A Minor Magical Disturbance

 
Hazel had never considered herself especially troublesome. She paid her coven dues on time, kept her potions properly labeled, and had not accidentally turned anyone into anything since 1987. Even then, Mr. Penrose had been a ferret for less than twenty minutes and, in Hazel’s opinion, had behaved no differently than usual.

So the summons from the Coven Oversight Committee was unexpected. Bean found it first.

Hazel came into the kitchen that morning to discover him sitting on the table beside a cream-colored envelope bearing the coven seal. One corner was missing.

“Did you eat that?” she asked.

Bean blinked.

Hazel retrieved the envelope and examined the damp edge. “Of course you did.”

Inside was a request that she appear before the committee at ten o’clock regarding several recent complaints of unauthorized magical activity among the mundane population. Hazel frowned. She was quite certain all of her recent magical activity had, in fact, been authorized.

Hester, naturally, insisted on coming.

“You might need a witness,” she said.

“To what?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m coming.”

The Coven Oversight Committee occupied three rooms above a shop that sold crystals, incense, and extremely expensive soap to tourists. Hazel had never understood why mundanes believed witches were particularly interested in crystals. She owned several, of course, but she also owned a blender and no one had built an industry around that.

Madame Wren, the committee chair, met them in a small office with two other witches and a stack of papers. Bean immediately climbed onto an empty chair.

Madame Wren looked at him. “Is that necessary?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Bean began washing himself.

Madame Wren slid the papers toward Hazel. “We’ve received four complaints in the past week.”

Hazel put on her glasses. The first concerned a garden gnome belonging to a Mrs. Evelyn Morris, who claimed it had begun criticizing her begonias. The second came from a man whose toaster had repeatedly informed him that his time was near. The third reported a Labrador retriever speaking Latin.

Hazel looked up. “Speaking Latin?”

“Apparently quite fluently.”

Hester leaned over her shoulder. “Interesting.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The final complaint involved a bathroom mirror that had begun offering unsolicited romantic advice.

Hazel removed her glasses. “And you think I did this?”

“Certainly not,” Madame Wren said. “We’d like you to find out who did.”

Hazel sighed. She should have known. Finding things was one of her specialties: lost children, missing pets, misplaced wedding rings, wandering spirits. She had once located a man’s missing dentures three counties away, although she had never asked how they got there.

Mrs. Morris, owner of the garden gnome, lived two streets away in a tidy yellow bungalow surrounded by flowers. The offending gnome stood beneath a hydrangea wearing the customary red hat and irritating expression.

Mrs. Morris folded her arms. “Watch.”

She reached for a watering can, and the gnome’s stone mouth opened.

“Not too much. You drowned the petunias last Thursday.”

Mrs. Morris glared at him. “You see?”

Hazel did.

Hester crouched beside the gnome. “Can you tell us who enchanted you?”

The gnome looked at her. “That color does nothing for you.”

Hester stood. “Oh, I really dislike him.”

Hazel examined the figure. There was magic present, certainly, but it was faint and rather odd. Not a spell exactly. More like something had rubbed against the world and left residue behind.

Bean sniffed the gnome, sneezed, and retreated. Hazel found that more interesting than Hester did.

Their next stop was the toaster. Mr. Pritchard had unplugged it and placed it in the garden shed.

“It said I was going to die,” he explained.

“Everything dies eventually,” Hester said.

Hazel gave her a look.

Mr. Pritchard retrieved the toaster with obvious reluctance. Hazel plugged it in and pushed down the lever.

Nothing happened at first. Then the toaster hummed.

“THE END APPROACHES.”

Mr. Pritchard went pale.

A slice of toast popped up. It was badly burned.

Hazel looked at it. “Well,” she said, “it may have been talking about breakfast.”

Hester snorted.

Again, Hazel detected the same peculiar trace of magic.

At the third house, the Latin-speaking Labrador turned out to know only three phrases. Hazel was fairly certain Da mihi caseum meant “give me cheese.”

The mirror was more troublesome.

“You can do better,” it told Hazel the moment she entered the bathroom.

Hazel stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Emotionally unavailable. Terrible communication. You deserve someone who sees your worth.”

Hazel stared at her reflection. “Rude. I’m widowed.”

There was a pause.

“Oh.”

