Mostly Harmless Magic, Chapter 4

Rue settled in with her morning tea, the sun spilling through the kitchen window. It was peaceful and bright, the start of another promising day. She reached for her journal, the urge to capture her thoughts as insistent as ever.

But, before she could begin, a thunderous knock at the cottage door interrupted her. Rue jumped, nearly upsetting the table in her surprise. Who could it be at this early hour?

Curiosity led her as she walked to the door before slowly pushing it open, revealing a towering orcish woman standing before her. The woman’s armor was a patchwork of metal plates, each piece a different size and color, cobbled together and rattling with every slight shift of her body. Her presence was commanding, her broad shoulders and muscular frame enhanced by the uneven armor that seemed to tell tales of many battles.

“Hello, young apprentice!” the woman boomed, her voice carrying the strength of a seasoned adventurer.

Rue opened her mouth to respond, but the words tangled with the surprise.

“Prathak’s the name!” the woman declared with a hearty laugh. “Prathak of Shattertusk Clan.”

Rue managed a tentative smile, her confusion gradually giving way to intrigue. “Hello, um, Miss Prathak. I’m Rue. Can I help you with something?”

“Ah, so polite!” Prathak said, a note of admiration in her voice. “Come to see the crone. And to deliver this beauty.” She held out a glass jar, its contents obscured by a swirl of cloudy liquid. The jar seemed to vibrate, a high-pitched yodel escaping from its depths. The sound was eerie, almost comical in its persistence.

Rue stared at the jar, her curiosity piqued and her confusion deepening. “Okay. But… What is it?”

“A bit of trouble, I’d wager,” Prathak replied, winking conspiratorially. “But I’m sure Ethelwyn can tell us all about it.”

“Ethelwyn?” Rue wondered aloud. It was far too early for all this confusion and she still hadn’t even had her tea.

“Sure. That’s what she went by when we were young and beautiful. Well, she was beautiful anyway. I have just young.”

As if on cue, Granny Thorn appeared behind Rue, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Prathak and the strange jar. Rue noted the way her expression softened, a warmth surfacing that belied her stern demeanor.

“Prathak Shattertusk,” Granny Thorn said, a hint of amusement hid beneath her disapproval. “What have you brought me this time?”

“Caught this little songbird in a forgotten dungeon,” Prathak answered talking with her hands as much as her voice, her armor clanking with each animated gesture. “Was taking some wet behind the ears adventurers through and heard ir howling. Thought you might like to have a go at it.”

Granny Thorn sighed, a touch of amusement in the sound. “Another cursed object, then?”

“Not just any cursed object!” Prathak declared, the force of her excitement nearly knocking over a shelf of dried herbs. “A genuine Prathak find!”

The yodeling jar continued its relentless serenade, the sound a strange counterpoint to Prathak’s laughter. Rue couldn’t help but lean in closer, her fascination with the bizarre scene growing by the second.

Granny Thorn reached for the jar, inspecting it with a practiced eye. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Pickles!” Prathak said triumphantly. “Yodeling pickles, if I’m not mistaken.”

Rue watched, her eyes wide and her mind racing. This was a new kind of magic, one she hadn’t yet encountered in the chaos of the cellar. The jar’s unsettling song filled the cottage, its strangeness both captivating and absurd.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Prathak,” Granny Thorn said, shaking her head with a hint of a smile.

Prathak puffed out her chest, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Oh, you know me,” she said, feigning modesty. “I live to serve.”

Granny Thorn set the jar down carefully, its eerie melody resonating through the room. “I suppose you want tea, then,” she said, her voice carrying the fond exasperation of long acquaintance.

“Wouldn’t say no to a cup,” Prathak replied, settling into a chair with the grace of someone half her size. The armor clanked in protest, but she ignored it with practiced ease.

Rue stood by, unsure whether to laugh or simply marvel at the morning’s unexpected turn.

Granny Thorn caught Rue’s eye. “Well, girl, aren’t you going to offer our guest a drink?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Rue stammered, pouring out some tea into a new cup for Prathak, who watched her with interest, her keen eyes missing nothing. “Quite the little helper you’ve got here, Ethelwyn.”

“Quite,” Granny Thorn agreed, her tone both teasing and proud.

Rue blushed, feeling the warmth of their approval like sunshine on her skin. The odd little family they formed was unexpected but welcome, and Rue relished the sense of belonging that had been so elusive.

