“That’s the bar now?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the flame.
“It’s a very reasonable bar given your history.”
I let out a small laugh despite myself and stepped closer to the counter, lowering my wand just a little as I circled the pastry like it might suddenly grow legs and make a run for it.
“Maybe it’s decorative,” I said, more to convince myself than anything else.
If I squinted, it was more like a lit birthday candle than a pastry fire.
Twobble made a doubtful noise. “Decorative fire is still fire.”
“It’s not spreading,” I offered.
“That’s what it wants you to think,” he hissed.
I leaned in just a bit, watching the way the flame danced, small and contained, like a candle that refused to admit it wasn’t supposed to exist.
I waved my wand and gave a little tap on top.
“Extinguish,” I said softly, tapping the edge of the counter with my wand as if a gentler approach might persuade it.
The flame dimmed for half a second, but it flared back up with quiet determination.
Twobble crossed his arms. “It heard you and chose not to listen.”
“I noticed.”
I straightened, pressing my lips together as I thought it through, because the last thing I needed was to set the entire cottage on fire over breakfast.
“Okay,” I murmured, glancing around at the scattered jars and herbs and half-used bowls. “What did I do differently to make it catch fire?”
I poured a cup of water on the pastry, and the flame dimmed… not at all.
“Maybe it’s reacting to the lavender,” I said slowly. “Or the honey. Or the way I sealed it.”
“Or,” Twobble said, pointing at it again, “since it’s connected to you, it just likes being dramatic.”
I snorted. “Everything in this town likes being dramatic.”
Twobble opened his mouth to respond, but a knock sounded at the door.
I froze, my heart giving a small, unexpected jump as I glanced toward the front room.
“That’s not subtle,” I said under my breath.
Twobble leaned to the side, trying to see past me. “Maybe if we don’t answer, they’ll go away.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “People don’t just go away in Stonewick,” I reminded him. “They merely get more curious.”
The flame on the pastry gave a tiny crackle, and I realized it wasn’t getting any bigger.
I pointed my wand at it again.
“Stay,” I said, as if I were talking to a particularly stubborn pet. “Do not grow. Do not spread. Do not—”
The flame flickered once, then settled back into its neat little dance.
The knock came again, followed by a familiar voice drifting faintly through the door.
