"He is absolutely terrifying, Clover, but in a really handsome, terribly smart way where you can't tell if he's going to give you an award or expel you on the spot!"
Posy's voice rose to a breathless squeak that set Truffle off into a sudden coughing fit. Clutching a bundle of dried chamomile to her chest like a shield, the younger apprentice looked ready to faint.
Minutes after the purple wax seal on the St. Ashwick's letter had cracked open, our quiet shop had turned into a storm of wild academic gossip. My fingers still held the thick, heavy parchment, the dark ink of Professor Lorren Ashby's elegant signature practically gleaming under the oil lamps.
"Everyone at the academy says he only takes on personal apprentices when he is thoroughly bored with the universe," Posy rushed on, waving her hands so wildly she almost knocked over a jar of powdered beetle wings. "And he said, well, no, his cousin's friend said, that he once turned a prefect's boots into solid lead because they walked too loudly near his private study. I think he might actually be a prince in disguise, or maybe just very rich and very lazy, because he never wears his official robes and always has his sleeves rolled up like he's about to start a fistfight with a potion cauldron."
Mabel merely hummed from behind the counter, her silver hair escaping its pins in a messy, familiar halo.
"Lorren Ashby is a brilliant mind," Mabel murmured, wiping down a brass scale with the corner of her stained apron. "A bit of a handful, mind you. He doesn't care for rules, which makes him a terrible teacher for the average student, but perhaps exactly what you need, Clover."
Under my thumb, the silver contract mark on my left hand pulsed with a faint, sudden warmth.
"He sounds like an absolute menace," I muttered, looking down at my fat black cat.
Mr. Bumble was curled on a velvet stool, his yellow eyes narrowed as he licked his paw with slow, deliberate disdain.
"A menace with far too much free time," Bumble grumbled, his low, rumbling voice vibrating in his chest. "If he attempts to roll up his sleeves near my designated napping spots, I shall be forced to employ the claws."
---
Bright morning sun hit the cobblestones of Brimbottle the next day, chasing away the damp chill of the previous night. Walking through the crowded market square felt entirely different now that the official letter sat on our kitchen table. People nodded, their faces familiar and comforting in the crisp autumn air.
"Clover! Over here, lass!"
Ember leaned over his wooden bakery stall, his cheeks dusted with white flour and his smile as warm as his brick ovens. He pulled a dark, heavy rye loaf from a woven basket and wrapped it in clean brown paper.
"Put this in Tess's kitchen," Ember said, sliding the warm package across the wooden counter. "Tell her it's to build her strength back up after that nasty bout of Witherlung. No charge, Clover, just make sure she eats the crust."
Gratitude warmed my chest as I took the bread, tucking the warm bundle under my arm.
"Thank you, Ember," I said, offering a genuine smile. "She's sitting up more today, and her appetite is finally returning."
Fresh air was doing wonders for her, but the kindness of our neighbors was the real medicine.
Further down the lane, Old Gerra stood behind her stacked wheels of sharp, yellow cheese. Her wrinkled face puckered as she squinted up at the clear blue sky, sniffing the wind like a hound.
"Rain's coming by Tuesday," Gerra declared, tapping her wooden cane against a crate of goat's cheese. "My left knee has been whistling since dawn, and when the knee whistles, the clouds are sure to weep. Take this wedge of hard cheddar for your mother, Clover, and don't let her go out in the damp."
Bumble, trotting lazily beside my boots, sniffed the air with sudden, intense interest.
"Forget the cheese," the cat muttered, his tail snapping upright like a fuzzy black antenna. "Look at that magnificent specimen over by the fishmonger."
Across the narrow gravel alley, perched atop an empty wooden fish crate, sat a sleek, tortoiseshell cat with emerald eyes. She was grooming her white paws with an air of absolute, regal superiority.
Bumble puffed out his chest, his glossy black fur smoothing down as he adopted a ridiculous, slow-motion strut.
"Observe a master of romance at work," he whispered to me, not breaking eye contact with the tortoiseshell.
He slinked toward her crate, his voice dropping to a low, theatrical purr that sounded like a rusty engine.