With Prathak settled and more tea brewing, Granny Thorn turned her attention back to the jar. “Did you see anything else in this dungeon of yours?”

“Now that you mention it,” Prathak began, launching into a tale that was as elaborate as it was improbable. “There was a hoard of treasure. And a dragon, I swear it!”

Rue listened with rapt attention as Prathak described her latest adventure. The orcish woman’s gestures were broad and sweeping, nearly knocking over the yodeling jar as she recounted her exploits. Rue felt her eyes growing wider with each outlandish claim.

“The dragon had wings like a hurricane and breath like a summer breeze!” Prathak exclaimed, illustrating the size of the creature with outstretched arms. “Not a Bramblehook summer, mind you. Like the summers I had as a youth on the Blistering Steppe.”

Granny Thorn rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“And there I was,” Prathak continued, her voice booming with excitement, “armed with nothing but a tin cup and my wits, a group of green adventurers cowering behind me in nothing but their underclothes!”

Rue couldn’t help but laugh from Prathak’s infectious enthusiasm. She had never met anyone quite like this adventurous woman, and the stories filled her with a sense of wonder and possibility.

The yodeling jar sat between them, its sound a persistent and ridiculous accompaniment to Prathak’s epic narrative. Rue marveled at how much her world had expanded since coming to Bramblehook. The strangeness and charm of it all was a balm to her soul, each new twist a delightful surprise.

Granny Thorn shook her head, the amusement in her eyes unmistakable. “And yet you only brought back a pickle jar.”

“I let the newbies keep the dragon’s hoard of course. Figured the real treasure was probably this cursed thing!” Prathak replied, her laughter echoing through the cottage. “Seemed like a fair trade.”

Granny Thorn merely nodded and sipped her tea.

Prathak continued her tales and even after an hour passed they showed no sign of waning. Rue found herself wishing they could go on forever. The kitchen was warm and filled with laughter, a perfect contrast to the loneliness she’d once known.

“And then there was the time—” Prathak started again, but this time Granny Thorn interrupted with a knowing glance at Rue.

“Why don’t you take care of that jar, girl?” she suggested, her voice light but insistent.

Rue nodded, eager to contribute but reluctant to leave the lively scene. “Where should I put it?”

“Far from the warded cabinet,” Granny Thorn instructed, emphasis on “far”.

“Wayward thing like that,” Prathak added with a chuckle, “might decide to cause a ruckus if it’s too close to other jars, too.”

Rue carefully picked up the yodeling jar, its eerie song vibrating through her fingers. She handled it with the utmost caution, her curiosity mingling with a touch of apprehension. We’re they afraid that it might do something more than sing? What else might it do?

The echoes of Prathak’s laughter as she went back to catching up with Granny Thorn followed Rue as she made her way to the root cellar, cradling the jar like the fragile treasure that Prathak insisted it was.

Rue descended the cellar steps, the familiar shadows closing in around her. The space felt different now after her attempts to sort it, less intimidating but just as enigmatic. She maneuvered through the maze of jars and herbs, seeking the right place for this latest curiosity.

The yodeling was relentless, filling the cellar with its peculiar music. Rue shook her head in wonder, her thoughts spinning with all she had yet to learn about this strange and captivating world.

She remembered Granny Thorn’s instructions, her emphasis on keeping it far away from the Grimsap. Rue picked the farthest shelf she could find, one that seemed isolated from the rest. She set the jar down gingerly, half expecting it to leap away like some of the other magic she’d encountered.

To her relief, it stayed put, though the jars on nearby shelves seemed to vibrate slightly in response to its song. Rue watched it for a moment, ensuring it would remain in place.

The yodeling seemed to intensify, the nearby jars began to rattle and vibrate in response. It was as if the shelves around her had come to life, the rhythmic clinking an alarming echo of the jar’s eerie song. Rue watched, wide-eyed, as the chaos unfolded around her

“Oh no,” she murmured, reaching for the jar once more.

She rushed it to another shelf, farther into the labyrinth of the cellar, but the result was the same. The surrounding jars reacted with an unsettling fervor, their contents rattling like tiny, trapped storms.

Rue set her jaw, determination mingling with exasperation. She was determined to follow Granny Thorn’s instructions, but the root cellar seemed to have a mind of its own.

