The Butterfly Ward shimmered around us, all honeyed light and drifting petals, pretending to be a peaceful, reasonable place. Butterflies, both the winged kind and the made-of-light kind, looped calmly overhead, as if this was just another day at the magical spa and not a day that might end with my face intimately acquainted with the ground.
In the center of the Ward, Nova had drawn a circle with powdered chalk and hedge clippings, and inside that circle lay three brooms.
One looked like it had been passed down through thirteen generations of stern aunts. One had polished ash wood and bristles trimmed as neatly as a haircut you regret. The third looked like it might be part broom, part shrub, part… feral enthusiasm.
Twobble pointed at the feral one. “That’s yours.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “That broom has opinions.”
“It has character,” Stella corrected, perched on a stone bench like a glamorous bird of prey. “And if Maeve is going to fly,she ought to do it on something with personality. We can’t have you wobbling through the air on a beige stick. It would ruin your brand.”
Skonk was holding a clipboard. I wasn’t sure who had given him a clipboard, but I suspected it had been a mistake.
“According to my notes,” he said, squinting at scrawl only he could interpret, “this broom has been pre-charmed for stability, lift, and minimal screaming.”
“Minimal screaming by whom?” I asked.
“Bystanders,” Twobble said.
“Oh good,” I muttered. “As long asyouare comfortable.”
Keegan leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating mixture of concern and quiet amusement. The Silver Wolf stood beside him, human still, eyes following every movement in the Ward like she could see ten seconds into the future and didn’t like all of them but had faith in the odds.
Nova stepped up, staff grounded, hair loose around her shoulders.
“Remember,” she said, perfectly calm, “we’re not asking you to soar. Just hover.”
“I hover emotionally all the time,” I said. “Can’t that count?”
“This time we’d like your body to join the experience,” Nova said dryly. “Think of it as… vertical hedging.”
“Terrible visual,” I said.
Twobble bounced, earmuffs askew.
“Okay, class! Lesson One: Up-ish. Maeve, please mount the broom in a non-litigious way.”
“You are not qualified to teach this,” Keegan murmured.
“False,” Twobble said. “I’ve personally witnessed at least nine broom-related mishaps. I’m basically an expert in what not to do.”
Skonk raised a finger. “And I’ve written a safety protocol.”
“Of course you have,” I sighed.
I picked up the broom.
It buzzed.
“See?” I said, clutching it. “Opinions.”
The bristles rustled as if deeply offended by my tone.
“Just swing a leg over,” Stella said. “It’s a broom, not a unicorn. Start simple.”
“Don’t bring unicorns into this,” I muttered, but I swung a leg over. The broom wobbled, then settled between my knees like a very tense, very judgmental equine.
The Ward magic hummed under my boots in curious, sympathetic beats like it was waiting to see if this would be a new game or a funeral.
