Page 13 of Impawssible Magic

“The ceiling fan?”

“The ceiling fan, both windows, and somehow the toilet. Don’t ask me how wind affects plumbing. Physics and I are not on speaking terms.” She tosses the cracked sphere into a box with cheerful resignation. “But I figure if I can master not having feelings for eight hours a day, I can master anything.”

“That sounds psychologically healthy.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not. But neither is accidentally making it hail indoors, so we’re working with what we’ve got.” She stands, brushing off her knees, and fixes me with a look that’s sharper than her bubbly demeanor suggests. “Speaking of which—you okay? You look like someone rearranged your entire world while you weren’t looking.”

“Rough morning. Someone broke into my shop and redecorated without asking. Very rude. Zero stars.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Are you okay? Was anything taken?”

“Just my peace of mind, which, let’s be honest, was already on thin ice.” I hand her the singing bowl. “Nothing stolen. Just... moved. Rearranged. Left a creepy symbol on the floor like some kind of interior design serial killer.”

“That’s...” She pauses, visibly processing. “Really unsettling, actually. Do you need help? I can do a cleansing, or—well, I can try to do a cleansing. Results may vary. There might be a light breeze involved.”

“I’ll take you up on that. After drinks.” I hear myself say it before I can second-guess.

“Tonight? There’s this place called Duskfire Brewery. The beer has magical effects—allegedly the purple one gives you interesting dreams, the green one does something no one will explain to me, and there’s apparently a golden one that makes you briefly fluent in dead languages.”

“That sounds either amazing or like a terrible decision.”

“Why choose? Seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock.”

We finish gathering her scattered supplies, load them back into boxes that are only slightly crushed, and she heads off toward her studio with a wave and a trail of packing peanuts in her wake.

I watch her go, feeling lighter than I have all morning.

“Oh!” Sakura spins around, walking backward. “If anyone asks, that purple stain is a fashion statement. Very avant-garde. You’re welcome!”

She nearly trips over a cobblestone, catches herself with a dramatic arm flourish, and disappears around the corner.

I flip the sign to Open at nine o’clock, right on schedule, and pretend my hands aren’t still shaking.

The bell above my door chimes at half past two.

I look up from the protection charm I’ve been working on—stronger than my usual fare, with extra layers of warning magic woven in—and find myself face-to-face with a woman I’ve never seen.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Warm brown skin, dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist. Her smile is friendly, open, the kind of expression that invites trust. She’s dressed simply but well, and she carries herself with the easy confidence of someone who belongs wherever she happens to be.

Everything about her screams safe. Welcoming. A potential friend.

“You must be Leire.” She moves through the shop like she’s already familiar with it, trailing her fingers along display cases, pausing to admire the crystal arrangements. “I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Have you? I’ve been here three weeks and I’m averaging about a hundred fifty a day. The wonderful things must be traveling faster than my actual sales figures.”

She laughs, warm and delighted, like I’ve said something genuinely funny instead of mildly self-deprecating.

“The witch network is surprisingly efficient.” She picks up a piece of black tourmaline, turns it over in her hands. “Word travels fast when someone with real talent arrives in town. I’m Iskra Sable.” She sets down the tourmaline and offers her hand. Her grip is firm, professional. “I’m on the town’s welcoming committee. We try to make sure new residents feel at home in Mistvale.”

“A welcoming committee. How delightfully small-town.” I keep my tone light, pleasant. “Do you bring casseroles, or is that too on the nose?”

“We considered it, but the logistics were a nightmare. Too many dietary restrictions in a town full of magical beings.” She continues her circuit of the shop, examining everything with what seems like genuine interest. “Your work is beautiful. Did you train formally, or are you self-taught?”

“Both, in a way. Formal training to learn the rules, self-teaching to figure out which ones to break.”

“Fascinating.” She stops in front of my workbench, studying the half-finished protection charm. “This is advanced work. The layering here—very sophisticated. You don’t see craftsmanship like this often.”