After several attempts, each more frantic than the last, Rue finally found a spot that seemed relatively stable. She placed the jar down with great caution, holding her breath as the shelves around it trembled faintly. The yodeling continued, a relentless and mocking serenade.

“Just stay put,” Rue muttered, as if the jar could hear her plea. “We’ve already got another jar that likes to move around when we’re not looking.”

With a nod and a last, wary glance at the pickle jar, she made her way back upstairs.

The laughter and warmth of the kitchen awaited her, a welcome contrast to the challenges of the cellar. Prathak and Granny Thorn were still at the table, their conversation lively and engaging. Rue rejoined them, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of the morning’s adventure.

“Everything all right? You were gone for three stories,” Prathak observed, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

Rue smiled, her earlier frustration melting away. “It took a little longer than I expected.”

“Cursed pickles will do that,” Prathak replied sagely.

“Tea’s ready,” Granny Thorn announced, setting a steaming pot on the table.

Rue refilled Prathak’s cup, the orcish woman’s broad grin reflecting her satisfaction.

Rue inhaled, letting the fragrant steam swirl up around her nose. She could already pick out the subtle, earthy overtone of wild chicory root, the sharper notes of lemon balm, and the sweet trace of honeybloom—an herb Rue herself had helped harvest just last week. The blend was distinctive, a sort of signature for Granny Thorn, and Rue brimmed with a quiet pride at being able to recognize the flavors as they bloomed in the cozy air of the cottage.

Only a month ago, these scents would have been a mystery. Rue remembered her first cup of tea at this very table, how she’d tried and failed to name the tangle of flavors, how Granny Thorn had simply smirked and told her, “Patience, girl. You won’t learn everything in one week.” Now, she felt a new belonging, as if she were not just a guest here, but a proper part of this odd household. She could almost imagine herself, years from now, blending teas for a new apprentice, offering advice in the same dry tone as Granny Thorn.

Rue set the steaming pot down with care and caught Prathak eyeing her with a wide, appreciative grin. The orc reached out with surprisingly gentle hands, took the cup, and slurped the tea with the gusto of someone who’d spent too many months on stale hardtack and dungeon water.

Prathak took a sip, her armor clanking softly as she leaned back in her chair. “Now, where was I?” she mused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin. “Now, where was I?” she mused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin.

Rue waited eagerly, her eyes bright with anticipation. Prathak’s stories were a world unto themselves, each one more extravagant than the last.

“Ah, yes!” Prathak exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “The village of Clothenspindle. Nearly defeated by a handkerchief.”

Rue’s laughter bubbled up, a burst of delight that filled the room.

“More than a hundred yards of enchanted silk,” Prathak continued, her gestures as dramatic as her tale. “Started as a single square. Next morning, it was a tent!”

Granny Thorn shook her head, an unmistakable affection in her gaze. “You always did have a way with textiles, Prathak.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Prathak said with a wink. “Found a use for it too. Ended up clothing a whole orphanage!”

Rue giggled and sipped her tea.

“And then there was the intelligent sword,” Prathak went on, her enthusiasm never waning. “Sang like a bard but knew only tavern tunes. Most of them a bit… colorful.”

Rue tried to imagine the scene, her laughter spilling over once more. “Did it have a curse too?”

“Just a stubborn sense of humor,” Prathak replied, grinning. “Whenever I missed an attack it would insult me.”

Granny Thorn poured herself a cup of tea, her eyes dancing with mirth. “And did you ever break that curse?”

“Who would want to?” Prathak said, chuckling at the memory.

Rue marveled at the tales, each one a tapestry of magic and mischief. She felt herself growing more comfortable, more at home, her place in this world no longer a question but a joyful certainty.

“What about you, girl?” Prathak asked, fixing Rue with a curious look. “Ever find yourself in a sticky situation?”

Rue hesitated, then smiled as a memory surfaced. “Well, there was the time I turned our matron’s hair blue,” she confessed, her voice shy but playful.

Prathak’s eyes widened, and Granny Thorn raised an impressed eyebrow. “Did you, now?”

“By accident,” Rue hurried to explain, her cheeks flushing. “It was only supposed to be her hat. But when it rained…” She giggled at the memory, “the color stuck for a week!”

