The morning began not with birdsong, but with an off-key rendition of "The Mayor's March" whistling from the open shutters.
Laurel paused with a sprig of thyme halfway to her drying rack. The melody warbled outside like someone trying to hum and sneeze at once. Again. Off-key.
"Pippin?" she called over her shoulder, "Is that you experimenting with wind spells again?"
A feline yawn answered from the counter. "If I could whistle, I wouldn't waste it on that marching atrocity."
Outside, another verse of the tune hiccupped into the air, this time ending with a distinct trill of "tra-la-la."
Laurel stepped into the sunlight, hands on hips, and squinted at the culprit. A trio of finches sat perched atop her hanging sign, puffed with pride and chirping with all the enthusiasm of a tavern bard two mugs too deep.
"Oh no," she muttered, "not enchanted again."
She'd heard the melody often enough—it had become the unofficial anthem of Willowmere's upcoming festival. The villagers hummed it while sweeping stoops, the baker tapped it with her rolling pin, and Seraphina had even choreographed a dance for the children involving bells and suspiciously flammable ribbons.
But the birds?
She crossed the garden path and raised an eyebrow at them. "This isn't part of the performance lineup."
The middle finch launched into a flourish of notes so elaborate it sounded almost smug.
"I think they're improvising," Pippin drawled, now lounging in the doorway. "Should I book them a stage slot or warn the music committee?"
Laurel crouched and plucked a few chimes from the herb rack by the door—mostly used to encourage sleepy teas to finish steeping. She shook one gently.
All three birds stopped mid-song, heads swiveling. One hiccuped a note.
"I see," she murmured. "You're reacting to tonal frequencies."
"They're fans of percussive flair," Pippin added. "You should see what happens when the blacksmith drops his tongs."
Laurel glanced toward the forge. "Don't tempt me."
She gently jingled the chimes again. This time, the birds replied with an enthusiastic warble and fluttered into the herb archway above her.
"Well, they like something about the melody," she said. "But I need to find the source. Birds don't improvise symphonic festival themes on their own."
"And you think this is spontaneous avian creativity?" Pippin licked a paw. "I'm flattered you think so highly of our feathered cousins."
"No, but I suspect enchantment. Possibly from—" She turned. "Wait. Where did that lute come from?"
A faint shimmer caught her eye—leaning against the corner of the apothecary's doorframe, its body glowed faintly gold in the morning sun. Laurel stepped closer. She didn't remember anyone leaving an instrument behind yesterday. And certainly not one with inlaid ivy around the sound hole and strings that vibrated faintly even when untouched.
Pippin sniffed it and sneezed. "Definitely magical. Possibly pollen-based."
Laurel brushed her fingers across the strings. A soft note echoed into the air—pure and resonant—and the birds above repeated it immediately, pitch-perfect.
"Ah," she said, softly. "So you're the maestro behind this chorus."
Laurel carried the lute indoors, careful not to jostle the strings. The moment it crossed the apothecary threshold, a soft chord played of its own accord—two minor notes followed by a flourish that gave Pippin such a start he puffed up like a disgruntled dandelion.
"Don't sneak up on a cat with dramatics," he hissed. "I nearly clawed your lavender sachets."
Laurel set the lute on the worktable and leaned in, inspecting it. The strings didn't look particularly different—no glowing runes or humming sigils. But the wood had a warmth to it, like it had spent the night curled up by a fire.
She picked up her magnifying lens and turned the instrument over. "Nothing engraved. No maker's mark."
"I vote for 'possessed by a musical spirit,'" Pippin offered from atop a drying basket. "Preferably one with taste. Those birds were singing the chorus backward by the third verse."
Laurel turned the tuning pegs experimentally. Each twist evoked a corresponding chirp from the window. The finches had returned, apparently unwilling to miss rehearsal.
She plucked a string—and the birds harmonized instantly. She tried another note; they mimicked again.
"You're not just enchanted," she murmured to the lute. "You're a conductor."
At that moment, the shop bell tinkled and Bram Ironbuckle's voice boomed, "Laurel, you've got birds performing outside your window like it's an opera house. Are we charging tickets now?"
He stomped in, eyebrows raised and beard dusted with silver soot. His leather apron bore a scorched patch the size of a teacup.
"They were singing when I arrived," he added, eyeing the lute warily. "And one of them mimicked my sneeze."
Laurel offered him a smile and gestured to the instrument. "I think this is the culprit. Someone left it by the door."
Bram crossed his arms. "Magical instrument left unattended? Sounds like the start of a cursed minstrel story."
Pippin sniffed. "If it's cursed, it's cursed with rhythm."
Laurel turned back to the lute. "It seems to respond to intention. Watch."
She strummed three soft notes, thinking of rain tapping on glass. The birds answered with delicate chirrups, their rhythm slower, gentler.
"Now watch this," she added, imagining festival dancers in the square.
She tapped a cheerful rhythm on the body of the lute.
The birds broke into full melody, harmonizing in a rhythm so precise even Bram looked impressed.
"Laurel," he said, "you're conducting birds. You've made yourself a flying orchestra."
