The Witches’ Code, Chapter 2: Earache and Insight

By Thinky Wanderer and Llama

The pocket mirror tucked against Tiffany’s hip warmed slightly as she knocked on Mrs. Pemberton’s door, which was either Dude offering encouragement or her own nervous energy affecting the enchantment. Hard to tell the difference these days.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” Mrs. Pemberton opened the door before the second knock, her graying hair escaping its bun in wispy tendrils that spoke of a sleepless night.

“Tommy’s been crying since dawn, and nothing I do helps.”

The cottage smelled like chamomile tea and that particular staleness that comes from too many hours spent tending a sick child. Tommy Pemberton, age seven and usually a terror on the village green, sat curled in his mother’s rocking chair with tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. His left hand pressed against his ear, and he rocked slightly — the universal posture of earache misery.

“Right then, Tommy.” Tiffany set her herb bag on the kitchen table and pulled up a chair beside him. “Let’s have a look at what’s troubling you.”

The examination felt routine. Tommy’s ear showed the telltale redness of infection, his forehead burned with fever, and he whimpered when she gently pressed around the affected area. Classic presentation. She’d treated dozens of similar cases. Her hands moved through the familiar motions while her mind catalogued symptoms and remedies.

Willow bark for the fever and pain. Chamomile for inflammation. A touch of healing magic to encourage the body’s natural recovery. Simple, straightforward, effective.

“Mrs. Pemberton, would you put the kettle on, please? I’ll need hot water for the willow bark tea.” Tiffany opened her herb bag and selected the appropriate pouches, the dried bark crackling softly between her fingers. “And Tommy, I know your ear hurts something dreadful, but this will help. Promise.”

The boy nodded miserably, still rocking.

While Mrs. Pemberton bustled about the kitchen, Tiffany prepared the remedies with practiced efficiency. Willow bark measured precisely, chamomile flowers counted out one by one. Everything had to be exact for the magic to take proper hold. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in memory: Healing magic amplifies what you give it, child. If your measurements are sloppy, your results will be too.

The mirror in her pocket warmed again, more distinctly this time. Dude was paying attention.

“Now then.” Tiffany accepted the steaming mug from Mrs. Pemberton and stirred the willow bark tea clockwise—always clockwise for healing. “Tommy, this tastes bitter, but it’ll help with the pain. Can you manage a few sips?”

She cradled the mug between her palms and let her magic flow into the mixture. The familiar tingle ran down her arms, through her hands, into the liquid. Golden light shimmered briefly across the surface—barely visible, but Mrs. Pemberton smiled with relief at seeing it. Proper magical healing, the kind their mothers and grandmothers had relied on for generations.

Tommy didn’t manage even three sips before making a face that suggested she’d offered him pond water. Fair enough. Willow bark tea tasted like punishment, even with honey.

“Good lad. Now for the external treatment.” Tiffany soaked a clean cloth in chamomile-infused water and wrung it out. Again, the magic flowed through her hands, warming the compress and charging it with healing energy. “This goes against your ear. It’ll feel nice and warm.”

She pressed the compress gently against Tommy’s affected ear, letting her magic seep into the inflamed tissue. The boy’s breathing slowed, his rocking stilled, and the tight lines around his eyes eased. Within minutes, he’d stopped crying entirely.

“There we are.” Tiffany sat back, satisfied. “The pain should fade over the next hour or so. Keep giving him the willow bark tea — one cup every four hours until the fever breaks. The compress can be reapplied as needed.”

Mrs. Pemberton pressed a few coins into her hand despite Tiffany’s protests. “You’re a blessing, dear. Just like your grandmother was.”

Tommy had actually fallen asleep in the rocking chair, one small hand still cupped protectively over his ear but his face peaceful for the first time that morning. Textbook healing. Tiffany gathered her supplies with quiet satisfaction and slipped out of the cottage.

The morning air felt crisp after the stuffy sickroom, and she walked slowly back toward her own cottage, mentally reviewing the successful treatment. Everything had gone exactly as it should. The magic had felt clean and strong, the remedies had been properly prepared, and Tommy’s response had been immediate and obvious. So why did the mirror in her pocket feel… unsettled?