The orc woman’s guffaws lasted for several minutes, filling the kitchen with warmth and camaraderie. “I’ll bet you’ve got more than a few stories like that,” Prathak said, when she finally caught her breath, nudging Rue with an elbow.

Rue grinned. “Maybe one or two.”

Mid-laugh, Rue noticed something dark and viscous creeping up the kitchen wall and her breath caught in her throat. It was black, with the same inky texture she had seen before.

Not wanting to alarm their guest, Rue tried to catch Granny Thorn’s attention, but her eyes were fixed on Prathak. She even tried kicking her under the table, but her legs were too short to reach.

“Granny,” Rue whispered, pointing with a trembling hand.

Prathak caught the whisper and her jovial expression hardened, the laughter dying on her lips as she followed Rue’s gaze.

Granny Thorn turned, her eyes narrowing with recognition. She moved quickly, crossing the room in swift, decisive steps.

The substance was unmistakable, its pulsing darkness sending a shiver down Rue’s spine. She remembered the Grimsap, the way it had seemed to whisper in her mind.

Prathak rose from her chair, her movements suddenly tense and focused. The clank of her armor was no longer a lighthearted rhythm but a drumbeat of urgency.

“What’s it doing here?” Prathak asked, her voice low and serious. “I thought we got rid of it…” The woman gave Granny Thorn a look that spoke volumes.

“It came back,” Granny Thorn said simply.

Rue watched the two women, her heart a mix of fear and curiosity. She had never seen Granny Thorn like this, her usual calm replaced by something close to alarm.

“It won’t stay here,” Granny Thorn added, her tone firm and resolved. “We’ll make sure of that.”

The certainty in Granny Thorn’s voice gave Rue hope, though her mind raced with questions and doubts. What was the Grimsap, really? Why did it keep coming back?

The black sap crept steadily down the wall, its presence a dark stain on the morning’s bright beginning. Rue’s thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and concern, the earlier laughter a distant memory.

Prathak’s expression softened, a glint of determination in her eyes. “Come on, young apprentice,” she said, gripping Rue’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Rue nodded, her resolve growing with each heartbeat. Whatever the Grimsap was, she would face it with Granny Thorn and Prathak by her side. The adventure had taken a new and unexpected turn, but Rue felt ready for it all.

They followed the trail of black sap down into the root cellar, Prathak’s grabbing a frying pan on the way through the kitchen, holding it above her head like a weapon. Rue clutched the railing, her heart racing as they descended into the shadows.

The cellar looked different—changed in a way that sent a chill through Rue’s bones. The shelves had somehow shifted position, now arranged in an unsettling spiral pattern. Rue was certain it hadn’t been like this before.

“This isn’t right,” Rue whispered, her voice echoing strangely in the vast, altered space.

Prathak didn’t reply, but her eyes were sharp and focused, scanning the scene with the wariness of a seasoned adventurer. They followed the spiral inward, the path a dizzying swirl of colors and labels.

The yodeling jar sat at the center, vibrating violently. And next to it sat the leaking Grimsap, viscous black liquid pooled beneath it, dripping onto the floor and flowing along the cracks between the bricks and up the walls. Rue stared, her mind whirling with questions and fear.

Prathak moved with quick, decisive steps, drawing close to the jar as if ready to confront a dangerous foe. Her armor clanked with each movement, the noise a stark contrast to the tension of the moment.

“What do we do?” Rue asked, her voice small and urgent.

Granny Thorn’s voice echoed from the top of the steps, clear and commanding as a cracked bell. “We seal it back up and deal with the… remnants,” she called, her tone brooking no argument. Rue turned and saw the old woman descending with surprising speed, her skirts billowing like storm clouds around her ankles, her gray hair trailing behind her like spectral smoke.

Prathak stiffened to attention, as if old instincts had snapped her spine straight. “You got a plan for the cleanup, then?” she called up, her usual bravado stretched taut by the tension in the room.

“I always have a plan,” Granny Thorn replied, her sharp eyes trained on the jar and its sinister companion. She gave Rue a quick, assessing glance, as if checking for cracks, then turned her gaze to the spiral of shelves and jars. “But this will take all three of us. Rue, you remember the containment wards from last week?”

Rue nodded, the memory of carefully painted lines and whispered words surfacing in her mind. “Yes, ma’am. I think so.”