"Good morning, my lady of the scales," Bumble cooed, leaping clumsily onto a lower box to elevate himself to her level. "I couldn't help but notice your coat matches the fine mahogany of my own distinguished, magical lineage. Perhaps you would care to share a stroll through the wild herb gardens with a gentleman of status?"
Staring blankly, the tortoiseshell stopped licking her paw. She stared at him for three agonizing seconds, her green eyes narrowing to thin slits of pure, unadulterated disgust.
With a sudden, sharp hiss that echoed off the stone walls, she lashed out. Her claws missed his nose by a millimeter, but the rejection was absolute. She leapt off the crate, tail puffed to twice its normal size, and vanished down a dark alleyway without a backward glance.
Bumble sat frozen on the box, his left ear twitching in shock.
"A touch too emotional for my tastes anyway," he grunted, hopping down and licking his shoulder frantically to save face. "Clearly, she lacked the intellectual capacity to appreciate a cat of my caliber."
"Exactly," I choked out, pressing a hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter as we continued down the street.
---
Steam rose from the iron pot on our small kitchen stove, smelling of wild thyme and Gerra's rich cheese. Tess slept peacefully in the next room, her breathing deep and even for the first time in weeks.
I stirred the thick broth, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pot.
"He's coming tomorrow," I said quietly, looking over at the wooden dining table.
Bumble lay stretched out on his back, his fat belly exposed to the warmth of the stove without a single care in the world.
"Who? The tailor? The tax collector?" Bumble yawned, showing a small pink tongue.
"Professor Ashby," I reminded him, setting the spoon down. "Posy said he's incredibly particular about his tea, but also that he doesn't care about rules. I don't know what to expect from a man like that."
Bumble rolled onto his side, blinking his yellow eyes at me through the firelight.
"Expect a massive headache," he muttered. "Anyone who travels all this way to look at a non-innate girl and her brilliant, handsome cat must have an excess of curiosity. Curiosity leads to questions. Questions lead to work, and work, as you well know, is highly detrimental to my health."
I reached out and scratched him behind his scarred ear, making him purr despite his grumbling.
"We have to make a good impression," I whispered. "If he leaves, the academy might take back the scholarship, and we need the coin for mother's medicine."
Bumble sighed, closing his eyes in defeat.
"I suppose I shall have to tolerate him, but if he tries to pet me against the grain, I will cast a mild itching hex on his trousers."
---
Meanwhile, dust hung thick in the air inside the heavy wooden wagon as it rocked along the bumpy country road.
Lorren Ashby adjusted his linen cuffs, his pale blue eyes fixed on the magical runes glowing faintly on the floorboards. Journeying from St. Ashwick's had been long, made tolerable only by the experimental levitation spells he had woven into the axle. Reducing the friction on the iron-shod wheels had shaved three hours off the trip, though the coachman had spent most of that time praying.
Lorren smiled faintly at the memory of the man's terrified face when the wagon had briefly glided over a small creek.
"Easy now," Lorren murmured, reaching out to tap the main stabilizer rune with the tip of his leather boot.
Blue light flickered, absorbing the sudden jolt of a deep pothole, and the wagon smoothed out once more.
Brimbottle was not on any major leyline, which made the ambient mana thin, sluggish, and thoroughly unremarkable. It was the sort of town where nothing ever happened, where magic was something read about in old almanacs.
Yet a non-innate girl had somehow bound a high-order familiar using a standard, crumbling secondhand grimoire. The preliminary field report from St. Ashwick's had been laughably brief, but the recorded anomaly was undeniable. It was messy, powerful, and completely impossible by every known law of modern arcana.
Lorren leaned back, a slow spark of genuine interest warming his chest for the first time in years.
The wagon began to slow, the heavy wooden brakes groaning against the friction-reducing spellwork as the town appeared.
Ashby stepped down from the wagon. The levitation spell released, and the wheels settled onto the cobblestones. He rolled his shoulders and scanned the crooked rooflines, the baker's sign, the distant green door of Hearth & Herb. "So this is Brimbottle," he said quietly.