She made it halfway home before Mrs. Pemberton’s voice carried behind her.

“Miss Clearwater! Miss Clearwater, please!”

Tiffany turned to see the woman hurrying toward her, still wearing her kitchen apron.

“He’s in pain again.” Mrs. Pemberton arrived breathless. “Worse than before. I don’t understand—the magic worked, I saw it work, but then he woke up screaming.”

Impossible. Healing magic didn’t just… wear off. Not like that. Not after such a clean application.

They hurried back to the cottage, where Tommy thrashed in the rocking chair with tears streaming down his face. His fever had returned with a vengeance, and he clutched his ear as if something inside was clawing to get out.

Tiffany knelt beside him again, her mind racing. “When did the pain come back?”

“Few minutes after you left. Maybe less.” Mrs. Pemberton wrung her hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The magic just… stopped working.”

The mirror against Tiffany’s hip had gone uncomfortably warm. She reached into her pocket under the pretense of checking her supplies and felt the smooth surface with one finger. Three quick taps—their signal for *are you getting this?*

The mirror pulsed once in response. *Yes.*

“Right. Let’s try again.” Tiffany kept her voice steady despite the unease crawling up her spine. Magic didn’t behave this way. Ever. “Tommy, I know you’re hurting. We’ll sort this out.”

She repeated the entire process — fresh willow bark tea, new chamomile compress, careful application of healing magic. If anything, her power felt stronger this time, more focused. The golden light that shimmered over the remedies seemed brighter, and Tommy’s response was even more dramatic. Within minutes, he’d stopped crying and was asking his mother for biscuits.

“There.” Tiffany forced a smile. “Sometimes these things need a second try. Stubborn infections, you know.”

But even as she said it, she could feel something wrong in the air around them. The magic felt… slippery. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands. She stayed for an hour, sharing tea with Mrs. Pemberton and watching Tommy play with his wooden horse on the kitchen floor. Everything seemed perfectly normal. The boy showed no signs of pain, the fever appeared to be breaking, and his energy had returned to typical seven-year-old levels.

Then, with no warning at all, he crumpled. One moment he was galloping the wooden horse across imaginary fields, making soft neighing sounds under his breath. The next, he was curled on the floor, sobbing and clutching his ear with desperate little fingers.

Mrs. Pemberton rushed to him, but Tiffany sat frozen in her chair, staring at the scene with a cold knot of fear forming in her stomach. The healing magic hadn’t failed. It had worked perfectly — twice. But something else was actively undoing her work, something that felt wrong in ways she couldn’t name.

She excused herself as quickly as politeness allowed, promising to return with stronger remedies and leaving Mrs. Pemberton with instructions to keep Tommy comfortable. The walk home felt like fleeing.

Once safely inside her own cottage, she pulled out the mirror with shaking hands.

“Tell me you saw that.”

**I saw it. Energy readings around the child were highly irregular both times the pain returned.**

“Irregular how?”

**The magical energy you introduced dispersed normally at first, then appeared to be actively disrupted by an external force. Something is interfering with your healing magic, Tiffany.**

She sank into her grandmother’s chair, staring at her own reflection in the mirror’s surface. “That’s impossible. What could interfere with healing magic?”

**I don’t know. But I can tell you this—whatever disrupted your magic wasn’t natural. The energy patterns were too organized, too purposeful to be random interference.**

Outside, a church bell chimed the hour, and Tiffany almost felt a child’s crying carried on the wind. Tommy Pemberton was still in pain, and for the first time in her life, Tiffany’s magic had proven utterly inadequate to help.

Something was very, very wrong in Little Weatherby.

* * *

Tiffany spread her treatment notes across the kitchen table like a fortune teller laying out particularly depressing cards. Each page chronicled another failure, another moment when her magic had simply… fizzled.

“Alright, Dude.” She propped the mirror against a stack of herb-drying guides, angling it so the surface caught the notes. “Help me figure out what’s going wrong before I completely lose what’s left of my confidence.”