“Good. You’ll lead.” Granny Thorn gestured for Rue to step forward, her steady hand a silent reassurance. “Prathak, the page.”

The orcish woman grinned, the old spark of mischief returning to her eyes. “Knew you’d ask.” She dug in her belt pouch, pulling out a sheaf of rumpled papers. Rue watched with growing curiosity as Prathak rifled through them, tossing aside a recipe for midnight stew, a map of the southern marshes, and a letter sealed with a muddy thumbprint. At last, she found the right page: a sheet so stained and creased, it looked as if it had survived a dozen adventures.

It seemed to be lyrics to a song in the old tongue. Rue felt a strange thrill; a sense that she stood at the edge of something vast and secret.

Prathak passed the page to Rue with a wink. “Best you do the honors, apprentice.”

Rue nodded, a mix of hope and trepidation in her heart. The page was fragile, the ink faded and ancient, but Prathak handled it with care and confidence. A confidence she hoped she could also muster.

She swallowed, feeling equal parts terrified and proud, holding the paper delicately. With Granny Thorn and Prathak flanking her, she stepped into the spiral, the jars shivering as she passed. Every footstep seemed to make the yodeling jar increase in volume, sending a ripple through the collected concoctions.

She reached the center, the twin jars pulsing with unnatural life. The yodeling had grown faint and thin, like an echo in a deep cave, while the Grimsap’s blackness seemed to swallow the feeble candlelight. Rue laid the page flat, smoothing it carefully.

They began the incantation together, their voices rising in unison. Granny Thorn’s high voice and the smooth baritone of Prathak’s seemed to gently lead Rue’s into the right key.

The jar’s yodel grew more frantic, the sound a wild crescendo that filled the cellar. Rue’s pulse quickened, the urgency of the chant echoing in her every heartbeat.

The jar of Grimsap vibrated wildly, the darkness inside sloshing against the glass. Rue felt the air thrum with energy, a palpable tension that built and built until it seemed ready to explode.

And then, with a sound like breaking ice, the yodeling pickle jar cracked.

Rue’s gasp was drowned out by the sudden chaos that erupted around them. Pickles flew out, squeaking and darting through the air with a life and speed that left her breathless.

One slammed into her face, the impact cold and startling. A vinegary slime trail marked its path.

“Keep chanting, girl!” Granny Thorn shouted.

The jar continued to yodel, its fractured surface spilling more grey-green forms into the cellar. The pickles careened around them, leaving trails of brine and mischief in their wake.

Rue ducked as another pickle whizzed by, narrowly missing her head. More jars toppled in the pandemonium, the crash and clatter a discordant symphony of chaos.

Prathak reacted with the instincts of a true adventurer, holding up the cast-iron frying pan she had taken from a hook on the wall in the kitchen. She swung it with precision and force, deflecting the pickles as they flew through the air towards them.

“Duck!” Prathak shouted between verses, shielding Rue with the makeshift barrier as pickles bounced off the metal with metallic pings.

Rue obeyed, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and exhilaration. The scene was pure madness, the pickles’ squeaks mingling with the sound of shattering jars, clanking armor, and their chant.

The cellar descended into utter chaos, a whirlwind of animated pickles and flying debris. Rue’s hair was slick with brine, her clothes marked with slimy trails where the pickles had made contact.

They ducked and dodged as Prathak moved with practiced skill, her movements swift and sure as she blocked the worst of the onslaught. The frying pan was a blur of motion, each swing sending pickles ricocheting in wild directions.

A particularly large pickle zeroed in on their position, its trajectory fast and unerring. Prathak stepped in front of Rue, the frying pan a protective shield as the pickle slammed against it with a dull thud.

Prathak fought back with determination, her expression fierce and focused. She caught Rue’s eye, a spark of shared adventure passing between them in the midst of the chaos.

More jars toppled, their contents spilling and mingling in unpredictable ways. The air was filled with a jumble of scents and sounds, a cacophony that left Rue dizzy and amazed.

“Just like old times!” Prathak shouted over the noise, her laughter a bright note in the tumult.

Rue found herself grinning, the sheer madness of the situation both terrifying and thrilling.

The pickle ghosts knocked over more jars, releasing various magical substances that reacted with one another in alarming ways. Rue ducked as a large, swirling mass of potion fizzed and burst overhead, scattering liquid rainbows that painted the air with color and chaos. The scent of wildflowers filled the cellar, mingling with the acrid tang of vinegar.

