Dust motes float through the amber morning light of Hearth & Herb, settling onto neat rows of chamomile jars and stoppered vials. My fingers practically vibrate as I wipe down the counter for the fourth time. Lavender oil and beeswax scent the air, a familiar comfort that does absolutely nothing to calm my racing pulse. "Clover, dear, if you scrub that wood any harder, you'll reach the basement," Mabel says, her silver hair escaping its messy bun in curly halos. She sets down a heavy ceramic teapot, her many-pocketed apron clinking with small brass tools, dried lavender stalks, and loose twine. "I'm not nervous," I mutter, shaking out my rag. Lying is difficult when my palms are slick with sweat. My left hand, specifically the faint silver contract mark on my palm, tingles with a dull warmth that has nothing to do with the back room stove. Beside the register, a glossy black lump of fur lets out a deeply offended sigh. "An academic," Mr. Bumble groans, stretching his chubby front legs until his claws click against the counter. "A man of rules, syllabi, and structural hierarchy. I can already taste the dry ink and disappointment." He rolls onto his back, exposing a round, plush belly that defies the laws of feline physics. "Why must we entertain this trespasser? We have a perfectly good routine of me napping and you ignoring your chores." "He's a professor from St. Ashwick's, Bumble," I whisper, glancing toward the stairs where Tess is resting. "He could report us to the academy board, or worse, take you away for study." Fear pricks at my chest, imagining cold stone laboratories and scholars poking at my fat, talking cat. Whispered rumors have already begun circulating through Brimbottle about the magical shop girl who summoned a beast. Posy bursts into the room from the back storage area, her bright blonde hair practically standing on end with panic. "He's coming!" she squeaks, dropping a bundle of cinnamon sticks that roll across the floorboards. "I saw a wagon down the lane! A real wagon, Clover! It doesn't have horses, it just moves on glowing blue wheels!" "Calm down, Posy," Mabel laughs, adjusting a stray pocket watch on her waist. "It's only tea. Professors are just scholars who forgot how to have fun." She smooths her many-pocketed apron. "We have survived tax collectors, royal inspectors, and the occasional grumpy wizard. A simple academy professor won't bite, Clover." My stomach does a nervous flip anyway, completely unconvinced by her calm demeanor. A soft, rhythmic clatter echoes from the street outside. Through the glass window, a sleek wagon painted in deep navy and silver pulls to a silent halt. Its wheels spin with a faint, pulsing azure light, whispering magic across the dirt road. Bumble sits up, his yellow eyes narrowing as he flicks his left ear, the one with the tiny, jagged scar. "Show-off," the cat mutters, though his tail gives a subtle, intrigued twitch. Step by step, the tension in the room thickens until it feels as dense as cold honey. A tall figure steps out of the wagon. Lorren Ashby looks less like an imposing academic and more like someone who has wandered out of a high-society parlor. His dark blond hair is swept back in effortless, windswept waves. Pale blue eyes scan the shop's modest sign before settling on the window, a spark of amusement dancing within them. He wears a tailored grey coat, but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, pale forearms. Cradled in his left arm is a creature of absolute, blinding perfection. Duchess looks like a cloud that has decided to take feline form. Her pristine white Persian fur is thick, immaculate, and soft as silk. She holds her head high, her pale blue eyes cool and entirely unimpressed by the rustic charm of Brimbottle. Bumble freezes. His jaw literally slackens, his pink tongue poking out a fraction of an inch as he stares through the glass. "My word," Bumble breathes, his voice dropping into a dramatic, velvety register. "Who is that magnificent creature of snow and starlight?" "Bumble, stop it," I hiss under my breath. "Behave." A crisp ring of the brass bell above the door cuts off any further bickering. Ashby steps inside, the scent of rain and parchment following him into our cozy shop. Quietness descends on the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the kettle in the back room. Lorren's boots click softly against the wooden floorboards as he approaches. "Good morning," he says, his voice a smooth, rich baritone that seems to vibrate right through the floorboards. "I believe I have an appointment with a very talented, highly anomalous young lady." My breath catches in my throat. He is looking directly at me, his gaze warm and heavy with a quiet curiosity. "Professor Ashby," I manage to say, stepping forward and offering a stiff, awkward bow. "I'm Clover. Thank you for coming." "Ah, no need for such formality," Ashby says, waving a hand dismissively. "We are in a shop of herbs, not a lecture hall. And please, call me Lorren." He sets Duchess gently onto the polished wooden counter. She lands without a sound, immediately tucking her paws beneath her chest in a perfect, symmetrical loaf. Bumble slowly sidles closer along the counter, his usual slouch replaced by an impossibly straight posture. He sucks in his stomach, puffs out his chest, and lets out a low, rumbling purr that sounds like a sputtering wagon engine. "Greetings, fair lady," Bumble says, his voice dripping with theatrical charm. "I am Mr. Bumble. Mage, scholar, and keeper of this humble establishment." Duchess does not blink. She merely shifts her pale blue gaze to him, holds it for a beat, and slowly closes her eyes in a deliberate, agonizingly slow blink. "She likes me," Bumble whispers loudly to me. "Our chemistry is palpable." I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. "Please