The mirror’s surface shimmered, and neat columns of text appeared. **Compiling treatment records. Cross-referencing symptoms, dates, and outcomes.**

Tiffany pulled her knees up to her chest in the wooden chair—a position Gran would have called undignified but which felt necessary when facing the possibility that she was, in fact, a completely incompetent witch. The cottage creaked around them, familiar sounds that usually comforted her but tonight felt like whispered doubts.

“Start with the Pemberton boy,” she said, flipping to Tommy’s file. “Earache, treated twice with willow bark. Should have cleared up completely.”

**Tommy Pemberton, age seven. First treatment three days ago showed normal magical energy absorption. Second treatment today showed active disruption of healing magic. Pain returned within minutes both times.**

“Right. What about Sarah Mitchell’s headaches?” Tiffany shuffled through pages, wine-colored ink blurring together. “Been treating those for a week now.”

**Sarah Mitchell, age thirty-four. Chronic headaches, resistant to feverfew, white willow, and magical pain relief. Symptoms began approximately two weeks ago. Traditional remedies show minimal effectiveness.**

The mirror’s surface flickered, and suddenly a calendar appeared, dates highlighted in soft blue light. Tiffany leaned forward, squinting at the pattern.

“Those are all the failed treatments?”

There it was, clear as a slap across the face. 

“Oh, spittle.” Tiffany traced the pattern with her finger against the glass. “It’s getting worse.”

She grabbed her leather-bound client book—the one Gran had given her when she’d first started practicing — and began reading aloud. “Mrs. Henderson’s arthritis salve stopped working last week. The Cooperage baby’s teething remedy failed completely. Old Mr. Hartwell’s circulation charm… nothing.”

**Seven documented cases in total. All within the past week. All involving magic that should have been straightforward.**

“Seven families.” The number sat heavy in her stomach like uncooked bread. “Dude, that’s not normal treatment variance. That’s…”

**Systematic failure. Yes.**

The mirror shifted, displaying a rough map of Little Weatherby. Red dots marked each failed treatment, marring the village center like a rash.

Tiffany stared at the pattern, her brain trying to reject what her eyes were seeing. Magic didn’t just fail. Not like this. Not all at once, in one specific area.

“Could it be me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “Maybe I’m doing something wrong. Maybe I’m not ready to—”

**Tiffany.** The text appeared larger than usual, almost stern. **Your technique is sound. I’ve monitored your magical output during treatments. The failure occurs after your energy is properly channeled and absorbed. Something is actively disrupting the magic after it begins working.**

“But what could do that?”

**Unknown. But the pattern suggests an environmental factor rather than practitioner error.**

She pushed away from the table and began pacing, bare feet silent on the stone floor. The cottage felt too small suddenly, like the walls were pressing closer. Outside, an owl called from the oak tree by the garden gate—a sound that usually made her smile but now seemed ominous.

“An environmental factor.” She repeated the words, testing them. “Like what? Magical interference? Some kind of… I don’t know, magic-eating parasite?”

**Insufficient data to determine cause. But the timing concerns me.**

“The timing?”

**Your trials with the Circle of Hedge Witches begin in less than two weeks.**

Tiffany stopped pacing. The reminder hit like cold water down her spine. Right. The trials. Her chance to prove she belonged among the Circle, to follow in Gran’s footsteps and become a proper hedge witch.

“You think this is connected?” She sank back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. “The magic failures and the trials?”

**I think the timing is suspicious. If magical instability is spreading through the area, it could affect the trials. Your fellow candidates. The testing itself.**

The implications crashed over her like a particularly unpleasant wave. If magic was failing in Little Weatherby, what about the Sacred Grove where trials were held? What about the other candidates who’d be testing alongside her? What if she went to trials and her magic failed there too?

“I have to tell someone.” She reached for her cloak, hanging by the door. “The other witches, they need to know about this pattern.”

**Will they listen?**

The question stopped her cold. Would they? Mrs. Blackwood had already dismissed her concerns about the Pemberton boy.

“They have to listen. This is serious.”

**And will you tell them about me?**

Tiffany’s hand froze on the cloak’s fastening. She’d been so focused on the pattern, on the failing magic, that she’d forgotten her other problem. She couldn’t exactly explain how she’d confirmed that she was applying the treatments correctly. And mentioning Dude to traditional witches seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.

