Sweat drips into my eyes as I trace the final chalk line on the dusty wooden floor of my bedroom. My fingers shake so violently I nearly smudge the boundary. That would probably end with me as a pile of ash. I chant the final lines from the grimoire, my voice cracking. The words feel heavy on my tongue, tasting of copper and old paper. Three candles gutter around the circle, their wax weeping in thick streams onto the floorboards. Behind the thin curtain that separates our rooms, my mother's breath rattles like dry leaves. Gravity doubles. It presses down on my shoulders until my knees hit the floor. My chest hollows out, as if a giant fist is squeezing the air from my lungs and pulling my very life into the chalk lines. Crimson light flares from the center of the drawing. The scent of ozone and burnt dust fills the room, sharp and choking. Every ounce of strength drains from my limbs, pouring into the glowing runes on the floor. Smoke billows up, thick and grey, swirling toward the ceiling. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for a towering demon or a multi-eyed beast. Cold air rushes through the room and blows out two of the three candles. I wait for an otherworldly roar. Instead, a heavy, wet cough echoes through the silence. Something solid drops onto the floor in front of me with a soft, meaty thud. The remaining candle gutters, then steadies. A portly, incredibly round shape sits in the center of my chalk circle, surrounded by fading wisps of grey smoke. Black fur, thick and glossy as polished coal, covers a body that resembles a very large, overstuffed cushion. Two round yellow eyes blink at me through the dim light, narrowed in sheer annoyance. The cat scans my small, cluttered bedroom, lingering on the stack of books near my bed and the faded academy poster on the wall. Then he drops his head back and lets out a long, heavy sigh. "Of all the damp, drafty corners in the mortal realm, I get summoned to a herb-scented cupboard above a shop," he grumbles. My jaw drops. The voice is surprisingly deep and rich, dripping with the exhaustion of a middle-aged clerk who has worked a double shift. Fat black paws extend in a slow, dramatic stretch, claws clicking against the floorboards. "Do you mind closing that window?" the cat asks, flicking his left ear. "The draft is terrible for my joints. Frankly, your summoning technique is atrocious." Shock holds me in place. "You're a cat," I whisper. Slowly, the cat turns his head and stares at me as if I have just suggested the earth is flat. "And you are a human with terrible posture and a distinct lack of preparation," he retorts, licking a spot of soot off his shoulder. "Where is the offering? The roasted pheasant? The cream? Please tell me you did not drag me from my nap just to stare at me like a fish out of water." I kneel on the cold floor, trying to process the reality of a talking, chubby housecat standing in my bedroom. "I needed a powerful entity," I stammer. "My mother is dying. The healers will not be here for days. I used the grimoire." He stops grooming his shoulder and fixes me with a look of profound, weary disbelief. "You used a high-level binding ritual to summon a healing entity, and you got me," the cat deadpans. "You truly have no idea what you have done." Panic spikes in my chest. "Can you help her or not?" I demand. "I do not care if you are a cat or a dragon. Please. I will give you whatever you want." He sniffs the air, his nose twitching toward my small kitchen shelf. "My name is Mr. Bumble," he says, sitting down and wrapping his thick tail neatly around his paws. "And I do not work for free. I smell dried fish. Is that trout?" "Yes!" I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping over the hem of my apron. "I have two dried trout in the pantry. They are yours. Just save her." Mr. Bumble sighs again, a sound of pure martyrdom. "Two trout is an insultingly low wage for a magical intervention," he mutters. But he stands up and walks toward the edge of the chalk circle. "Still, the smell of this room is giving me a headache. I suppose I should do something to earn my keep before I take a proper nap." I hold my breath as the fat cat steps out of the circle and lands with a soft thud. He walks with a slow, deliberate waddle toward the curtain, his yellow eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. I follow him into my mother's room. He stops beside her cot and sniffs her pale, sweat-slicked forehead. "Advanced Witherlung," Mr. Bumble mutters. "Her lungs are drying like old paper. Simple enough to halt, though it will cost me a bit of precious energy. Stand back, girl. Try not to sneeze." I step back, heart pounding. Breathing in deeply, the black cat exhales a soft yellow-green mist that settles over my mother's face. The harsh rattling in her chest softens immediately. Her breathing turns deep and even. Relief floods my veins so sharply it makes my head spin. Before I can fully process the sight of the talking cat standing over my mother, a searing pain erupts in my left hand. I look down as a complex, glowing symbol burns itself into my skin.

Chapter 2: A Familiar's Grumbling Arrival