Page 2 of Impawssible Magic

The spectral cat opens one glowing eye, regards me with an expression of supreme feline judgment, and goes back to napping. Some things transcend death, apparently.

“You must be the new charm witch.”

The voice comes from behind me, which is impossible, because I’m standing with my back to a wall. I spin around anyway.

The woman who definitely wasn’t there a second ago smiles at me. She’s ageless in that unsettling way—could be sixty, could be six hundred. Silver hair swept up in an elaborate arrangement that looks like it should require architectural support. Eyes that are definitely too bright, too knowing. She’s dressed like a Victorian governess who raided a fairy’s closet, all high collars and impossible lace and fabric that shimmers between colors.

And she smells like brown sugar and ripe peaches.

“I’m Grandmother Peach.” The name makes perfect sense even though it shouldn’t. “Welcome to Mistvale, dear. We’ve been expecting you.”

I blink. “You have?”

“The Registry has a sense for these things.” She gestures vaguely at the chaos around us. “When a witch is meant to be here, we know.”

“I’m just here to complete my registration.” I try to project professional competence and probably fail. “Leire Firesinger. I opened a shop. Whisperwind Charms. I need to be on file with the local magical authority, and your Registry was listed as the primary⁠—”

“Yes, yes, paperwork.” She waves a hand like bureaucracy is a minor inconvenience barely worth acknowledging. “The clerk will handle all that. But first...”

She reaches into her sleeve—a sleeve that definitely shouldn’t be able to contain anything based on its dimensions—and pulls out a small charm. A piece of polished moonstone wrapped in delicate copper wire, simple but beautifully made.

“Protection.” She presses it into my palm before I can object. “You’ll need it.”

The stone is warm. Too warm, like it’s been sitting in sunlight, even though her sleeve was in shadow.

“I—thank you, but I really can’t accept⁠—”

“Nonsense.” Her smile widens. “Consider it a housewarming gift. From one magical practitioner to another.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already moving away, disappearing through a door that I’m almost certain wasn’t there a moment ago.

“She does that.” The clerk reappears with a stack of forms. “Don’t try to understand it. Just fill these out.”

I spend the next forty-five minutes answering questions about my magical specialty, my previous coven affiliations (I write “none” with more force than strictly necessary), and my familiar status.

That last question makes my pen hover over the paper for a long, long moment.

Current familiar: None.

Previous familiar: Dissolved.

Reason for dissolution: I don’t write

I write: Circumstances.

The clerk doesn’t ask for clarification. Maybe they see the look on my face. Maybe they’re just used to witches showing up in Mistvale, looking for somewhere to start over.

The spectral cat stretches on the desk, its translucent body rippling like heat haze. It yawns, showing teeth that shimmer between solid and not, and settles back down with a sigh that sounds far too human.

“That’s Quill.” The clerk notices my stare. “Been here longer than anyone can remember. Don’t try to pet him—your hand will go right through and it’s incredibly unsettling for everyone involved.”

Good to know. I finish the last few questions. Magical specialties. Emergency contacts. Whether I have any outstanding warrants with other covens.

The last one makes me pause, but I check no with a clear conscience. They didn’t file charges. They didn’t have to. Exile and disgrace were punishment enough.

“All done.” The clerk shuffles my paperwork into a folder. “You’re officially registered. The welcome packet has information about the coven structure, the Protection Network, and local magical resources. Sunny at Moonpetal Bakery does loyalty spells that actually work, if you’re looking for return customers. And don’t drink the purple beer at Duskfire Brewery unless you want very interesting dreams.”

“Good to know.”