Behind her, Hester began laughing.

“Not a word,” Hazel said.

By late afternoon, Hazel had four enchanted objects, no obvious culprit, and the beginnings of a headache.

She and Hester returned to Hazel’s workroom, where she arranged samples from each location on the table: a flake of paint from the gnome, crumbs from the toaster, a strand of Labrador fur, and a cotton swab she had used to lift residue from the mirror’s frame.

Hazel examined each beneath a magnifying lens. The magical signature was identical.

Hester leaned over her shoulder. “A rogue witch?”

“No.”

“A poltergeist?”

“No.”

“A demon?”

“Hester.”

“I’m helping.”

Bean jumped onto the table, and Hazel moved the samples out of reach. “No.”

He sniffed the Labrador hair. His ears flattened, and then he hissed.

Hazel froze.

Bean did not hiss often. He chirped, complained, knocked things over, and occasionally resurrected rodents, but hissing was reserved for serious matters.

“What is it?”

Bean stared toward the window.

Something moved outside, small, gray, and quick.

Bean launched himself through the open window.

“Bean!”

Hazel and Hester hurried after him. They found him beneath the hedge with his tail puffed to twice its normal size. Between his paws wriggled a tiny gray creature with pointed ears, a long nose, and an expression of profound irritation.

Hester gasped. “Oh, how sweet.”

“It has pointy ears.”

“Yes, but look at its little coat.”

The creature was, in fact, wearing one.

Hazel crouched carefully. A house imp.

She hadn’t seen one in years. House imps nested near magical households and fed on traces of stray enchantment. Normally they caused little trouble beyond missing buttons and inexplicably sour milk.

This one, however, was glowing faintly.

Hazel looked at Bean, then at the imp, then back at Bean.

“You.”

Bean sat down.

Hazel pointed at him. “You’ve been leaving magic everywhere.”

Bean blinked.

The chewed wand. The levitating furniture. The resurrected mouse.

Apparently Bean had been shedding stolen magic all over the neighborhood like cat hair, and the house imp had been feeding on it.

Hester peered beneath the hedge. “So Bean enchanted the gnome, the toaster, and the dog?”

“Indirectly.”

Hester smiled grimly. “That’s going to look wonderful in the committee report.”

The imp suddenly bit Bean on the paw. Bean yowled, and the imp bolted.

It raced across the garden with Bean in pursuit, but Hazel was ready this time. She flicked her wand and dropped a glass preserving jar neatly over the creature.

The imp squeaked indignantly and shook one tiny fist at her while Bean threw himself against the jar.

“No,” Hazel said.

Bean pawed at the glass.

“You’ve contributed enough.”

Back in the workroom, Hazel prepared a simple drawing charm, one normally used to pull spilled magic from carpets and curtains. She set the jar in the center of the table and touched her wand to the lid.

The imp glowed.

So did Bean.

Hazel frowned. “Of course.”

For the next several minutes she drew the excess magic out of them both, winding it carefully into a small crystal vial. The imp gradually stopped glowing.

By evening, Mrs. Morris’s garden gnome had returned to silent disapproval. Mr. Pritchard’s toaster had stopped predicting doom and gone back to burning one side of the bread. The Labrador had forgotten his Latin, although his owner maintained that he now understood Italian.

The bathroom mirror was the last to be corrected. As Hazel wiped away the final trace of enchantment, it sighed.

“You’re very guarded.”

Hazel gave it one last swipe with the cloth. “So I’ve been told.”

The following morning, she returned to the Coven Oversight Committee with the house imp, now safely contained in a basket, and a written account of what had happened.

Madame Wren read it twice. “So, the disturbances were caused by magical contamination from your familiar.”

“Indirectly.”

Madame Wren looked over the top of the report.

Hazel smiled pleasantly.

At her feet, Bean was playing with a loose thread in the carpet. After a moment, Madame Wren signed the bottom of the form.

“Case closed.”

Hazel gathered her things, but Madame Wren added, “You may wish to keep a closer eye on him.”

Hazel looked down.

Bean had somehow acquired Madame Wren’s pen.

She held out her hand. “Bean.”

He froze.

“Drop it.”

He did.

Hazel picked up the pen and handed it back. “We’re working on it.”

As she left, Bean trotted after her as though the entire affair had reflected very well on him.