Searing heat blooms across my left hand, forcing a sharp, ragged gasp from my throat. Dropping to my knees, I clutch my hand against my collarbone, squeezing my eyes shut as the magic carves itself deep beneath my skin. The raised, glowing mark settles into place: a stylized cat paw wrapped in thorny vines. My breath catches, my pulse hammering. "Do try to keep the dramatic groaning to a minimum," a dry, raspy voice drawls from the floorboards. Mr. Bumble sits near the edge of my bedroom, licking his left hind leg, utterly unbothered by the fact that he has just branded me like a stray heifer. He looks like a ball of lint that has somehow acquired a highly snobbish attitude and a pair of glowing yellow eyes. "You branded me," I wheeze, staring at my hand. The mark fades from bright emerald to dull silver, though the heat stays, humming quietly beneath the skin. "A contract is a contract, girl," he says, pausing his grooming to look at me with large, unimpressed eyes. "You wanted a miracle. I require sustenance. Now, where is that dried trout you promised? My throat is as dry as a desert wind, and I do not perform high-tier restoration magic on an empty stomach." Scrambling to my feet, I stumble toward the small cupboard in the corner of our kitchen. My fingers shake as I unscrew the jar of winter rations and pull out a stiff, salt-cured trout. I present it to him like an offering to an angry deity. Bumble snatches the fish and begins to chew with loud, wet smacking noises. The entire fish disappears into his plump face within seconds. "Slightly too salty, and lacking proper preservation charms," he mutters, licking a stray scale from his whiskers. "But it will suffice for the first course. Now, let us address the sleeping lady." He trots toward my mother's room. Tess lies dangerously pale, her forehead slick with cold sweat. Every breath sounds like dry leaves scraping stone. Grumbling about the lack of velvet cushions in this establishment, Bumble leaps onto the mattress. The bed creaks under his considerable weight. He walks up to her chest, sniffing at her chin before raising one heavy black paw. "Watch closely, apprentice," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a deep, resonant baritone. "This is real magic. None of that flashy glitter your local hedge-wizards peddle." A soft emerald glow radiates from his paw, carrying a scent of crushed pine needles and fresh rain. He presses the paw gently against her forehead, and the light flows into her skin like warm water. My left hand throbs in time with his casting. The pain sharpens, then settles into a low, steady ache. My body stays ordinary, heavy and tired, but the mark on my palm feels warm, as if it sits close to something vast and distant. "Stop squirming," Bumble huffs, his eyes closed in concentration. "You are anchored to the working. Keep yourself steady." Nodding, I force myself to breathe. Under his paw, the grey pallor of my mother's face begins to recede. A faint, healthy pink returns to her cheeks. Her shallow, ragged breathing slows into a deep, restful rhythm. Bumble pulls his paw back and collapses onto his side, yawning so wide I can see his sharp pink tongue curling. "There. The disease is halted, and her lungs are clear. She will sleep for a day or two to recover her strength. Now, do not disturb me for the next twelve hours." --- Morning light filters through the grimy kitchen window. I sit beside my mother's bed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. She looks peaceful, her fever gone, though she remains deep in a healing slumber. Beside her feet, a large black furry lump snores with the force of a small steam engine. I need to get to Hearth & Herb. We are out of the basic restorative tonics she will need when she wakes, and Mabel will wonder why I have not opened the shop. "Wake up," I whisper, nudging the heavy black mass. Bumble opens one yellow eye and glares at me. "Unless the house is on fire or a giant trout has learned to walk, you have made a grave mistake." "I have to go to work," I say, grabbing my canvas satchel. "And I cannot leave you here alone. You are coming with me, but you have to hide. People in Brimbottle do not see talking cats every day. They will think you are a demon." "A demon?" He sits up, deeply offended. "I am a high-ranking familiar of the astral planes. I will not be shoved into a common grocery bag like a turnip." "Please," I plead, holding the bag open. "I will get you more fish. The good stuff from the market." He glares at the bag, then at me. With a heavy, dramatic sigh, he slumps forward and pours his plump body into the satchel. "Fine," he grumbles, his voice muffled by the canvas. "But if I find a single speck of lint on my fur, I am turning your bedsheets into kindling." "Just act like a normal cat," I warn, pulling the strap over my shoulder. "No talking. No casting. Just stay quiet if anyone looks at you." "Meow?" He snorts from inside the bag. "How terribly vulgar." --- Cold morning air bites my cheeks as I step onto the cobblestones of Brimbottle. