Familiar Hocus Pocus

Phoebe was ushering Mrs. Pemberton and Ginger toward the door when a commotion erupted in the square. They both paused. What had been a quiet morning was now a swirl of animated voices and hurrying figures. Ginger hissed in her carrier, ears swiveling toward the noise.

“Good heavens, what’s all that about?” Mrs. Pemberton clutched Ginger’s carrier tighter, her silvery curls bouncing with each hurried step.

Phoebe shaded her eyes against the morning sun. Townspeople converged on something near the fountain. “I have no idea, but it looks serious.”

“Well, I’d better get Ginger home,” Mrs. Pemberton said, though she craned her neck for a better look. “Let me know what you find out, dear.”

After Mrs. Pemberton hurried away, Phoebe locked the shop, her curiosity stirred. She crossed the square, determined to find out what had drawn everyone’s attention.

These people are idiots.

The voice cut through her thoughts. Feminine, cranky, and definitely not hers.

Phoebe slowed. She glanced over her shoulder. No one nearby studied her or even looked as if they’d sent a telepathic message. Everyone was too busy gawking at whatever was happening in the square. She shook off her discomfort and continued toward the melee.

Beverley Arundel, the town mayor, shouldered through the crowd. Her midnight-blue cloak billowed around her like storm clouds. The chains of office clinked against her chest as she elbowed past gawking villagers. Beverley’s face glowed an alarming shade of red. The blazing, vein-throbbing kind that warned of imminent eruption. Her wand hand twitched at her side, and Phoebe could practically see her mental list of hexes.

“Where are the police?” Beverley demanded.

“I called them.” Mrs. Wallace’s flower-crown wilted as if duplicating her anxiety. “They’re on their way. But they had an incident at Starfall Academy last night. Something about exploding cauldrons in the advanced potions lab.” She clutched her flower basket against her ample breasts. “This is bad. Mark my words—when things go wrong, people always blame the herb sellers first.”

“Excuse me,” Phoebe said to a woman in paint-splattered overalls. The woman stood on tiptoe, trying not to miss anything.

“No need to push, dear,” the woman replied, but stepped aside with good humor.

Finally, Phoebe reached the middle of the gathering and stopped short. A large wooden crate sat on the cobblestones like an unwelcome gift. Someone had taped a bright yellow sign to its side: Familiar in Need of a Home. They’d doodled a tiny heart underneath.

The smell hit her next. Sour and unpleasant, like burned cabbage mixed with old socks. It kept the crowd at a respectful distance, but Phoebe understood straightaway. Her pendant had become blazing hot. Something magical and distressed was inside that crate.

Around her, the crowd had descended into barely controlled chaos. Mrs. Pembridge clutched her purse and pressed herself behind Mr. South’s broad frame. Two teenagers whispered excitedly, their eyes bright with the thrill of unexpected drama. Old Mr. Fitzwilliam had produced his betting notebook. He scribbled odds while trying to ignore the offensive odor, his spectacles slipping down a beaked nose.

“Ten dollars says it’s a bomb!” someone called from the back.

Phoebe’s gaze flicked to the crate. Exploding cauldrons, blamed herb sellers, and now I’m supposed to worry about bombs? She swallowed hard and focused. The throbbing of magic beneath the wood told a different story. Nobody else seemed to notice.

Near the Coffee Kart, Harry paled. “Do you think someone in our year is playing a prank?” he whispered to Suzie.

Phoebe hoped not.

“Fifteen dollars on a dragon!” another voice shouted.

“Dragons don’t ship themselves in crates, you nincompoop,” Mr. Fitzwilliam snapped. His pencil flew across the page. “Current odds: explosive device, three-to-one; dangerous magical creature, five-to-one; elaborate prank, two-to-one.”

“What if it’s a familiar, like the sign says?” Professor Millicent from Starfall Academy peered over her spectacles. Gray curls framed her round face.

Mr. Fitzwilliam’s weathered face split into a grin. “Where’s the excitement in that? Twenty-to-one odds, for anyone interested.”

“What do they think will happen? Can’t someone see I need help?” the sarcastic mystery voice piped up again. A hint of panic ran beneath the irritation.

Phoebe hurried closer. Taking a leaf from the mayor’s book, she used well-placed elbows to navigate the crowd.

The mayor raised her obsidian wand. Purple sparks crackled from its tip. “Back, everyone! Get back now!” Relief flooded her strained features when she saw Phoebe. “Ah, Phoebe. You’re exactly who we need to sort this out.”

She lowered her wand and fixed Phoebe with desperate hope. “Someone called claiming there’s a bomb in this crate, but the sign suggests otherwise. These fools—” she gestured at the crowd, “—seem to think gawking at potential explosives is excellent entertainment.”

The acrid smell still hung in the air. But Phoebe’s magical senses told her something different from what her nose detected.

“It says familiar right there,” Mr. Fitzwilliam protested. He jabbed a gnarled finger at the cheerful sign.

“And if someone malicious sent this crate, do you think they’d label it?” Beverley’s voice rose to the pitch reserved for obtuse council meetings. “DANGER: CONTAINS BOMB in friendly yellow lettering?”

The crowd exchanged uncertain glances.

“Truth in advertising. Now that’s a fairy tale,” someone muttered.

Mrs. Pembridge edged closer, her ear cocked. “If that’s a bomb, shouldn’t it be ticking?”

“This isn’t a children’s story, Margaret,” the mayor snapped. “Modern magical explosives don’t come with convenient sound effects.”

Professor Millicent adjusted her spectacles. “But how do we determine if it’s dangerous? Oh, dear. I hope no one thinks my familiar research had anything to do with this dreadful situation.”

Beverley’s eye twitched. “That’s the point! You assume mystery objects might be dangerous and behave accordingly!”

Phoebe kept her eyes on the crate. Adrenaline surged. None of them seemed to notice the faint feline signature threaded through it. This isn’t about explosives.

The mayor turned to Phoebe. She had the expression of someone who’d been trying to explain basic logic to stubborn turnips. “What do you think? Is there a familiar in there, or should we evacuate the square?”