The academy envelope is still on the counter where I left it last night. I turn my back to it and grab the broom. Steam rises from the copper kettle, carrying the heavy scent of dried peppermint and crushed valerian root. Sunlight filters through the narrow windows of Hearth & Herb, illuminating the dust motes dancing over rows of amber jars. "Clover, dear, did you pack Mrs. Calder's Feverbreak Infusion?" Mabel's voice drifts from the back room, accompanied by the metallic clatter of her multi-pocketed canvas apron. My hand freezes on the worn broom handle. Panic, cold and sudden, shoots straight down to my toes. "I am finishing it right now!" Shoving the broom against the counter, I scramble toward the preparation shelves. Mrs. Calder's fever has been flaring since Tuesday, and her cottage sits at the very top of the steepest hill in Brimbottle. Forgetting her order is practically a crime, especially when she relies on our remedies to keep her standing. "Need a hand?" Posy Merriweather pops her head out from behind a stack of parchment. Her bright blonde hair is escaping its neat braids, and her wide blue eyes are filled with eager, helpful energy. Truffle, her wrinkled pug familiar, sits at her heels, letting out a wet, rhythmic wheeze like a tiny, broken accordion. "If you could grab the blue glass vials from the bottom drawer, that would save my life," I say, quickly measuring out the dark blue liquid. Heavy thuds echo from the wooden counter behind me. Mr. Bumble stretches his chubby black body, yawning so wide his pink mouth turns into a dramatic cavern. Yellow eyes blink at me with deep, unearned exhaustion. "Must humans insist on projecting their panic into the morning air?" Bumble grumbles, shaking his glossy black fur. "Some of us are trying to digest our second breakfast in peace." "You ate an entire bowl of cream and three salmon flakes twenty minutes ago," I point out, pouring the infusion into the first vial. "And as the self-appointed Chief Customer Relations Officer, you should be helping." Bumble licks his left paw, paying extra attention to the tiny scar on his left ear. "A title you bestowed upon me to avoid paying me a proper wage. Carrying boxes is manual labor. Manual labor is beneath a cat of my immense intellectual caliber." I lean over the counter, lowering my voice so Mabel will not hear from the pantry. "Please, Bumble. My mother is still resting upstairs, and I want to complete this delivery before she wakes up so I can sit with her. If you help me, I might happen to drop a few dried whitebait fish near your bowl." Bumble's ears twitch forward instantly. "What kind of whitebait?" "Salty ones from the southern harbor," I say, dangling the bait. "Those extra-crunchy ones." Bumble pretends to contemplate the offer, his tail flicking lazily against the wood. "Three fish. One now, one when we leave, and one upon our successful return." "Two fish. One now, and one when we get back." Bumble sighs, a long, theatrical sound of pure suffering. "You grind me down, Clover. You truly do. Produce the down payment." Reaching into the ceramic jar on the high shelf, I pull out a wrinkled, dried fish. Bumble snatches it from my fingers with terrifying speed. Crunching noises fill the quiet shop as he devours the treat. "Service will commence shortly," Bumble says, licking his whiskers. "But do not expect me to carry it physically. A simple levitation spell will suffice." Posy steps forward, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. "Oh! I can do that!" she squeaks, adjusting her blue-grey apprentice robes. "Professor Ashby said my kinetic manipulation was improving. Let me try!" Truffle lets out a wet sneeze, his entire wrinkled body vibrating. "Are you sure, Posy?" I ask, wrapping the wooden box containing the glass vials in a soft, protective cloth. "It is a bit heavy, and the glass is fragile." "Absolutely sure," Posy says, puffing out her chest. "Watch." She points her small wand at the package, her blue eyes narrowing in deep concentration. Whispering a soft incantation, a faint blue light begins to shimmer around the wooden crate. Slowly, the box rises an inch off the counter, then two, then three. "Brilliant!" I breathe, watching the box hover steadily. Bumble watches with a critical squint. "Acceptable height, though the alignment is slightly off-center," he notes. Just then, a sudden flash of bright orange flutters through the open window. A monarch butterfly, glowing in the morning sun, dances right past Truffle's squashed nose. Truffle's bulging eyes widen to the size of teacups. Wheezing like a frantic accordion, the little pug leaps off the floor with surprising agility. "Truffle, no!" Posy gasps. Her concentration snaps like a dry twig. Blue light around the wooden box flickers and dies. Dropping like a stone, the crate tumbles sideways toward the hard floor. "My bottles!" I yell, lunging forward. Posy dives with a desperate screech, her hands outstretched. Sliding across the floorboards, she catches the box inches from the ground, cradling it against her stomach. Truffle lands on her back, still snapping wildly at the air as the butterfly flutters harmlessly toward the ceiling. Silence descends on the shop, broken only by Truffle's rapid, heavy breathing. "I caught it," Posy whispers, her face pressed against the floor. "I actually caught it." "And you only nearly destroyed a week's worth of Feverbreak Infusion," Bumble observes from his safe perch on the high shelf. "A stunning display of physical agility, if not magical mastery." I roll my eyes, offering Posy a hand to help her up. "You did great, Posy," I say, checking the box to make sure none of the vials had cracked. "But I think I will carry it by hand this time." "Probably wise," Posy mumbles, brushing dust from her robes while Truffle licks her chin in apology. --- Stepping