheart might quote, and what other surprises might be hidden beneath that rocky exterior.

Chapter 1—Grizelda

IWAKE TO A SHARP KICKagainst my ribs and wince. My little one is getting stronger by the day, and more impatient too—like mother, like child, I suppose. Beside me, Atlas snores softly, the moss on his head sprouting tiny white flowers in his sleep.

Nine months of growing this magical being inside me, and I’m more than ready to meet them despite their stubborn insistence on hiding their gender. I place my hand on my enormous belly and smile despite my discomfort. At my age of one hundred and forty, most witches are done having children or never will have them. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, resulting from a backfired fertility potion intended for a client that somehow affected me instead, but it’s become the most wonderful accident of my life.

A sudden cramp seizes my lower back, and I shift uncomfortably. These Braxton Hicks contractions have been teasing me for weeks now. The baby is already a week past the due date, and my patience is wearing thin.

“You okay?” Atlas blinks open his eyes.

“Your child is practicing kickboxing on my internal organs,” I grumble, but there’s no real annoyance in my voice.

He places his large hand on my belly and immediately, the baby calms. It’s almost infuriating how he or she always settles for him. We won’t know the gender until its birth. Not because I haven’t tried to determine it, but because he or she refuses to reveal that information to me.

“Good morning, little mountain,” he whispers to my belly. “Be gentle with your mother. As Kahlil Gibran said, ‘Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair but manifestations of strength and resolution.’”

I roll my eyes. “It’s too early for philosophy.”

Atlas chuckles and kisses my forehead. “Never too early to impart wisdom to our child.”

The peaceful moment is shattered by a sharp rapping at our front door.

“Who could that be at this hour?” I frown, checking the enchanted clock beside our bed. It’s barely seven a.m.

Atlas rises. “I’ll check.”

As he leaves, I struggle to haul myself into a sitting position. Everything is more difficult these days, from getting out of bed to casting simple spells. My magic has been unpredictable throughout the pregnancy—sometimes magnified to dangerous levels, and other times, frustratingly unresponsive.

I hear voices downstairs—Atlas’s deep rumble and another voice, feminine and hauntingly familiar. I shudder. “No, it can’t be.” I waddle to the window and peer out, confirming my worst fears. A broomstick is parked neatly beside our front gate, adorned with purple ribbons and a bumper sticker that reads “My Other Ride is a Manticore.”

My mother is here.

Panic propels me into action. I throw on a robe over my nightgown and attempt to tame my wild hair with my fingers. With a desperate wave, I try to cast a quick freshening charm, but my magic misfires, causing a small rain cloud to form above my head.

“Perfect.” I duck away from the localized downpour. This is exactly how I want to greet my mother. Pregnant, disheveled, and partially drenched.

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