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the smell of fresh bread drifts from the bakery. My shoulder aches. Bumble is heavy, shifting constantly against my hip. "Your town smells of wet dog and despair," a muffled voice whispers from the satchel. "Shh!" I hiss, quickening my pace and pulling my cloak tighter. "Someone will hear you." "Let them. Perhaps someone here has a better appreciation for the culinary arts. Look at that man over there. His coat is made of boiled wool. How do you people survive in this dreary place?" "We work," I whisper through clenched teeth. "Which is what I am trying to do." We pass the blacksmith's shop, where a sleek grey tabby sits on a wooden fence post, licking her paw with lazy grace. Bumble freezes. He stretches his neck out of the bag, yellow eyes wide. "Well now," he purrs, his voice dropping to a smooth, velvety rumble. "Who is that magnificent specimen of feline perfection? Hello, darling. If I were not currently imprisoned in a peasant's purse, I would gladly show you what a real magical companion looks like." The grey tabby stops grooming, stares at him, and lets out a sharp, offended hiss before leaping off the fence and vanishing into the alley. "Ah, playing hard to get," Bumble sighs, settling back into the bag. "I respect a lady with standards. Though her posture was slightly lacking." My face burns with embarrassment. I practically sprint the rest of the way to the shop, praying the townspeople did not notice the talking satchel. --- Hearth & Herb is small and cluttered, packed with dried herbs and shelves of colorful potions. The scent of lavender and peppermint washes over me as I push the door open, the brass bell chiming overhead. Mabel is already sweeping the floor, her wild silver hair pulled back with a bright purple ribbon, her many-pocketed apron covered in mysterious green stains. "Clover!" she chirps. "You are late. I was beginning to think you had been eaten by a mountain troll. Or worse, hired by the apothecary across town." "I'm sorry, Mabel," I say, setting my satchel on the wooden counter. "My mother was very sick last night. I had to take care of her." Mabel's expression softens. "Oh, the poor dear. Is she alright? Do you need some of the silver-leaf tonic? I can brew a batch." Suddenly, the satchel begins to thrash. "Release me from this canvas prison at once!" a muffled voice demands. "The lack of ventilation is severely damaging my coat!" Mabel freezes, her broom hovering above the floor. Her eyes go wide. Before I can grab the bag, the flap bursts open. Bumble emerges, shaking his ears and brushing imaginary dust off his sleek black shoulders. He climbs onto the counter and sits with an air of absolute authority. "Finally," he huffs, glaring at me. "I believe I have suffered permanent spinal misalignment. You will be hearing from my union." I brace for screaming, accusations of dark magic, pitchforks. Instead, Mabel lets out a high-pitched squeal that rattles the potion bottles. She drops her broom and lunges toward the counter. "Oh my stars!" she gasps, her face inches from Bumble's nose. "He talks! Clover, you brought home a talking cat! Look at those chubby cheeks! Look at those tiny little paws!" "Chubby?" Bumble bristles, drawing himself up. "I am robust, woman. I carry the weight of immense magical knowledge." "He has attitude!" Mabel claps her hands together. "He is sassy! He is perfect! He is hired!" I blink. "Wait. What?" "He will be our new store mascot," Mabel declares, reaching into a jar of dried salmon flakes behind the counter. "Think of the business. People will travel from all over the valley to see a sassy talking black cat. I will pay him in premium tuna and the finest imported catnip." Bumble eyes the salmon flakes. He snatches one from her fingers and chews thoughtfully. "Imported, you say? From the southern coast? And I require a velvet cushion right next to the warmest shelf." "Done!" Mabel beams. "You start today." "Please, Mabel, he is a familiar," I protest, rubbing my temples. "He is bound to me. I summoned him." Mabel stops and looks at me with a mixture of shock and profound respect. "You? But Clover, you have no mana in your veins. How did you manage to summon a creature of this caliber?" "I do not know," I admit, looking down at my marked palm. "But he saved my mother. That is all that matters." "Well, whatever you did, it is a miracle," Mabel says, wrapping a bundle of soothing silver-leaf and nourishing roots in a clean cloth. She hands them to me, refusing my coin. "Take these to your mother. Go home and take care of her. I will keep your new partner here to help me reorganize the potion ingredients. He seems to have excellent taste." "Excellent is an understatement," Bumble says, already lounging on a velvet display cloth. "Now, woman, fetch me more of those salmon flakes, and we shall discuss my thoughts on your window display." --- Hurrying back through the cold streets, I clutch the bundle of herbs against my chest. The mark on my left hand still aches, a faint warmth beneath the skin. My body feels heavy with exhaustion, but my steps are lighter than they have been in days. Inside the apartment above the shop, the fire has died down to a soft orange glow. I set the herbs on the table and walk to my mother's bed. She lies perfectly still, her face relaxed and peaceful. Her hand is warm, the icy chill from before replaced by a steady, healthy vitality. I pull the blankets up to her chin and sit on the floor beside her. Across the room, the black lump of fur I now share my life with snores from the foot of the bed. Tomorrow, the shop will open again. Tomorrow, people will see the talking cat Mabel has hired. Tomorrow, my mother may open her eyes and speak. For now, the room is quiet. I lean against the bed frame and let my eyes fall closed.

Chapter 3: The New Mascot