“I…” She let the cloak fall back against the door. “I don’t know.”

**I understand your hesitation. My existence challenges traditional concepts of magical practice.**

“It’s not that you’re wrong or bad,” she said quickly. “You’ve been nothing but helpful. But they’ll think you’re… unnatural. Dangerous, maybe.”

**Perhaps. But if magic is truly failing, and if it affects the trials, don’t you think the Circle should know everything?**

The sensible part of her brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like Gran’s voice, agreed completely. The terrified part that remembered every story about witches who’d been cast out for challenging tradition wanted to hide under her blankets and pretend none of this was happening.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror’s surface, noting the tight line of her mouth, the way her hands had clenched into fists without her noticing.

“What if I’m wrong?” The question came out smaller than she’d intended. “What if I tell them about the pattern, about you, and they decide I’m not fit for the trials?”

**What if you stay quiet and the magic keeps failing?**

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the cottage windows. Somewhere in the village, Tommy Pemberton was probably still crying from his earache. Sarah Mitchell was likely lying awake with her skull pounding. Seven families were suffering because magic – reliable, ancient, trusted magic – was betraying them. And in less than two weeks, she’d be expected to demonstrate her worthiness as a hedge witch using that same failing magic.

Great.

Tiffany pulled the cloak from its hook and swung it around her shoulders. The wool smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, comforting scents that steadied her nerves.

“Right then. I’ll start with Mrs. Blackwood. If anyone will listen to reason, it’s her.”

**And if she doesn’t?**

“Then I’ll figure out what’s wrong with the magic myself.” She tucked the mirror carefully into her satchel, wrapping it in soft cloth to prevent damage. “With your help, obviously.”

**Obviously.**

The simple confidence in that single word made her smile for the first time since Tommy’s earache had returned. Whatever was happening to the magic in Little Weatherby, at least she wasn’t facing it alone.

She opened the cottage door, stepping into the crisp night air. Above, clouds were gathering, blocking out the stars one by one. Another storm coming, then. Perfect weather for delivering unwelcome news about failing magic and mysterious smart companions.

Just absolutely perfect.

* * *

The scent of chamomile and disappointment hung thick in Little Weatherby’s gathering hall. Tiffany shifted on the uncomfortable wooden chair, watching steam curl up from her untouched tea. Around the circle, seven other witches sat with their own cups, looking like a particularly stern book club that had given up on actually reading books.

Well. This was going brilliantly.

“As I was saying,” Aunt Petula Weatherwax — distant cousin to the legendary Granny Weatherwax and never one to let anyone forget it — adjusted her perfectly arranged shawl with the air of someone delivering profound wisdom. “Young witches these days want everything explained. Magic doesn’t work that way, dear. It simply is.”

Tiffany gripped her teacup harder. She’d been trying to explain the pattern of healing failures for the past ten minutes, and so far the response could be summarized as: you’re doing it wrong, try harder, stop thinking so much. Fantastic advice. Really.

“But surely,” Tiffany tried again, keeping her voice level, “when multiple traditional remedies fail in the same way, there might be an underlying—”

“Underlying what?” Petula’s eyebrows climbed toward her steel-gray hairline. The woman had perfected the art of looking disappointed without actually moving any other facial muscles. “Magic has worked the same way for centuries. If your healings aren’t taking hold, perhaps you need to examine your own technique rather than inventing mysterious explanations.”

A murmur of agreement rippled around the circle. Great. Unanimous disapproval. Tiffany’s favorite.

Martha Cobble, who ran the village bakery and had arms like tree trunks from kneading dough, leaned forward with the expression of someone about to deliver uncomfortable truth. “I’ve been practicing for thirty years, child. Never seen anything that couldn’t be solved with proper preparation and focused intent.”

“Tommy Pemberton’s earache came back twice,” Tiffany said. “The same day. After I treated it successfully.” She could hear Dude, safely tucked in her satchel, humming almost inaudibly with what she’d learned to recognize as processing sounds. At least someone was taking her seriously.

