The bell above the shop door jangled with its usual off-key chime—a sound Laurel had grown fond of. She didn't even look up from her workbench. "If that's you again, Pippin, you're not getting a second breakfast."
"It's not Pippin," came Seraphina's melodious voice. "Though I do enjoy his flair for dramatics."
Laurel straightened, brushing specks of dried lemon balm from her sleeves. "Madam Mayor. To what do I owe the pleasure? Run out of floating petals for your bath?"
Seraphina swept into the apothecary like a breeze dressed in silver and lavender. "Festival week, dear. I need your talent with subtle spectacle."
Laurel blinked. "You want tea lights?"
"I want illusionary lanterns to dance across the market square like murmuring fireflies. Subtle, enchanting, nothing too showy. Unless it's effective. In which case, show away."
"Subtle but dazzling," Laurel muttered. "My favorite paradox."
Seraphina winked. "And bring Pippin. He owes me for that incident with the berry wine."
That... was debatable. Pippin insisted the wine had owed him.
As Seraphina floated back out, Laurel sighed and reached for her chalkboard list of requests. It was already a cramped scrawl of herbal emergencies and potion pre-orders. Festival season had that effect—mild hysteria masquerading as celebration.
Later that afternoon, Laurel stood in the village square with a satchel of copper thread and a pouch of glowroot powder. She tapped one of the lantern posts experimentally. The rune etched there flared briefly, then fizzled with a pop.
"Definitely needs a focus charm," she murmured.
"I told you to triple-check the salt ring," Pippin said, hopping onto the post. "You always underestimate the salt."
"I didn't use salt."
"That explains everything."
Just as Laurel knelt to adjust the copper strands, a squeal echoed from the central fountain. Ribbons—dozens of them—had launched themselves into the air, fluttering like startled pigeons.
Children laughed and pointed as the fabric twirled, weaving themselves into accidental knots midair. One formed a bowtie and tried to land on Bram's beard.
"This isn't me," Laurel said quickly as the blacksmith gave her a stern look.
Pippin's ears twitched. "Oh no. The prank ribbons."
Laurel ducked as a particularly ambitious ribbon looped toward her braid. "Pippin, when you said 'prank ribbons,' was that a metaphor?"
The cat hissed as one tried to make a bow out of his tail. "It was Seraphina's idea last year. Enchanted celebratory sashes that 'greet' festival-goers. But someone forgot to deactivate their cheer protocol."
"Cheer protocol?"
"They're trying to dress everyone. You have two minutes before Bram ends up in a tutu."
Laurel sprang into action. She rummaged through her satchel, found a sachet of basil and lemon peel—ingredients meant to ground overenthusiastic enchantments—and flung it toward the spinning cloud of fabric.
A faint whoosh, and the ribbons fluttered gently to the cobblestones, as if embarrassed.
Applause broke out from a small crowd, led by a group of toddlers now tragically unadorned. Bram grunted and handed Laurel a yellow bow he'd peeled off his hammer. "Make it part of the display."
Seraphina, who had appeared without warning beside the cider stall, clapped politely. "Marvelous save. Though I had hoped the ribbons might learn grace this year."
"They nearly strangled the baker's dog."
"He's very dramatic."
Laurel sighed, brushing glittery thread from her skirt. "If you're going to enlist magical decorations, at least brief them first."
"I thought they'd remember last year's feedback."
"They're ribbons, not scholars."
Pippin strutted past with a scrap of purple tied triumphantly around his neck. "I vote we keep them. Very festive."
Back in the apothecary that evening, Laurel stirred a calming balm with long, deliberate strokes. The day's events clung to her like burrs—whirling fabric, half-charged lanterns, Seraphina's serene chaos.
The bell jingled. Again.
This time, it was Rowan, cheeks smudged with soot and glitter, a ribbon caught in her curls. "I tried to test your glowroot draft near the south lamp post. It lit up... and then started humming the festival anthem."
"Lovely. Spontaneous choral enchantment," Laurel said. "Did it harmonize?"
"Badly."
Laurel laughed, then nudged a jar of balm toward her apprentice. "Try some of this. You smell like a parade."
Rowan dabbed her wrist and winced as it fizzed. "Did you add mint?"
"Peppermint. It's optimistic."
As dusk settled over Willowmere, Laurel stepped outside to test the lantern enchantments once more. With a flick of her fingers and a whispered rhyme, soft golden spheres bloomed overhead. They drifted lazily like dream-bubbles, reflecting stars not yet risen.
For a moment, the square shimmered. Even the ribbons—those not sulking in a corner—seemed to sigh contentedly.
Seraphina reappeared beside her, arms folded, gaze on the sky. "See? Subtle, dazzling. Just what I asked."
Laurel didn't answer right away. She watched a little boy reach for a floating light, his fingers curling through nothing but warm glow.
She smiled.
Later that night, the apothecary smelled of lavender and orange peel—Laurel's final defense against festival fatigue. She stacked fresh sachets on the counter while Pippin napped in the herb drawer, purring in sync with the chimes outside.
Rowan had long gone home, trailing glitter and apology.
Laurel rubbed her temple. Somewhere between the humming lanterns and sentient sashes, she'd promised Seraphina more "interactive garlands." She still wasn't sure what that meant.
A quiet knock interrupted her thoughts. She opened the door to find Bram holding a very determined fern.
"This tried to enchant my boot," he said.
Laurel blinked. "That's a houseplant."
"It followed me."
The fern, for its part, swayed gently in the moonlight. Laurel knelt, inspecting its base. Someone had tied a festival ribbon to its pot—bright orange, humming faintly.
"Oh no," she whispered. "They're spreading."
Bram looked skyward. "We're doomed, aren't we?"
Laurel picked up the pot. "Not doomed. Just... artistically haunted."
Back inside, she nestled the fern by the hearth and placed a mug of valerian tea beside it, as if offering a truce.
It didn't hum again.
At least for now.
The following morning, Laurel found the shop unusually still. The fern had stayed rooted. Pippin, miraculously, hadn't stirred since midnight. And the last of the enchanted ribbons had curled up into little fabric cocoons, nesting in the window display as if repenting.
Laurel took her tea out to the stoop, where dew glistened on cobblestones and the lanterns still glowed faintly under the eaves.
A soft rustle caught her ear.
She turned to see a child—Tessa, the baker's youngest—tiptoeing up the walk, holding a crumpled scarf of shimmering blue. "Miss Laurel," she whispered, eyes wide, "this one tried to tuck me in last night."
Laurel accepted the scarf with a gentle smile. "That was very considerate of it."
Tessa nodded. "It sang me a lullaby. Off-key."
"Well, not all ribbons are born sopranos."
With a giggle, the girl ran off, skipping toward the square where Seraphina's decorations fluttered in place, now mercifully still.
Laurel placed the scarf beside the others, now woven into a gentle spiral on the apothecary windowsill. Not chaos. Not mischief. Just... a bit of overzealous magic finding its rhythm.
She took another sip of her tea, eyes drifting to the distant grove, where the leaves were just beginning to whisper.
Festival week had begun.