The next anomaly announced itself by turning all the milk sour.

  Not explosively.

  Not dramatically.

  Just… judgementally.

  I discovered this at six in the morning, standing in my kitchen in my slippers, staring into my tea like it had personally betrayed me.

  “This,” I said quietly, “is wrong.”

  From the table, Lord Bastion Thistlewick sniffed.

  “It smells like despair,” he said. “And poor life choices.”

  “The milk was fine yesterday.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Milk is known for its fickle loyalty.”

  He knocked my teaspoon onto the floor.

  It made a very loud clatter.

  I stared at him.

  “That was unnecessary.”

  “I disagree,” he said. “It improved the morning.”

  I bent to pick it up. While I did, he pushed the sugar bowl off the table.

  It shattered.

  “…Bastion.”

  “Gravity,” he said mildly, licking a paw. “An ongoing concern.”

  I straightened slowly. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

  He was sitting on my spellbook.

  Deliberately.

  All four paws. Tail wrapped. Entirely settled.

  “I suspected,” he said.

  “You suspected?”

  “The dairy spectrum was vibrating oddly.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “It is,” he replied, “if you pay attention instead of relying on labels.”

  I reached for the book.

  He did not move.

  “Bastion.”

  “Yes?”

  “Get off.”

  “No.”

  “That’s my grimoire.”

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  “And this,” he said, kneading it with pointed enthusiasm, “is an excellent source of warmth.”

  “You’re clawing it.”

  “Circulation,” he said. “Very important.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “There’s a spreading anomaly and you’re blocking my access to magic.”

  “You can access magic without the book.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It never is,” he said pleasantly.

  From the counter, he flicked my wand onto the floor.

  It rolled under the cupboard.

  I inhaled. Exhaled. Counted to five.

  “Why,” I said through my teeth, “are you being like this?”

  He tilted his head. “Like what?”

  “Obstructive. Smug. Furry.”

  “You bound a being of thresholds into a domestic partnership,” he said. “This is on you.”

  Outside, Mrs Calder shrieked.

  I winced. “That’s the milk lady.”

  “Yes,” Bastion said. “She’s discovering betrayal at scale.”

  He hopped down and deliberately sat in front of the cupboard, blocking access to my wand.

  I stared at him.

  He stared back.

  He meowed.

  Loudly.

  It echoed.

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “It was informative,” he said. “You were becoming complacent.”

  I yanked my wand free. “Fine. I’ll handle it myself.”

  He finally moved – stretching, slowly, extravagantly, tail flicking straight into my face.

  “Do try not to panic,” he said. “The last witch who panicked turned all the cheese sentient.”

  I froze. “That happened?”

  “Oh yes. Screaming brie. Ghastly business. Very clingy.”

  We stepped outside into mild chaos.

  People stood in doorways holding cartons, sniffing cautiously, arguing.

  Mr Jenkins gagged theatrically.

  Mrs Calder spotted me. “Elspeth! My milk’s gone off!”

  “I’m aware,” I said. “I’m addressing it.”

  Bastion leapt onto the fence and immediately knocked over a bottle someone had placed there.

  Glass shattered.

  Milk splashed.

  Gasps.

  “Cat!” someone shouted.

  “Lord Bastion,” he corrected. “Titles matter.”

  I hissed under my breath. “Any insight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “This is not a rupture,” he said. “It’s seepage.”

  “From where?”

  “Elsewhen.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  He flicked his tail. “It’s accurate.”

  I muttered a stabilisation charm. The air shimmered faintly.

  The milk remained awful.

  I frowned. “That should have worked.”

  “Yes,” Bastion said. “If this were simple.”

  He yawned. Deliberately.

  “You know exactly what’s happening.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’re not telling me.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said lazily, “you’re about to learn something.”

  I clenched my jaw. “People are upset.”

  “They will survive,” he said. “Mild inconvenience builds character.”

  Mrs Calder gagged again.

  I turned on him. “You are enjoying this.”

  He purred. Loudly. Obnoxiously.

  “Immensely.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Teach me.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You said this was a test. Fine. I accept.”

  He studied me, eyes sharp, humour fading just enough to be unsettling.

  “No commanding,” he said.

  “No binding.”

  “No attempting to fix it by force.”

  “And no whining.”

  “I don’t whine.”

  He stared.

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now – what does sour milk mean?”

  “Decay?”

  “Lazy.”

  “Time misalignment?”

  “Better.”

  “Something old leaking into now?”

  He purred again. This time, approving.

  “Very good.”

  The air tingled – a faint pull, like yesterday brushing against today.

  “It’s not dangerous,” I said slowly. “It’s overlapping.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I acknowledge the overlap—”

  “–and invite it to pass,” Bastion finished.

  I raised my wand, gentler this time. No command. No force.

  “Move along,” I murmured. “You’re not meant to linger.”

  The air sighed.

  The smell faded.

  Mrs Calder sniffed her milk. “Oh! It’s fine!”

  Relief rippled through the street.

  I sagged. “That worked.”

  “Yes,” Bastion said. “You didn’t try to dominate it.”

  I smiled despite myself. “You could have told me earlier.”

  “And robbed you of growth?” He looked offended.

  I crossed my arms. “You let the town suffer curdled beverages.”

  “Briefly.”

  “You are unbelievable.”

  “And yet,” he said, hopping down, “the milk is restored.”

  He immediately knocked over another bottle.

  It smashed.

  Milk everywhere.

  Silence.

  I stared at him.

  He stared back.

  “What?” he asked. “Gravity happens.”

  “One day,” I said, very calmly, “I’m going to find a spell that works on you.”

  He smiled – slow, smug, ancient.

  “And on that day,” he said, “I shall be very disappointed in you.”

  Then he meowed.

  Just to be petty.