More pickles whizzed by, crashing into everything with reckless abandon, the impacts sending jars spinning like tops across the floor. Each collision released another wave of unpredictable magic, the contents mixing and mingling in an ever-growing storm of enchanted mishaps.

A cloud of glittering dust burst from a fallen jar, enveloping Rue in a shimmering haze. The world seemed to spin as the dust settled over her, the tiny, glittering particles sticking to her skin and hair.

Rue blinked, the magical chant forgotten as the room began taking on an eerie, translucent quality as if she were seeing it through frosted glass. She held a hand in front of her face. She could see through her fingers as if they weren’t there. She was turning transparent!

Rue turned to Prathak, half expecting the orcish woman to have vanished too, but the orcish woman was still entirely visible and holding her ground with the tenacity of a seasoned warrior. Prathak swung the frying pan with precision and force, deflecting pickles as they came at them in an unrelenting barrage. Each impact rang out with a metallic clang, the sound adding to the wild symphony of the chaos around them.

Another jar, this one holding spores, exploded next to them. The cloud of spores landed on Prathak with an explosion of enchantment, the sight both comical and alarming. Then, her armor began sprouting tiny mushrooms, each one a vivid splash of color against the metal.

“Seems we’re in quite a pickle!” Prathak shouted, her voice carrying a note of amusement even in the face of chaos.

Rue couldn’t help but laugh, the sound wild and unexpected in the frenzy. Her transparent skin shimmered in the shifting light, her eyes wide with the thrill of it all.

The storm of magic and mayhem showed no signs of abating. The pickles continued their erratic flight, squeaking and darting with relentless energy. More jars toppled and shattered, the cellar floor a mosaic of spilled potions and abandoned lids.

And then, above the clatter and confusion, Rue heard a sound that cut through the chaos with startling clarity. It was Granny Thorn’s voice, calm and commanding, finishing the incantation they had abandoned in the chaos.

Granny’s voice was clear and unwavering, each word a thread in the tapestry of the spell.

Rue and Prathak exchanged a look, a spark of shared hope and surprise passing between them. They joined their voices to Granny’s, the chant gaining strength and rhythm as it filled the cellar with its ancient power.

Finally, the pickles wavered in their flight, the momentum of their escape slowing as the chant wove its magic around them. Rue watched with bated breath, the thrill of the adventure building to a breathtaking crescendo.

The cellar seemed to hold its breath, the energy in the air building to an almost unbearable intensity. The jars stilled, the flying pickles frozen mid-air, their forms suspended like a strange and wondrous mobile.

And then, as they completed the song, the pickles fell to the floor in a strange rhythm of squishy thumps before dissolving into a fine, green mist. The cellar was suddenly still, the silence as shocking as the chaos had been.

The mist smelled strongly of dill, a pungent reminder of the havoc that had just been unleashed. Rue blinked, the sudden calm as disorienting as the earlier storm.

Prathak lowered the frying pan, her breath coming in quick bursts. Tiny mushrooms still adorned her armor, a colorful testament to the unexpected magic they had faced.

Granny Thorn surveyed the scene with a slow, deliberate turn, her sharp eyes missing nothing: the rainbow puddles pooling at her feet; the glittering dust settling into a soft, silver patina on the floor; the shards of glass strewn at every angle; the lingering dill mist twining about the rafters. She lifted a brined eyebrow at the fungal outgrowth on Prathak’s shoulder plates and then at the fading shimmer still clinging to Rue.

She inhaled, held the breath to the count of three, then exhaled. With care, she righted a toppled jar of something unidentifiable and catalogued the extent of the damage.

Rue stood at nervous attention, already bracing for either a scolding or, if the winds of fortune favored her, a rare word of praise.

For a long moment, silence ruled the root cellar, broken only by the distant drip of pickle brine and the fainter, almost respectful, fizz of enchanted potions resolving their differences in the spilled puddles. Rue didn’t dare move. She could still see her own hand—no, she could see through her own hand, the outline of her fingers barely limned in a silvery afterglow, like a shadow that had been wiped nearly clean. When she tried to say something, all that came out was a very small, breathy, “Um?”

