Chapter 2 THE CAT
That was the moment she knew Ilara was right. For two years, no matter how bad the day, the door had always creaked hello. Today, it just sighed open.
On her tiny kitchen table was a pink envelope she’d been avoiding for three days. FINAL NOTICE. She knew what it said without opening it.
She had put a mug on it to hide it, but the cottage wind had blown the mug off.
If you cannot secure a registered Familiar and pass your Bonding Inspection in 30 days, Cottage 7B will be repossessed by the Familiar Agency for reallocation.
The words were stamped so hard the ink bled through the back.
A familiar. Of course. All the other witches had one. A cat that fetched herbs. An owl that filed taxes. Even Liana had a smug little rabbit that kneaded bread.
Virelle had never been able to afford one. The Agency charged three months’ rent for a goldfish.
And now her home was going to be given to someone more suitable. Some witch whose hearth actually said welcome home instead of meh.
She sank onto the floor. Her coat was still too big. Her hearthstone was still cold in her lap.
Her telephone — a cracked second-hand thing she’d traded two protection charms for — buzzed. An ad. Of course.
FAMILIAR AGENCY - END OF SEASON SALE!
All familiars 70% OFF! Bonds guaranteed!
Discount Bin: Slightly Damaged, Cursed, or Otherwise Unwanted. As-Is. No Returns.
The ad had glittery animation she couldn’t afford to load properly. The words flickered.
Virelle stared at it. Slightly damaged. Like her.
She clicked it before she could think.
There was a list. Blurry photos. A toad with one eye. A ferret that only screamed. And at the bottom, last one:
ITEM #9: CAT. LARGE. SILVER. MALE. 7 YEARS. GRUMPY. REQUIRES EXPERIENCED WITCH. WILL NOT CUDDLE.
His photo was terrible. Half his face was in shadow, but his blue eyes glowed. He looked like he was already judging the photographer.
Price: 12 copper pennies. That was exactly how much she had left in her jar.
It was all her grocery money.
She didn’t pray. Her magic didn’t do prayers.
She just whispered, “Please like me,” and pressed ORDER.
The screen flashed: ORDER CONFIRMED. DELIVERY TONIGHT. DO NOT FEED AFTER MIDNIGHT.
The little jar of pennies on
her counter was now empty.
Outside her leaky window, thunder rumbled. Her cotta
ge shivered.
The wind slammed her hanging shutter against the wall, once, twice.
Virelle woke up on the floor.
Her cheek was stuck to the wood, her back ached, and her cold hearthstone was still in her lap like a judgmental pet rock.
For one blissful second, she forgot.
Then the cottage reminded her.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The leak above the sink had gotten worse. It wasn't just dripping anymore — it was making a pointed effort. A small, cold drop landed directly on her forehead.
“Okay, okay, I’m up,” she mumbled.
The cottage had been with her grandmother first, then left empty for ten years, then assigned to Virelle because no one else wanted a house that leaned. It had never been warm, not really, but it had been tolerant. It let her stay. It creaked hello. It kept the wind out, mostly.
This morning, it felt different. Colder.
She pushed herself up and put the kettle on. The old iron stove was the heart of any witch’s home — if it lit, you were home. If it didn’t, you weren’t.
She touched it. “Morning. Please?”
Nothing. The iron stayed dead and grey. Yesterday, it had at least been lukewarm.
Panic fluttered in her ribs. She rummaged for the pink envelope and tore it open for real this time.
FROM THE FAMILIAR AGENCY & COTTAGE ALLOCATION BOARD
Virelle Bramble, Cottage 7B, Bramble Hollow.
Due to your third consecutive Failure of Certification, your cottage bond is now classified as INACTIVE.
You have THIRTY DAYS to register a Tier-2 or higher Familiar and pass a Bonding Inspection.
Failure to do so will result in automatic repossession and cottage reassignment.
Your cottage spirit will begin to fade in 3 days. After 7 days, it will reject you.
We wish you the best in your non-magical endeavors.
- H.W. Ilara
Fade. Reject.
Witches didn’t own cottages. That was the rule no one told you when you were little and dreaming about a house with a plum tree. Cottages chose you. If they stopped choosing you, they pushed you out. Doors wouldn’t open. Windows would nail themselves shut. The hearth would go so cold no spell could ever warm it again.
In three days.
Virelle looked around her tiny kitchen. At the chipped yellow mug on the counter. At the stack of library books about hearth-magic she’d borrowed six times. At the blanket fort she’d made in the corner when she was lonely, which was embarrassingly often.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered to the walls. “We’re okay, right? We’re figuring it out.”
The cottage answered by having the leaning bookshelf finally give up and dump all her herb jars onto the floor. Rosemary and lavender everywhere. The smell of failure again.
She spent the whole day trying to make it love her again.
She swept. She mopped the leak. She polished the hearthstone until her arms hurt and placed it back into the stove with both hands, like an offering.
“Look. Home.”
The stone stayed cold.
At noon, Mrs. Albie from next door knocked with a basket of scones. Mrs. Albie had a cottage that adored her — it grew flowers in her gutters.
“I heard the hall was drafty yesterday,” she said, which was Bramble Hollow gossip for I heard you failed spectacularly.
“Mrs. Albie, does your cottage ever… get mad at you?” Virelle asked, desperate.
Mrs. Albie laughed. “Oh, honey, when my Harold died, my cottage cried for a week. Rained inside. But it never stopped letting me in. That’s the difference between a house and a home, love. A home grieves with you.”
Virelle looked at her own floorboards. They weren’t grieving. They were just… distant. Like a roommate who had already packed.
By sunset, the cottage was noticeably colder. She could see her breath in the kitchen. She put on three sweaters and Mrs. Albie’s big coat.
Her phone buzzed.
AGENCY UPDATE: YOUR DISCOUNT FAMILIAR IS OUT FOR DELIVERY. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR DOOR AJAR. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BOND OUTSIDE.
She stared at the door. She’d left it ajar all day and nothing had come but wind.
At exactly 9:13 PM, when she was trying to light a normal, non-magical candle because the cottage lights wouldn’t turn on anymore, there was a knock.
Not a polite knock. A single, heavy thunk, like something large and irritated had been thrown at her door.
Virelle opened it.
On her doormat, in a battered wicker basket that said FRAGILE in letters that had been angrily crossed out and replaced with WHATEVER, was a cat.
No. Not a cat.. The cat from the listing, but the photo had been very generous.