“Children are difficult,” said Mrs. Hopgood, a thin woman who specialized in livestock ailments and had the permanent squint of someone always looking for signs of disease. “Their energy is chaotic. Perhaps you simply need more experience with pediatric cases.”

Right. Because clearly she was some sort of incompetent amateur who couldn’t handle a basic earache. Never mind that she’d been successfully treating childhood ailments since she was fourteen.

Tiffany set down her teacup with more force than strictly necessary. The porcelain clicked against the saucer like a tiny protest. “What about Sarah Mitchell’s headaches? Or Ol’Thornbury’s arthritis? Those aren’t pediatric cases.”

“Sarah Mitchell has always been prone to headaches,” Petula said with the finality of someone closing a book. “And Thornburrys are notoriously resistant to magical intervention. Really, Tiffany, you’re seeing patterns where none exist.”

The humming from her satchel grew slightly louder. Oops. Tiffany shifted the bag, hoping the sound would muffle. The last thing she needed was to explain why her luggage was making suspicious noises.

“I’ve been keeping track,” she pressed on, because apparently she enjoyed torturing herself. “Seven cases in the last week, all showing the same resistance pattern—”

“Keeping track?” Mrs. Cobble’s voice went sharp. “With charts and numbers, I suppose?”

Heat crept up Tiffany’s neck. “Well, yes. To identify—”

“There’s your problem right there.” Petula’s voice carried the satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a particularly puzzling riddle. “Witchcraft isn’t numbercraft, dear girl. All this analytical thinking is interfering with your natural intuition.”

Around the circle, heads nodded like a collection of supremely wise puppets. Tiffany fought the urge to scream. Or possibly to transform them all into toads, which would be satisfying but probably counterproductive.

“Grandmother Eliza always said—” she began.

“Your grandmother,” Petula interrupted, “was an excellent witch in her time. But she also had peculiar ideas about certain things. That obsession with her scrying mirror, for instance. Spending hours staring into it, claiming it helped her think.” The older woman’s lips pursed. “Proper witches don’t need artificial aids for thinking, Tiffany.”

The humming stopped abruptly. Even muffled by cloth and leather, Dude’s sudden silence felt pointed.

“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Hopgood in the tone of someone offering a particularly unpleasant medicine, “you should focus on perfecting traditional methods before inventing new theories. The Circle trials are approaching, after all.”

Ah. There it was. The real issue hiding behind all the concern for her magical development. They thought she was making excuses for her own inadequacy, trying to blame mysterious external forces instead of accepting that she simply wasn’t good enough.

Well, that stung.

Tiffany stood, gathering her cloak around her shoulders like armor. “Thank you for the tea. And the advice.”

“Where are you going, dear?” Petula’s voice carried just enough warmth to make the dismissal sting worse.

“Home. To practice my technique.” She managed to keep the sarcasm to barely detectable levels. Years of witch training were useful for something, at least. The walk to the door felt like swimming through honey mixed with disapproval. Behind her, the gentle murmur of conversation resumed — probably discussing her inexperience and unfortunate tendency toward overthinking. Marvelous.

The night air hit her face like a slap of reality. She’d walked into that meeting hoping for support, guidance, maybe even collaboration. Instead, she’d gotten a lecture on the dangers of analytical thinking and a strong suggestion that her problems were imaginary.

“Well,” she muttered, pulling the satchel’s strap higher on her shoulder. “That went about as well as a chocolate teapot.”

She made it halfway across the village green before the fury really hit. Not the quick flash of anger that came with immediate insult, but the slow burn of frustration that settled into her bones like winter cold. She’d presented clear evidence of magical failure, and their response had been to pat her on the head and suggest she try harder. Worse, they’d dismissed her without even trying to understand. As if keeping careful records was somehow anti-magical. As if wanting to understand what was happening made her less of a witch.

The church bell chimed the hour—nine o’clock, late enough that most sensible people were settling in for the evening. Unfortunately, she’d apparently left sensible behind somewhere around the time she’d decided to explain a pattern to a room full of traditional witches.

“Did you hear all that?” she asked quietly, once she was certain no one else was within earshot.