Prathak jumped to the rescue again, plucking a blue-stemmed toadstool from her own shoulder plate with a look of curiosity. “Never had a fungus bloom that fast outside the Underrealm,” she marveled, tucking the mushroom behind one ear like a prize flower.

Granny Thorn’s gaze finally settled on Rue—how her old eyes found her translucent form in all the chaos was a myatery. She righted a fallen jar with a precise, almost surgical flick, then set her hands on her hips and fixed both Rue and Prathak with a glare that, had it been bottled, would have carried a warning label.

“Well, at least it wasn’t the honeybeet preserve,” she said at last. “Those come back with a vengeance.”

Rue felt a strangled giggle rise in her chest. She clamped her nearly invisible hands over her mouth.

“I think,” Granny Thorn said, voice dry, “we’ll call that a day for the root cellar.” She gave Prathak a sidelong glance. “And you. Out, before any more mushrooms decide you’re their new mother.”

Prathak bowed, the motion a rattling affair, but the gleam in her eyes said she’d enjoyed every minute of the chaos. She offered her arm to Rue with an exaggerated flourish. “Escort you to the upper air, young miss?”

Rue blinked, the sensation weirdly pointless by the way she could see through, making the whole world fracture for a moment like a broken window. “Um. I… think so?”

Granny Thorn shooed them both toward the stairs with quick, precise motions, then set about cleaning with a vigor that suggested this wasn’t the first time her apprentice had brought the end times to her basement. As Rue and Prathak climbed, the green mist slowly thinned behind them, leaving a tangy aftersmell of dill and something almost medicinal.

The first thing Rue saw, upon breaching the surface, was the kitchen sunlight splashing across the table, bright and ordinary. She turned to thank Prathak for the help and noticed that her hair had sprouted a crown of baby mushrooms, the colors shifting from lime green to a startled coral pink.

“You look,” Rue said, hunting for the word, “ecological.”

Prathak grinned and snapped a mushroom off her left bracer with her teeth. “If it tastes as good as it looks, this will be a brunch for the ages… We are still having brunch right?”

Rue marveled at the matter-of-fact way Prathak chewed the enchanted fungi, then eyed her own condition in the polished surface of the kettle. She could barely see her own outline, just the shimmer of freckles and the faint, distant shine of her eyes.

“Will I—” she started, but Prathak was already shaking her head.

“First rule of old magic,” said the orc, voice gentle for its size. “It wears off. Second rule: it always leaves a story behind.”

Rue wasn’t sure whether that was reassuring or mortifying. She took a seat at the table, hands folded neatly together, and tried to act as if she didn’t feel like she was in imminent danger of drifting away on the next breeze.

Granny Thorn emerged a few minutes later, a faint dusting of silvery glitter on her sleeves and a world-weary set to her brow. She surveyed Rue and Prathak, then nodded once, satisfied.

“Rue. You’re excused for now. Go upstairs, clean yourself up as best you can, and for goodness’ sake, keep away from open windows until the transparency wears off. We don’t need the villagers thinking there’s a ghost in the attic. They make up enough stories as it is.”

Rue nodded, grateful for the reprieve and the implicit forgiveness. She shot Prathak a quick smile before scurrying up the narrow staircase toward her attic room.

As she reached the landing, she paused. The light up here was softer and it filtered through her in stripes and motes, painting the attic floor in strange and beautiful patterns. Rue spun slowly, arms outstretched, and watched herself refract the world—half-there, half-wondrous, wholly changed.

Below, she could hear Prathak’s rumbling laughter and Granny Thorn’s dry, affectionate scolding as they sat back down in the kitchen.

“Admit it Ethelwyn, you’ve never had as much fun as you do with me,” she heard Prathak’s say.

“Be that as it may, we are a thing of the past. You need to move on. The time I have left runs short and you…” Granny Thorn’s voice cracked, as if she was holding back tears. “You have hundreds of years left ahead of you. Find someone young and full of life like you.”

After that, the two of them were silent and Rue sneaked the rest of the way up to the attic. So, Prathak and Granny Thorn used to be lovers… But it sounded like Granny Thorn broke it off because of the difference in life expectancy between orcs and humans…

Rue let her thoughts swirl as she sat at the crates shed arranged into a makeshift desk and reached for her journal.

The words came easily and she smiled as she wrote.

Tomorrow, the transparency would fade, but the memory of this day—like all things in Bramblehook—would linger far longer.

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