It was a Tuesday – though in magical terms, any day could be a Tuesday, which is to say irritating, uncooperative, and quietly waiting for you to make a mistake.

  I had chosen to attempt a minor domestic charm. Sensible. Harmless. A spell to clean the hearth automatically, saving time, effort, and my knees.

  This decision would age poorly.

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick observed proceedings from his customary perch atop the broom cupboard, tail flicking with measured disapproval. He had the air of a monarch watching a peasant attempt architecture.

  “I do hope you have read the instructions carefully,” he said.

  “I have,” I replied. “I double-checked the incantation.”

  “You glanced at them while thinking about tea.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I also brewed tea.”

  “Ah,” he said, licking a claw. “A bold addition. Proceed.”

  I drew the sigils. Sprinkled the cleansing herbs. Spoke the words with confidence I would soon regret.

  The hearth shimmered faintly. There was a quiet pop. A moment of stillness.

  Then it sneezed.

  The hearth sneezed.

  I froze.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The hearth sneezed again.

  A violent cloud of soot exploded outward, coating my robes, my hair, and Lord Bastion Thistlewick, who let out a sound of pure, theatrical distress.

  “My fur,” he cried. “This is an outrage. I am immaculate.”

  “Yes,” I said, blinking through soot. “I see that. I may have underestimated the hearth’s enthusiasm.”

  He shook himself with deliberate force, sending black dust billowing through the kitchen and leaving a perfect paw print on the table.

  “This,” he said coolly, “is why I supervise.”

  “You didn’t warn me.”

  “Warning is for amateurs,” he replied. “I prefer observation.”

  The hearth sneezed a third time.

  This time, it animated fully. Logs shifted and rolled like limbs. Sparks spat from the grate. A small, soot-smeared face emerged from the flames, blinking irritably.

  “Dear Elspeth,” the hearth said, “your magic is offensive.”

  I stared. “You are not supposed to talk.”

  “Talking is optional,” it replied. “Sneezing is compulsory.”

  Lord Bastion leapt down, circling the hearth like a general surveying a battlefield.

  “If one must fail,” he said, “one should fail spectacularly. It shows commitment.”

  “I am showing plenty of commitment without your commentary!”

  “I am offering guidance,” he said. “You should be grateful.”

  The hearth hopped violently, flipping logs over itself like a deranged circus act. I raised my wand.

  “Perhaps,” Bastion said mildly, “we should allow it to express itself. Suppression breeds resentment.”

  “It is a hearth!”

  “All beings deserve agency.”

  “It is on fire!”

  I muttered a counter-spell. The hearth froze. Silence fell.

  For one exquisite second, it seemed I had won.

  Then it coughed. A wet, fiery cough. A plume of sparks shot straight at my face.

  “Enough!” I yelled, hurling a water charm.

  The hearth squeaked indignantly and collapsed into a harmless puff of smoke.

  I stood there, dripping, covered in soot, heart racing. Bastion watched from the sidelines, tail neatly wrapped, eyes gleaming.

  “You were… helpful,” I said tightly.

  He preened. “I never claimed to be safe. Only educational.”

  I sank onto the floor. “I am too old for this.”

  “You are not old,” he said. “You are simply experienced enough to appreciate a well-executed disaster.”

  “I do not appreciate it.”

  “Honesty,” he murmured. “A promising development.”

  I wiped my face. “If I survive today, I will banish you.”

  He purred. “You may attempt it. Do remember, however, that I am older than you, cleverer than you, and demonstrably immune to minor cleaning spells.”

  “I will make stronger spells.”

  “Splendid,” he said. “Then we shall see who sneezes first.”

  “It will not be me.”

  “That is what they all say.”

  The hearth settled, muttering faintly, as if disappointed by the lack of further destruction. Bastion returned to the windowsill, satisfaction radiating from every whisker.

  I poured another cup of tea, hands shaking slightly, and resolved that tomorrow I would attempt something safer.

  Something foolproof.

  Perhaps a charm to clean the teacups.

  Bastion leaned forward. “May I offer a suggestion?”

  “No.”

  “One cannot fully control magic,” he said, ignoring me. “It has opinions.”

  “I have opinions!”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Sadly, they are less cunning than mine. Or the hearth’s.”

  I groaned. “You are impossible."

  He purred.

  And so the day ended – soot-stained, mildly scorched, and with the growing certainty that every spell I cast would now develop a personality disorder.