Laurel flushed, though she tried to keep her expression scholarly. "It might be useful for calming fields, or for encouraging harmony in shared spaces. Perhaps I could use it during the festival."
Bram grunted. "As long as they don't start taking requests."
"I could train them to perform during the tea stand rush," Pippin mused. "Soothing melodies while customers wait in line."
"Or lull them into forgetting they're still unpaid," Bram added with a wink.
Laurel laughed, placing the lute on the window sill. The birds gathered immediately, flanking it like guards before a royal harp.
"I suppose this is home for now," she said softly.
By afternoon, half the village had wandered past the apothecary to hear the impromptu concert. Children gathered on cobblestones with sticky fingers and wide eyes, clapping along to feathered refrains. An elderly baker brought a scone offering "for the band," and someone tied a garland around the lute's neck.
"I swear," muttered Laurel as she returned from restocking mint bundles, "if one more person asks if the birds take song requests..."
Pippin, now reclining in the herb basket like a prince on a velvet throne, swished his tail. "They requested 'Pinecone Waltz' four times. The soprano finch has range."
Laurel raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that's what they're chirping?"
"I have a musical ear."
"More like a melodramatic tail."
Still, even she had to admit—there was a strange comfort in the way the birds had brought people together. Where normally her shop was a place of soft voices and the clink of tincture bottles, it now hummed with quiet wonder and the scent of honeyed air.
A soft knock startled her from reverie. Seraphina, Willowmere's mayor, peeked around the door holding a parchment scroll that sparkled faintly at the edges.
"Laurel! Have a moment? I heard the rumors and had to see for myself." She paused mid-step, captivated as the birds performed a descending trill, then sighed. "You know, I had been dreading composing the final act for the festival. But this... this might be exactly what we need."
"You want to feature the birds?"
Seraphina grinned. "I want to feature you and the birds. A closing piece, perhaps. Something whimsical, light, and... heartstringy."
Laurel glanced at the lute. Its strings shimmered faintly. The finches blinked in unison, oddly synchronized.
"I suppose I could compose something," she said slowly. "If they'll cooperate."
"You've already got half the village under their spell," Seraphina said, laying the scroll on the table. "I'll handle the lights and seating. You just... keep tuning the songbirds."
Laurel nodded, oddly touched.
As Seraphina swept back out, Laurel turned to Pippin. "What do you think?"
He didn't even look up. "Demand a performance fee in sardines and leaf pie. And request soloist credit."
She rolled her eyes. But inside, warmth bubbled up—a blend of rosemary tea and pride. She'd never conducted a concert before. Never led a finale. Never imagined magic could sound like laughter in the leaves.
The lute shimmered again, as if agreeing.
Outside, the birds picked up the "Mayor's March" again, this time with a jazzy rhythm and an unexpected trill.
Laurel snorted. "Well. That's one way to end the day."
She stepped to the window, tapped the window frame, and the birds fell instantly silent, heads tilted in expectation.
"Good practice," she whispered. "Same time tomorrow."
The next morning, Laurel set a stool beneath the archway and cradled the lute across her knees. A soft breeze fluttered the mint garlands over the door, and the birds—six now—had already lined up like a feathery jury on the awning.
"Let's see what you remember," she murmured.
She strummed a chord—gentle, rising like steam from a morning brew. The birds answered in harmony. A second chord, brighter. The harmony echoed again.
Pippin appeared beside her, his tail twitching. "You've created a musical militia."
"They're better behaved than some apprentices I've had," Laurel replied, eyes twinkling.
From her satchel, she pulled a small vial of rosemary oil and dabbed the tuning pegs. The scent drifted upward like memory.
She closed her eyes and played—not the "Mayor's March" or the "Pinecone Waltz," but something of her own making. A melody shaped like sunlight through leaves. Soft, winding, tender. A lullaby stitched with morning mist and candlelight.
The birds listened, silent.
Then one, the smallest finch, chirped a single, sweet note in response. Another followed, and soon, a melody wove between strings and wings.
Laurel smiled. "That's it."
By the time the villagers began their morning errands, a quiet circle had gathered around the apothecary. No one spoke. They simply listened.
Rowan paused at the back of the crowd, hands muddy from morning weeding, eyes wide.
"She's conducting," he whispered.
Bram, standing nearby, nodded. "Conducting hearts more than music."
At the window, Laurel barely noticed. She was lost in the flow, not trying to impress, not trying to prove—but sharing. The birds gave voice to feelings she couldn't name, the lute warm against her hands like a friend's handclasp.
When the last note faded, no one clapped. They just smiled, lingered, and drifted off lighter than they'd arrived.
Inside, Pippin blinked slowly. "You know," he said, "if you did this every morning, we might solve all the village's problems without lifting a paw."
"I'll consider it," Laurel murmured. "Though I expect the birds might unionize."
She set the lute carefully on its new resting spot above the herb cabinet, beneath a painted mural of stars and vines. It didn't glow this time, but it didn't need to. The hush it left behind was music enough.
She turned to the window, tea brewing behind her, and watched as one of the finches dropped a petal on the sill.
Not a flower petal.
A feather. Iridescent, glimmering with gold.