Page 9 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

Chapter 3—Grizelda

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Ideclare, standing my ground in the middle of the nursery. “That crib stays exactly where it is.”

My mother purses her lips, her hand still raised from the levitation spell she was about to cast. “Grizelda, it’s facing east. Any witch worth her salt knows a magical child’s crib should face north to align with the earth’s energy fields.”

“This is my child and my nursery. The crib stays by the window where the morning sunlight can reach it.”

We’ve been at this all morning—debating, arguing, and rearranging every item in the nursery according to my mother’s outdated magical beliefs. The baby clothes must be folded in perfect thirds to “preserve their magical integrity.” The changing table must be positioned at a precise forty-five-degree angle to the door to “deflect negative energies.” It’s exhausting and infuriating.

“Fine.” Mim sniffs. “It’s your child. If you want to risk misaligning their magical meridians from infancy, that’s your prerogative.”

I roll my eyes and turn to straighten a picture frame, trying to contain my frustration. Atlas has wisely made himself scarce, claiming an urgent meeting at the gym. Traitor.

“Perhaps we should set up a magical protection circle,” she says, already opening her grimoire to an ancient protection spell. “A simple warding to ensure only positive energies enter the nursery.”

“I’ve already warded the entire house.” I gesture to the barely visible shimmer of protective magic that outlines the windows and doors. “Atlas and I did it together. His earth magic reinforces my arcane protections.”

My mother snaps her grimoire shut. “Troll magic is crude at best. It lacks the refinement and precision of true witchcraft.”

“That’s an outdated prejudice,” I retort. “Atlas’s magic is different from ours but equally powerful in its own way. When combined with my witchcraft, it creates protections stronger than either of us could manage alone.”

Mom looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue. Instead, she runs a critical finger along the dresser, examining it for dust. “I suppose we should prepare the nesting spell,” she says. “It’s traditional to cast it in the final days before birth.”

“I know what a nesting spell is, Mother.” I struggle to keep my tone civil. “I was planning to cast it this evening when the moon rises.”

“Why wait? A proper nesting spell can be cast at any time with sufficient magical focus.”

“Because I’m tired.” I exhale slowly. “My magic has been unpredictable, and I want to be at full strength for the casting.”

My mother makes a dismissive noise. “Nesting spells are elementary magic. I was casting them for expectant mothers when I was barely out of my apprenticeship.”

“Not all of us had the benefit of your perfect magical control,” I snap, my patience finally breaking.

“Clearly not.” She eyes the nursery, where several stuffed animals have begun to float in response to my agitation.

I take a deep breath, willing the toys to settle back into their places. Most obey, though a small plush dragon continues to circle the ceiling like a mobile. “Why don’t we compromise?” I’m desperate to end this confrontation. “We’ll cast the nesting spell together this afternoon. That way, if my magic fluctuates, yours can stabilize the casting.”

---