I woke to the smell of burnt toast and suspicion.

  The entire street smelled like a bakery that had been cursed by someone mildly irritated.

  Which, given recent events, felt personal.

  The anomaly hadn’t returned – not properly – but something was wrong. The air hummed faintly, like a held breath. The houses looked… attentive.

  From the windowsill, Lord Bastion Thistlewick sprawled luxuriously, belly up, tail dangling like an accusation.

  “You’re staring at the street,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because the pastries are for me,” he replied. “Observe the pattern.”

  I squinted.

  Mrs Calder. Mrs Pemberton. Mr Jenkins. Half the street, really. Each doorstep hosted a plate – muffins, scones, pastries – all carefully labelled in varying handwriting.

  For the Cat.

  Please Don’t Eat the House.

  With Gratitude.

  I stared. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re bribing you.”

  “They’re showing appropriate reverence,” he said, grooming a paw. “I’m proud of them.”

  “You traumatised the neighbourhood.”

  “I educated them.”

  I stepped outside, wand tucked into my sleeve. The baked goods were warm. Too warm. A faint shimmer hovered above them, subtle but unmistakable.

  “They’re enchanted,” I said.

  Bastion hopped down and immediately knocked a muffin off its plate.

  It hit the ground.

  The shimmer pulsed.

  “Oh,” he said mildly. “That one was defensive.”

  The muffin scuttled.

  I yelped. “Why is it moving?”

  “Fear,” he said. “And poor enchantment technique.”

  Mrs Calder shrieked from behind her door.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Bastion,” I hissed. “Did you do this?”

  “No,” he said, offended. “If I had, they’d be screaming louder.”

  The street rumbled.

  Not dramatically – ominously.

  A low vibration travelled up through my feet, through the soles of my slippers, into my bones.

  I stiffened. “That’s not pastries.”

  “No,” Bastion agreed. “That’s civic anxiety.”

  Cracks spider-webbed along the pavement. Shadows pooled where the sun should have been. The air thickened, heavy with potential.

  I raised my wand. “You said no more tests.”

  “I said no scheduled tests,” he corrected, hopping onto a fence post and immediately pushing a plant pot off it.

  It shattered.

  “Bastion!”

  “What?” he said. “The pot was smug.”

  A shape pushed up through a manhole – not fully formed, not hostile exactly. It wobbled, uncertain, like something that had taken a wrong turn and was too polite to admit it.

  Neighbours gasped. Someone dropped a tray of scones.

  Bastion squinted. “Oh. It’s one of those.”

  “Those what?”

  “Ambient manifestations of communal stress,” he said. “Fed by gratitude, fear, and baked goods. Honestly, it’s textbook.”

  “I don’t have that textbook.”

  “You should diversify your reading.”

  The thing rose higher, shadows folding in on themselves. It glanced at me.

  Then at Bastion.

  It froze.

  Actually froze.

  Its edges sharpened, posture shrinking, like a dog that had realised the cat was in charge.

  I blinked. “Is it… bowing?”

  “Yes,” Bastion said. “Very polite of it.”

  “You didn’t even move.”

  “Authority doesn’t require effort,” he replied. “Only presence.”

  I swallowed and stepped forward, keeping my voice gentle.

  “You don’t belong here,” I said. “You’re bleeding through.”

  The thing trembled.

  Bastion leaned down and whispered loudly, “Invite it. Don’t boss it. And for the love of thresholds, stop glaring.”

  I adjusted, softened my tone.

  “Thank you,” I said. “But you need to go.”

  The shadow hesitated, then folded in on itself, sinking back into the pavement with a sound like a sigh of relief.

  Silence fell.

  The neighbours stared.

  Someone clapped once. Then stopped, embarrassed.

  Bastion leapt onto my shoulder, knocking my hairpin loose.

  “You see?” he purred. “You’re improving. Still sloppy, but improving.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “And ruin the lesson?” He sounded scandalised.

  Behind us, something thumped.

  The ledger.

  It lay in the middle of the street, humming loudly now, pages fluttering like it was trying to flag down help.

  I stared. “How did it get there?”

  Bastion nudged it with a paw.

  “Migration,” he said. “Very common.”

  The ledger snapped open to a new page.

  Not words.

  Symbols.

  Old ones.

  The air tightened.

  Bastion’s tail flicked, just once.

  “That,” he said lightly, “is not meant to be active yet.”

  My stomach dropped. “Yet?”

  He looked at me, eyes sharp, pleased, and just a little dangerous.

  “You’re becoming relevant,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  I groaned. “I hate this.”

  He purred. “No, you don’t. You hate uncertainty. This is… anticipation.”

  He hopped down, deliberately stepping on the ledger’s glowing page.

  It went dark.

  “There,” he said. “Crisis postponed.”

  “For how long?”

  He shrugged. “Long enough for tea. Possibly biscuits.”

  I eyed the remaining pastries warily. “The muffins are watching me.”

  “They always do,” he said. “Eat one.”

  “That feels like a trap.”

  “Everything is a trap,” Bastion replied serenely. “Some are just tastier.”

  I sighed, exhaustion finally catching up.

  “This is going to get worse, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said cheerfully. “But you’ll manage. You listen. You adapt. And you haven’t tried to bind me again.”

  “That’s because I’m terrified.”

  “Excellent motivation.”

  He curled up on the ledger, smug as sin.

  “And Elspeth?”

  “Yes?”

  “Next time,” he said, eyes half-lidded, “they won’t knock first.”

  The ledger hummed.

  The street listened.

  And somewhere beyond the town, something noticed.