ignore him," I plead, my cheeks already starting to warm. "He has no sense of decorum." Lorren chuckles, a soft sound that sends a strange shiver down my spine. "Nonsense. I find him delightful. And Duchess is rarely so polite. Usually, she simply claws anyone who dares address her." Bumble takes a step forward, extending a chubby paw toward Duchess in a desperate attempt to look refined. "I assure you, my dear, my intellect is only matched by my stunning coat. We are, quite clearly, destined for great things." Duchess merely turns her head away, staring at a jar of dried valerian root with utter indifference. Mabel steps forward, carrying a tray of steaming cups and a plate of sweet biscuits. "Welcome to Hearth & Herb, Professor," she says warmly. "We prepared some chamomile and honey tea. Sit, please." We gather around the small table near the window, though Bumble refuses to leave the counter where Duchess remains perched. Posy hovers in the background, clutching a broom like a weapon, her eyes darting between Lorren and his white cat. "So," Lorren begins, picking up a teacup with long, elegant fingers. "A non-innate girl who manages to summon a high-level talking familiar from an old secondhand grimoire." He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving my face. "You must realize how impossible that is. The academy board in the capital is practically tearing its hair out." "I didn't mean to," I say quickly, twisting my apron in my hands. "My mother was very sick, and the healers weren't coming. I just... I read the words, and he appeared." "A noble pursuit," Lorren murmurs, his expression softening. "Though, of course, the board believes you must have used some dark, forbidden ritual involving ancient blood pacts." "What?!" I gasp, my eyes widening in sheer terror. "Blood pacts? I don't even like getting paper cuts!" Lorren watches my panic for a second, then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "I'm joking. They actually think you might have just gotten incredibly lucky. But it is much more fun to see your reaction." "You... you lied?" I stammer, my face flushing a deep, angry crimson. "That is incredibly unprofessional!" "Perhaps," Lorren agrees, leaning back in his chair with an easy, relaxed posture. "But a little excitement keeps the spirit young. Don't you think?" I glare at him, but my heart is hammering against my ribs in a way that feels entirely unsafe. He is teasing me, deliberately, and he is far too good at it. "You know," Lorren continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "A familiar's personality reflects the summoner's inner desire." I stare at him, my mind scrambling to process the words. "My... inner desire?" "Indeed," Lorren says, gesturing toward the counter where Bumble is currently trying to impress Duchess by showing her his claws. "A familiar who is vocal, dramatic, utterly defiant of rules, and deeply lazy." He leans forward, his pale blue eyes locking onto mine with intense, playful focus. "It suggests that beneath your very neat, very polite exterior, Clover, you harbor a desperate urge to cause absolute chaos." "I do not!" I protest, my voice squeaking on the high note. "I am a perfectly respectable shop assistant! I like order! I like schedules!" "And yet, you summoned him," Lorren points out, his lips curling into that infuriatingly handsome smile. "Perhaps you simply wanted someone else to say all the rude things you're too polite to voice." "That is... that is scientifically unproven," I stammer, my hands flying up to cover my burning cheeks. "It is actually a standard theory in advanced familiar studies," Lorren says, though his eyes gleam with mischief. "But we can test it. If you start refusing to do your chores and demanding salmon, we'll know for sure." Mabel lets out a delighted chuckle, while Posy makes a muffled squeaking sound into her broom. "He's got you there, dear," Mabel says, patting my shoulder. "You have always been a bit too proper for your own good." My cheeks feel hot enough to melt wax, and I pointedly avoid Lorren's amused, ice-blue gaze. "I am highly professional," I repeat, my voice dropping to a stubborn whisper. "Of course you are," Lorren says, his voice dripping with gentle, mocking gravity. "That's why you summoned a cat who demands to be treated like royalty and refuses to lift a paw." "He's very supportive in spirit," I mumble, though even I know how weak that sounds. On the counter, Bumble takes a delicate step toward Duchess. "Tell me, my lady, do you prefer the mice of the capital, or do you find the rural rodents have a more rustic, full-bodied flavor?" Duchess slowly turns her head, her white tail giving a single, elegant flick. She does not answer, but Bumble looks as though he has just been handed the keys to the kingdom. "Ah. A woman of mystery. I am undone." Lorren stands up, brushing a stray speck of dust from his grey coat. "Well, as charming as this visit has been, I must return to the academy to file my initial report," he says. My heart sinks slightly, a sudden, inexplicable sense of disappointment settling in my chest. "You're leaving?" I ask, trying to sound professional and failing miserably. "For now," Lorren says, his gaze lingering on my face with a softness that makes my breath catch. "But I will be back. Next time, I intend to inspect that remarkable grimoire of yours myself." He picks up Duchess, who settles into his arms with her usual royal grace. "Until next time, Clover." With a final stride, he walks out of the shop, his presence leaving a sudden, chilly void in the room. I watch the door swing shut. The bell falls still. My cheeks burn. Across the counter, Bumble remains frozen, tail curled, eyes on the glass. "Her tail moved," he says. "That is science."

Chapter 8: The Visitor