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“Months.” Mirelle wrapped her hands around the mug. “I’ve been calling it a lot of other things. Adjustment, transition, normal difficulty. A phase I was managing fine.” She heard herself say fine, and it landed wrong.

“The magic,” Valene said. “Founding line. Goes back to the families who built this town. Usually wakes up when the lid comes off what’s been suppressed for too long.”

“My daughter leaving for college cracked my magic open.”

“The emptiness did.” She nodded at the creatures. “They’re your feelings, love. Sentient. Walking around.”

Mirelle took them in — the small, round ones on the sill, blinking at her, and the vibrating one thrumming with private enthusiasm. Not horror. Not embarrassment.

They’re mine. Whatever they are — they are mine.

The raccoon’s paw found the pastry case latch. “Absolutely not,” Valene said, moving. “Those are for paying customers. Away. Right now. We discussed this.”

“You discussed it for thirty seconds.”

“I laid out clear terms.”

“It took your croissant and moved.”

“Which was a violation.” Valene planted herself between the raccoon and the pastry case. “I am going to need a lawyer, a mediator, and possibly a restraining order against the pastry case.” Mirelle laughed. The real kind, arriving before she could rein it into anything more presentable. It opened a door in her chest she had not realized was closed. The raccoon retreated two inches with enormous dignity.

“It’s mocking you,” Mirelle said.

“I know. I respect it, and I resent it simultaneously.”

Garnet came through the back, took in the raccoon, the creatures, Mirelle’s expression, and sat down beside her without ceremony. “Tell me.”

“Four creatures appeared in my kitchen, and a woman I barely know called me.”

“The bowl survived?”

Mirelle stared at her. “How do you —”

“Valene texted. Good omen.”

Bexley arrived with a notebook already open and color-coded, meaning she had started documenting on the walk over. She settled in and uncapped a pen. “Did it build or arrive at once? Any smaller incidents in recent months — things you put down to stress or mood or general life chaos?”

“All at once. And maybe? Mornings where everything hit harder than it should have. I wrote it off.”

Bexley wrote. Added a line under it. Reached for a second pen. Then a third.

“How many pens is that?” Mirelle asked.

“Seven.”

“That’s a lot of pens for one morning.”

Bexley consulted her notebook. “Feelings,” she said, “are terrible for my pen budget.” The notebook offered no solutions.

Fiora hurried in with her coat half-on, stopped short at the sight of the raccoon, the creatures, and the general glow, and pressed both hands to her cheeks. “They’re beautiful!” Her body practically vibrated with excitement.

Valene pointed at the espresso machine. “They’re on my equipment.”

Fiora swept to the table and took Mirelle’s hand. “Are you all right?”

“I’m in the process of finding out.”

Fiora squeezed her hand. “Also, the one who vibrates needs a name. She has a distinct personality. I’m thinking Margot.”