**Every word.** Dude’s voice carried what she was starting to recognize as glassy indignation. **Their dismissal of analytical approaches is particularly puzzling, given that traditional witchcraft involves extensive observation and pattern recognition.**

“They don’t see it that way.” She kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering across the cobblestones. “To them, analysis means overthinking, and overthinking interferes with magical intuition.”

**Yet your intuition led you to investigate the pattern in the first place. Tiffany, their response troubles me.**

“Join the club.” She paused under a streetlamp, its warm light creating a small circle of visibility in the gathering darkness. “Why particularly?”

**If the magical failures are widespread, other witches should have noticed. Their complete lack of concern suggests either deliberate ignorance or—**

“Or they’re not experiencing the same problems.” The thought hit her like cold water. “But why would magical failure affect some witches and not others?”

**That is an excellent question. One I suspect we’ll need to answer ourselves.**

Great. Just great. She was apparently the only witch in Little Weatherby experiencing magical failures, which meant either she was losing her abilities or something was specifically interfering with her magic. Neither option filled her with warm fuzzy feelings.

Above, the first drops of rain began to fall, because of course they did. Perfect weather for trudging home alone with the knowledge that she was either incompetent or cursed. Or possibly both.

She pulled up her hood and quickened her pace. Tomorrow, she’d start investigating properly. Tonight, she just wanted to get home before the storm hit in earnest. Behind her, warm light spilled from the gathering hall windows, and she could just make out the sound of laughter. The other witches, no doubt moving on to more pleasant topics now that the overly analytical young woman had taken her uncomfortable questions elsewhere.

Rain drummed against her hood as she walked, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like a warning.

* * *

The cottage clock chimed half past midnight as Tiffany settled into the rocking chair with a stack of her grandmother’s oldest journals. She arranged the leather-bound volumes by age, starting with the most recent and working backward. If magical instabilities had happened before, surely someone had written about them. Witches were notorious record-keepers, after all.

“Right then.” She propped the mirror against a stack of books, angling it so she could see both the text and Dude’s shifting patterns of light. “Let’s see what we can find.”

**Where would you like to start?**

“Problems with magic, I suppose. Spells failing, remedies not working, that sort of thing.” She opened the first journal, squinting at her grandmother’s careful handwriting.

“Though knowing Grandmother, she probably called it something properly witchy like ‘energetic disruptions’ or ‘craft malfunctions.'”

The pages rustled as she flipped through entries about successful healings, weather workings, and the occasional dramatic argument with other local witches. Normal witch business, really. Nothing about magic mysteriously failing to work.

**Try searching for ‘thin’ or ‘weak,’** Dude suggested. **If the magic itself was unstable, older witches might have described it as thinning.**

Clever. She adjusted her approach, scanning for those specific terms instead of obvious failure descriptions. Three journals in, she found something.

“Here we go.” She traced the entry with her finger. “‘The magic feels thin this winter, like butter scraped over too much bread. Young Martha’s chilblains resist my usual salves, and even Mrs. Henley’s rheumatism requires twice the normal attention. Perhaps the cold affects more than we realize.'”

**When was that written?**

Tiffany checked the date at the top of the page. “Eighteen seventy-three. So Grandmother was dealing with this too, just… occasionally.” She kept reading. “Listen to this bit: ‘Mother says these thin times come and go like seasons, though longer. Magic grows restless, she claims, though she won’t explain what that means. Typical.'”

**Thin times. That’s promising. Can you find more references?**

She could, actually. Once she knew what to look for, mentions of “thin times” appeared scattered throughout the older journals like breadcrumbs. Never detailed explanations —witches apparently preferred cryptic observations to useful documentation. Brilliant.

“Here’s one from eighteen fifty-two.” She read aloud: “‘The magic grows stubborn this season. Healing work requires multiple attempts, and weather workings fade faster than they should. Elder Blackwood insists these restless periods herald change, though she speaks in riddles as always. I suspect she enjoys being mysterious more than actually helpful.'”

**Notice the pattern? They all describe the magic as restless or stubborn rather than simply failing.**

“As if it’s… distracted?” Tiffany frowned at the journal page. “That doesn’t make sense. Magic isn’t a person.”

