The day began like any other – overcast, damp, and infused with the unmistakable sensation that magic had woken up irritated and decided to take it out on me.

  I had barely finished my second cup of tea – the essential cup, the one that made me human – when the postman arrived. He looked as though he had battled his way up the path against strong winds, existential dread, and possibly a curse already in progress.

  “Morning, Mrs Rowntree,” he said, eyeing my house the way one eyes a bad alley.

  “Good morning,” I replied, instantly suspicious.

  He handed me a letter between two fingers, as though it might bite. My name was written on the envelope in tight, spidery handwriting that suggested urgency, guilt, or a catastrophic lapse in judgement.

  “I hope that’s not one of those… summons,” he said. “Because I’m not delivering another one.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a summons,” I said carefully.

  “I would,” he muttered. “The last one hissed.”

  I shut the door before he could elaborate.

  Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper.

  Dear Elspeth Rowntree,

  I seem to have misplaced my sense of self-control and accidentally cursed your neighbour’s laundry. Could you… uncurse it?

  Yours,

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick

  I stared at the note.

  I had not yet had enough tea for this.

  Slowly, I turned my head.

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick was perched on the windowsill, silhouetted against the grey morning like a gothic ornament. His posture was immaculate. His expression radiated innocence so perfectly calibrated it bordered on insulting.

  “I did no such thing,” he said pleasantly.

  “You signed the note,” I said.

  “Forgery,” he replied. “Very common.”

  “You signed it with your full title.”

  “Brand recognition matters.”

  I closed my eyes. Counted to three. Then five. Then briefly considered screaming into the kettle.

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  “My neighbours’ socks are on fire,” I said.

  “They are warm,” he corrected. “There’s a distinction.”

  “Mrs Pemberton’s husband has trousers that have shrunk only on the left side.”

  Bastion tilted his head, genuinely thoughtful. “Ah. A symmetry issue. That one’s on me.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “How do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Take something entirely mundane and turn it into a supernatural hazard.”

  He yawned. Luxuriously. “Talent.”

  “You cursed laundry.”

  “Yes,” he said calmly. “But selectively.”

  I stared at him. “You’re impossible.”

  “I prefer inevitable,” he said. “It has gravitas.”

  There was no point arguing. Words slid off him like rain off arrogance. Besides, he was always two steps ahead – sometimes literally, because he had an unsettling habit of knowing where he was going before he went there.

  With a long-suffering sigh, I grabbed my broom, my wand, and the emergency jar of silver-infused catnip. The latter was theoretically a restraint. In practice, it was more of a polite suggestion.

  Mrs Pemberton’s house was only a few doors down.

  She stood in her front garden clutching a basket of laundry that smelt faintly of brimstone and regret.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said when she saw me. “Something’s gone terribly wrong.”

  “I can fix it,” I said. “Probably.”

  She lifted a sock. It twitched.

  “My husband’s trousers,” she whispered. “They’ve shrunk. But only the left leg.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can see that.”

  “And the socks hum.”

  “Yes,” I said again. “That will happen.”

  “Is it contagious?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “And if it is, I have a cat.”

  She blinked. I did not explain.

  Lord Bastion appeared on my shoulder without warning, his claws resting lightly against my collarbone like a reminder.

  “It’s important you handle this delicately,” he murmured, as though I were the reckless one.

  “I’m aware,” I muttered.

  “You should start with the socks,” he continued. “That’s where the curse settled. They’re always underestimated.”

  “I swear to the coven,” I said under my breath, “if this is your doing–”

  “Would I confess?” he asked, offended. “Where’s the enjoyment in that?”

  I knelt by the basket and traced a sigil in the air. The laundry shuddered. A sock let out a thin, reedy sound – somewhere between a harp string and a dying mouse.

  “Oh!” said Mrs Pemberton. “Is it meant to sing?”

  “Only briefly,” I said.

  The sock twisted itself into a knot and squeaked. I sealed the ward. The sound stopped. It lay still, subdued and faintly scorched.

  Bastion hopped onto the fence post and regarded me like a disappointed critic.

  “You’re being terribly restrained,” he said. “Yes, the curse will lift, but where’s the lesson? Where’s the fear?”

  “I am fixing trousers,” I said. “Not reshaping their moral character.”

  “A shame,” he sighed.

  Piece by piece, I worked through the basket – shirts that had grown enormous, socks that refused to separate, trousers that had developed opinions. Mrs Pemberton watched with the expression of a woman reconsidering everything she thought she knew about her street.

  When it was over, she thanked me profusely and retreated as though I might relapse.

  “Are we done?” I asked.

  “For now,” said Bastion.

  I shot him a look. “For now?”

  “You may find your next letter… enlightening,” he said. “Or alarming. Possibly both.”

  Back home, the clouds thickened. I set the kettle on. Again.

  “Lord Bastion Thistlewick,” I said, “you need to stop cursing people.”

  “Temporarily paused,” he replied, licking his paw. “Until inspiration strikes.”

  “I am serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He brushed past the counter, knocking over a vial of enchanted sand. It burst into miniature fireworks before settling innocently on the floor.

  I closed my eyes. Breathed.

  “You are an arsehole,” I said.

  He purred.

  And, as usual, that was the end of the argument.