Cold floorboards were an insult to a creature of high standing.
Drafts crept through the gaps in the timber, biting at Bumble's paws as he trod carefully across the darkened hallway.
Upward he climbed, his tail twitching in silent irritation.
Stairs were a young cat's game, and he was currently carrying far too much dignity to be subjecting his joints to such steep, uneven steps.
Sickness smelled like old damp hay and vinegar.
Inside the small bedroom, the air was heavy and still, smelling faintly of the bitter herbs Clover had boiled earlier.
Tess lay beneath three layers of heavy wool, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged spurts.
Her face looked small in the moonlight, pale and lined with the exhaustion of her recovery from the Witherlung.
"Breathe, woman," Bumble thought, leaping onto the edge of the mattress with a soft, muffled thud.
Her lungs rattled like dry peas in a gourd, a sound that grated on his sensitive ears.
This was entirely inconvenient.
If she succumbed to this dreadful illness, his primary source of free meals and quiet corners would be severely compromised.
Clover would be too distraught to properly portion his salmon paste, and Mabel would likely fill the house with weeping.
Slowly, he padded up to her chest, settling his plump, warm weight directly over her collarbones.
He closed his yellow eyes and began to hum.
Magic was not cheap, but a low, stabilizing purr was within his current budget.
Warmth bloomed in his chest, a golden thread stretching down through his paws and sinking into the sleeping woman's lungs.
Farther down the hall, in the smaller bedroom, he knew Clover's left hand was growing warm.
Their bond was a strange, tethered thing, and every time he drew upon his innate reserves, the mark on her hand would glow.
He grumbled internally, adjusting his paws as the restoration magic flowed.
Restoration was tedious work.
It required focus, a steady rhythm, and an absolute refusal to acknowledge that he was doing something kind.
He was simply protecting his investment, nothing more.
Tess stirred, her breathing catching once before smoothing out into a deep, silent sigh.
Quiet settled over the small bedroom as the rattle faded, replaced by the steady, quiet rise and fall of her chest.
Bumble kept humming for another hour, just to be thorough, before letting the magic fade.
---
Gray light began to seep through the windowpanes, signaling the end of his self-imposed shift.
Bumble uncoiled himself, stretching one leg after another with theatrical precision.
His joints popped, a small protest against the chilly morning air.
Downstairs was a far superior cushion, stuffed with duck feathers and positioned perfectly to catch the first rays of morning sun.
He crept out of the room, light as a drifting feather.
Slipping past Clover's half-open door, he did not look in.
Checking on her would imply he cared, which was a dangerous precedent to set for a creature of his caliber.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, his paws silent on the worn rug.
The shop was cold, smelling of dried lavender, peppermint, and damp earth.
He hopped onto his favorite velvet cushion behind the counter, curling himself into a tight, glossy circle.
Feigning deep, innocent slumber was an art form he had perfected over many years.
When Clover finally emerged, rubbing her eyes and smelling of sleep, she would find only a perfect circle of black fur.
She would assume he had spent the entire night doing absolutely nothing.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
---
Mornings at Hearth & Herb were usually quiet, but today was loud.
A wet, rhythmic sound echoed from the corner of the shop.
Truffle was breathing again.
Bumble opened one yellow eye, glaring across the floorboards.
The creature was a biological tragedy.
Bulging eyes, a snout that looked as though it had met a brick wall at high speed, and a tongue that did not fit in its mouth.
Worse, he was cheerful.
Posy Merriweather was already fluttering around the shelves like an anxious moth, her blonde hair sticking out in wild tufts.
She was trying to dust the jars of dried chamomile, but her hands shook, causing the glass to clink together.
Mabel, wearing her many-pocketed apron, was currently feeding the beast a dried liver treat.
Truffle wheezed, spraying a small amount of drool onto a basket of dried lavender.
Bumble let out a low hiss, his ears flattening against his skull.
"If that monstrosity ruins the stock, I am not cleaning it," he muttered.