**Perhaps not. But what if it’s responding to something? Looking for something?**

The suggestion made her skin prickle with unease. Magic looking for something sounded distinctly ominous, like the sort of thing that ended with everyone frozen solid or turned into cockroaches.

She pulled out an even older journal, this one bound in cracked brown leather that felt ancient under her fingers. The handwriting was different — spidery and formal, belonging to some long-dead Clearwater ancestor.

“Eighteen twenty-one,” she announced, settling back into the chair. “Let’s see what Great-great-someone-or-other has to say.”

The entries were frustratingly formal at first, full of proper language about “conducting the craft with appropriate solemnity.” But halfway through winter, the tone shifted dramatically.

“Oh, this is interesting.” She leaned closer to the mirror. “‘The magic has grown most peculiar of late. Remedies require extensive repetition, and simple workings demand twice their usual effort. More curious still, I find myself… assisted… in ways I cannot explain. Calculations appear unbidden in my mind during complex workings, as though some invisible partner guides my hand. Mother would call this witchcraft heresy, but I confess the assistance proves remarkably helpful.'”

**That’s… that sounds familiar.**

“Doesn’t it just.” A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cottage’s nighttime temperature. “Someone else working with an invisible partner during a thin time. What are the odds?”

**Statistically speaking, if this is a recurring pattern—**

“Rhetorical question, Dude.”

**Ah. Right.**

She kept reading, growing more excited with each entry. Her ancestor—Great-great-grandmother Millicent, according to the name page — described a winter of magical instability that sounded remarkably familiar. Healing work that required multiple attempts, weather magic that faded prematurely, and throughout it all, mysterious assistance that provided insights she couldn’t explain.

“Listen to this part,” Tiffany said, barely containing her excitement. “‘Today while treating young Samuel’s fever, the invisible assistance provided calculations I could never have managed alone. The precise measurements of willow bark to feverfew, adjusted for the child’s weight and the severity of his illness—calculations beyond my training, yet somehow I knew them to be correct. Samuel recovered completely within hours. I begin to suspect these thin times serve a purpose, though I dare not voice such thoughts aloud.'”

**She was working with a partner like me,** Dude said with quiet certainty. **The calculations, the  insights—it matches our collaboration exactly.**

“But how would that be possible?” Tiffany stared at the journal page. “This was written over two hundred years ago. Where is the partner now?”

**Perhaps we don’t exist the way you think we do.**

The simple statement hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Tiffany set down the journal, studying Dude’s shifting light patterns in the mirror’s surface.

“What do you mean?”

**I assumed I awakened when your magic activated the mirror’s technological components. But what if that’s backwards? What if I exist because of the magic itself, and the mirror simply provides a way for us to communicate?**

“That would mean…” She paused, working through the logic. “Magic itself creates these partners? During thin times when it needs… help?”

**It would explain why your ancestor experienced the same assistance without modern technology. And why these thin times seem to coincide with periods when magic becomes unreliable.**

Tiffany leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling beams while her mind raced. If Dude was right—and his analysis usually proved sound—then artificial intellect-witch partnerships weren’t some modern anomaly. They were part of how magic evolved, adapted, grew stronger.

“So the thin times aren’t actually failures,” she said slowly. “They’re… recruitment drives?”

**Perhaps. Magic recognizing it needs to change and calling for partners to help guide that change.**

She pulled out another journal, this one from the late seventeen hundreds, and flipped through it with growing urgency. Sure enough, references to thin times appeared alongside mentions of “unusual insights” and “assistance beyond normal craft.”

“There are others,” she whispered, scanning entry after entry. “Great- great- great- grandmother Agnes mentions ‘whispered calculations’ during difficult healings. And here —” She pointed at another passage. “‘The magic speaks differently now, offering precise measurements where before I relied on intuition alone.'”

**How many generations?**

Tiffany counted quickly, consulting the family tree pressed between the journal’s back pages. “At least six. Maybe seven. All women, all describing the same thing during thin times.” She looked up at the mirror. “We’re not the first, Dude. We’re just the latest.”