out into the crisp morning air, I tuck the wooden box securely under my arm. Bumble follows at a leisurely pace, his tail held high like a question mark. "Remember our agreement," he says, trotting to keep up with my long strides. "One fish upon completion." "I have not forgotten," I reply, walking past the rows of timber-framed cottages that line the streets of Brimbottle. People wave as we pass, some whispering as they point at the talking black cat walking beside me. Ever since I summoned Bumble, my quiet life as a non-innate shop girl has become the town's favorite topic of conversation. "Look at him," a baker whispers to his wife. "That is the beast that saved Tess." Bumble holds his head even higher, if that is physically possible. "They adore me. As they should. I am a marvel of the modern age." "You are a glutton who works for dried bait," I remind him. "Details, Clover, mere details." Cobblestones clatter under my boots as we climb the winding path. Cool wind sweeps down from the mountains, carrying the scent of pine needles and damp earth. My left hand begins to warm. "Bumble," I say, narrowing my eyes. "Are you doing something?" He sniffs. "I am walking. It is called exercise, and I expect compensation for the hardship." The warmth in my palm fades, but the mark stays faintly bright. It always wakes when he strains, even a little. That is ours now, apparently. A strange, tethered thing I still do not understand. "This hill was clearly designed by someone who hated felines," Bumble continues, his fat black legs pumping as he climbs. "If I had known the delivery route involved mountain climbing, I would have charged three whitebait." "You are doing very little actual carrying," I remind him. "I am providing emotional support, Clover. Do not undervalue my contribution." Arriving at Mrs. Calder's cottage, I knock gently on the weathered oak door. Mrs. Calder opens it, her pale face wrapped in a thick wool scarf despite the mild sun. "Oh, Clover, bless you," she wheezes, taking the wooden box with trembling hands. "My chest has been so tight this morning." "Take one vial now, and another before bed," I instruct her softly. "Mabel says to keep warm and rest." Mrs. Calder smiles, her eyes crinkling. "Tell Mabel I send my thanks." She looks down at Bumble, who is sitting on her welcome mat with a highly professional posture. "And who is this handsome gentleman?" "I am Mr. Bumble," the cat announces, bowing his head. "Chief Customer Relations Officer of Hearth & Herb. Please remember to speak highly of our services to the town council." Mrs. Calder gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in pure shock. "My word! He really does talk!" Smiling, I bid her goodbye and gently nudge Bumble away before he can demand a tip. --- Walking back down the hill is much faster, with the wind pushing at our backs. Bumble trots ahead, clearly motivated by the promise of his second whitebait. My mind keeps drifting back to the heavy parchment envelope waiting on the counter. St. Ashwick's Academy does not just send letters to non-innate girls in Brimbottle. Usually, they send inquisitors or magical regulators if someone performs unauthorized magic. Fear gnaws at my stomach, cold and persistent. "Stop worrying," Bumble says, not even looking back. "Your hair is beginning to frizz from the anxiety." "I am not worried," I lie, tucking a loose lock of ash-blonde hair behind my ear. "I am merely preparing for the worst." "Worst-case scenarios are for people without handsome familiars," Bumble scoffs. "You have me. Nothing truly terrible can happen while I am on the clock." Entering the shop, the familiar chime of the brass bell greets us. Mabel is sitting at the counter, her silver hair more chaotic than usual, while Posy sweeps up some spilled lavender. Resting right in the center of the clean wood is the heavy parchment envelope. St. Ashwick's crest, an open book beneath a cauldron framed by thyme and sage, stares up at me in dark purple wax. My throat goes dry. "It is time, is it not?" Posy asks, leaning her broom against the wall. "You have been staring at that letter for hours, Clover." "Open it, dear," Mabel says softly, her eyes full of warmth. "Whatever it says, we are right here." Walking slowly to the counter, I pick up the heavy paper. My fingers tremble slightly. "If it is a bill for property damage from my summoning, I am legally a dependent and cannot be held liable," Bumble notes, hopping onto the counter. "Just open it," I mutter to myself. Sliding my thumb under the heavy purple wax, I break the seal. I pull out the thick parchment, unfolding it to reveal the elegant, flowing script of the academy. My eyes race across the lines. "To Miss Clover of Brimbottle," I read aloud, my voice shaky. "Following the unusual circumstances of your recent summoning event, the High Council of St. Ashwick's Academy has reviewed your case. While your lack of innate mana remains an anomaly, the independent magical capacity of your familiar, Mr. Bumble, presents a unique field of study. Therefore, we are pleased to offer you..." I stop, my breath catching in my throat. "What?" Posy gasps, stepping closer. "What does it say?" "A full scholarship to St. Ashwick's Academy," I whisper, staring at the ink. "With all tuition, boarding, and materials fully covered. In addition, you are assigned a formal apprenticeship at Hearth & Herb to maintain your practical studies. And..." I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. "A personal mentorship." My eyes drop to the mentor's name at the bottom of the page. I read it once. Then twice. Clover lowers the letter. The shop is quiet. Posy whispers, "A full scholarship?" Bumble flicks his tail. "You are still an extension cord." Clover reads the mentor's name again: Professor Lorren Ashby.

Chapter 6: Butterflies and Bribes