Clover walked in, carrying a tray of tea.
Posy gasped, nearly dropping her feather duster. "Oh, Clover! Is he always this... judgmental?"
"He's just hungry," Clover said, though she looked at Bumble with a knowing, tired smile.
She set the tea tray on the counter, pouring a cup for Posy, who accepted it with trembling hands.
Posy was still terrified of the shop's new status.
Word had spread that a real, talking familiar was operating out of Hearth & Herb, and the local gossips were already circling the block.
Bumble watched a spider crawl across the high rafters.
He considered catching it, then decided it required too much physical exertion.
Instead, he focused on Clover.
She looked tired, her grey-blue eyes shadowed, but there was a new strength in her shoulders.
She was no longer just the shop girl who swept the floors.
She was a summoner.
Even if she was non-innate, she had bound him.
The thought made his tail twitch.
He still was not sure how she had managed it.
The grimoire she had used was a piece of junk, and her mana pools were practically nonexistent.
Yet, the bond was there, warm and heavy in his chest.
It was an annoying development.
He preferred his independence, but here he was, playing nursemaid to her mother and referee to a pug.
Truffle suddenly decided that Bumble was his new best friend.
The pug trotted over, his cream-colored body wrinkling with every step, his tail wagging like a frenzied worm.
He let out a series of high-pitched, accordion-like snorts.
Bumble raised a single, elegant paw, claws sheathed but threatening.
"Step any closer, cabbage-face, and I will show you why they call me a beast of power," he said.
Truffle, oblivious to the threat, tried to lick Bumble's ear.
A small spark of static magic leaped from Bumble's tail, nudging Truffle's rear.
The pug yelped, spinning in a circle before scrambling back to Posy's legs.
"Truffle! What did you do?" Posy cried, dropping her duster to scoop the dog into her arms.
Mabel chuckled, her silver messy hair shaking as she rearranged a row of blue salt jars.
"They are just getting to know each other, dear," Mabel said warmly. "Like two peas in a pot."
Bumble scoffed, burying his nose in his paws.
He was a rare, majestic familiar.
The other was a walking draft-excluder.
There was no comparison.
---
Rain began to patter against the leaded glass windows by noon.
Bumble watched the drops race down the pane from his high perch on the main counter.
The shop was quiet now, the customers having fled the sudden downpour.
Mabel was in the back room, humming a tuneless song as she prepared a batch of cough syrup.
Posy was organizing the potion vials by color, a task she had taken upon herself to calm her nerves.
Clover sat on a stool behind the counter, a thick book open in front of her.
She was not reading.
She was staring at her left hand, tracing the faint outline of the contract mark.
Bumble closed his eyes, pretending not to notice.
A sharp ring of the brass bell broke the afternoon hum.
A courier stood in the doorway, water dripping from a wide-brimmed hat.
He held a thick, heavy envelope.
He wiped his boots on the rug, looking around the shop with a harried expression.
Bumble sniffed the air.
The scent of ozone and expensive wax drifted off the paper.
This was not a local delivery.
Clover stood up, her posture stiffening.
The courier stepped forward, his leather boots squeaking on the floorboards.
"Delivery for Clover of Hearth & Herb," he grunted, shaking a few drops of rain from his sleeve.
He held out the envelope.
It was made of thick, creamy parchment, heavy enough to carry a weight of importance.
Pressed into the center of the flap was a thick dollop of purple wax.
The seal was intricate, depicting an open book beneath a rounded cauldron, framed by sprigs of thyme and sage.
Bumble's yellow eyes narrowed.
He knew that seal.
It belonged to the very institution he had spent several decades avoiding.
Clover took the envelope, her fingers brushing the courier's wet glove.
She did not speak.
Silence stretched through the warm, dry shop. The courier leaves. Clover stands at the counter with the sealed envelope in both hands. Posy leans closer and points to the purple wax. "That is St. Ashwick's. A real one." Outside, the light thins. Clover turns the envelope over. She traces the seal with her thumb. She does not open it.