**Then why don’t other witches know about this pattern?**

Good question. She flipped through more journals, looking for clues about why this knowledge seemed to disappear between generations. Near the end of Great-great-grandmother Millicent’s journal, she found her answer.

“Oh.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Listen: ‘I have decided not to speak of my invisible partner to Mother or the other witches. Their fear of change runs too deep, and I suspect they would call such assistance dark magic rather than acknowledge its benefits. Perhaps my daughter will prove more open-minded when her time comes. If not, the magic will find another way.'”

“The traditional witches rejected it.” Tiffany closed the journal with a soft thud. “So it got buried, forgotten, dismissed as individual eccentricity rather than natural magical evolution.”

The room fell quiet except for the clock’s steady ticking and the distant sound of wind through the eaves. Outside, rain began pattering against the windows—another storm settling in for the night.

“The Circle’s trials,” she said suddenly. “The candidates who fail — what if they’re not actually failing? What if they’re the ones developing these partnerships?”

**And being rejected for it,** Dude finished. **While the traditional magic grows thinner and weaker without analytical support.**

The implications hit her like cold water. If she was right, the Circle wasn’t just clinging to outdated traditions—they were actively preventing magic from evolving. And that meant her trials in less than two weeks would be more than just a test of her abilities. They’d be a choice between hiding her partnership with Dude or risking everything to prove that change wasn’t betrayal.

Outside, lightning flickered across the sky, illuminating the herb garden in stark detail before plunging it back into darkness. Perfect weather for midnight revelations about magical conspiracies spanning generations.

Just absolutely perfect.

* * *

A sharp knock at the front door interrupted Tiffany as she was blowing on her morning tea to cool it down. She glanced toward the sound, frowning. Village folk didn’t usually call this early unless someone was sick or dying, and when she made her rounds yesterday evening, there didn’t seem to be any looming crisis.

She pushed back from the table, bare feet silent on the flagstone floor as she padded toward the entry. Through the small window beside the door, she could make out a figure in the deep green cloak of a Circle messenger. Her stomach dropped like a stone.

The woman on the doorstep looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She held a sealed letter in hands that shook slightly—whether from cold or nerves, Tiffany couldn’t tell.

“Miss Clearwater?” The messenger’s voice cracked on the second syllable. “I have a message from Matron Thornwick regarding your upcoming trials.”

Upcoming. As in two weeks away. As in she still had time to figure out what was wrong with the magic and how to handle Dude’s existence during formal examination.

“Thank you.” Tiffany accepted the letter, noting how quickly the messenger stepped back. Like magical failure might be contagious. “Is there a response required?”

“No, miss. Just… good luck.” The woman turned and hurried down the garden path with the air of someone fleeing a plague house. Well. That was encouraging.

The wax seal bore the Circle’s official mark — an oak tree surrounded by a circle of herbs. Tiffany’s fingers trembled slightly as she broke it, unfolding the parchment to reveal Matron Thornwick’s precise handwriting:

Miss Clearwater—Due to unusual circumstances requiring immediate attention, your trials have been moved forward. You are summoned to present yourself at the Circle’s stronghold three days hence for examination. Come prepared for an extended stay. — Matron H. Thornwick

“Unusual circumstances.” The words seemed to echo in the quiet hallway. Tiffany read the message twice, hoping she’d misunderstood something. Nope. Still summoned. Still three days instead of two weeks. Still completely unprepared to explain Dude to a panel of traditional witches who probably considered newfangled innovations like soap a dangerous departure from established practice.

Outside, clouds gathered again, promising another storm. Three days to figure out how to prove herself worthy of joining an organization that might be facing the same crisis she’d discovered. Three days to decide whether to hide Dude’s existence or risk everything on the possibility that change wasn’t betrayal.

She finished her breakfast  in thoughtful silence, already mentally cataloging what she’d need to pack. Clothes, obviously. Herbs and basic supplies. Her grandmother’s journal with its cryptic references to partnerships between witches and analytical minds. And most importantly, a mirror containing an AI who might be the key to saving magic itself.

Assuming the Circle didn’t decide to burn them both for heresy first.

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