THE DRAGON LORD'S BROKEN POCKET WATCH

There were two things I knew for certain about Mrs. Kensington. She never read instructions, and she always blamed the instructions afterward.

The third thing I knew was that she would eventually bring whatever she had broken to my shop and expect me to fix it.

Which was exactly why I wasn't surprised when the bell above my door rang that morning.

I was sitting behind my workbench, trying to convince a stubborn music box that it had no business playing funeral music every time someone opened its lid. The little thing had belonged to a young couple who wanted it repaired before their anniversary. Unfortunately, whoever had enchanted it had apparently decided that romance was best accompanied by something that sounded like the final scene of a tragedy.

I had managed to get it to play three cheerful notes before it gave an offended little chime and returned to its mournful song.

"Don't start with me," I muttered, completely frustrated.

The music box played the first four notes of a funeral march in response.

I stared at it. "You know what? Fine." I snapped the lid shut.

The bell above the front door rang again.

"Elara!"

I didn't even have to look up. "Good morning, Mrs. Kensington."

She marched into the shop holding a copper kettle—one I had already repaired more than three times in the space of a single week—with both hands.

"It's trying to kill me!" Mrs. Kensington declared in her usual dramatic tone. One would actually think she was a frantic mother whose baby had just refused to walk.

I finally looked up. The kettle was steaming this time around.

Not boiling. Steaming.

There was no fire beneath it. No water inside it. And a faint blue glow was pulsing menacingly around its handle.

I sighed. "What did you do?"

"I did nothing!" she immediately defended.

"Mrs. Kensington..." I warned, my voice dripping with frustration.

"I didn't!"

"Did you follow the instructions?" I asked, twitching my face as I waited to hear her usual round of excuses.

She looked deeply offended. "Of course I did."

I raised an eyebrow.

She looked at the kettle. Then at me.

"Most of them," she admitted, her voice suddenly lacking its former confidence.

"Which ones didn't you follow?"

"The unnecessary ones."

I put down my screwdriver. "There are no unnecessary instructions on a magical kettle."

"There were seventeen of them!"

"That should have told you something! That probably means none of the instructions were unnecessary."

Mrs. Kensington placed the kettle on my counter with a sharp clunk. "It was working perfectly yesterday."

"Until?"

"Until I tried to make tea."

I stared at her. She stared right back.

"What?" she asked.

"You weren't supposed to enchant the water. It's already an enchanted self-boiling kettle," I said, my tone hovering somewhere between giving instructions and total exhaustion.

"I wanted stronger tea!"

"So, let me guess... you put a strengthening charm on the water?"

"It seemed reasonable at the time," she mumbled.

The kettle suddenly hissed, making Mrs. Kensington jump back in fear.

I covered my mouth to hide the laugh that had already escaped my lips.

"It isn't funny, Elara!" she snapped in a high-pitched voice, which only made it harder for me to hold back my laughter.

"I'm sorry," I wheezed.

"You are still laughing!"

"I'm trying not to."

The kettle suddenly rattled against the wood, and Mrs. Kensington took two more steps backward.

"See?!" She pointed at the kettle, desperately trying to prove that the kitchen appliance was out for her blood.

I walked around the counter and picked it up carefully. The moment my fingers touched the copper, the kettle went completely quiet.

Mrs. Kensington frowned in displeasure. “You always know how to shut them up,” she sighed.

"That's because it knows I'm not going to mistreat it."

"I didn't mistreat it!"

"You tried to make it produce stronger tea by enchanting the water."

"Yes, I did, but—"

"That's mistreatment."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Can you fix it?"

I looked down at the kettle. "Probably."

"How much?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On how much magic you shoved inside it."

She frowned, and I simply offered her a sweet smile.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it."

Mrs. Kensington's expression immediately brightened. "Your great-grandmother would have fixed it in five minutes."

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again with the great-grandmother talk.

"My great-grandmother also apparently once repaired a wardrobe that ate three chickens," I said sarcastically.

"She was talented."

"And reckless," I added, needing her not to leave that part out.

"Same thing, Elara."

I laughed.

Mrs. Kensington reached into her purse and placed a few silver coins on the counter. "Come and get me when it's ready. I need to go get some sleep since I didn't sleep a wink last night because of that cursed kettle. God, I'm too old for this," she grumbled, turning toward the door.

"I will," I called after her.

She stopped right before the threshold. "Elara?"

"Yes?"

"Don't tell my husband about this."

I smiled. "Your secret is safe with me."

She gave a serious nod before leaving. The moment the door clicked shut, I looked down at the kettle in my hands.

"You heard her."

The kettle gave a small, repentant hiss.

"I know," I murmured.

I carried it back to my workbench.

The town of Bellwether was fully awake by then. Through the shop windows, I could see people moving along the cobblestone street. The town wasn't large, but the mornings were always busy.

Bellwether had been built around an ancient magical spring, which meant strange little enchantments were a seamless part of everyday life. The bakery next door had a sign that changed its wording depending on what was fresh out of the oven. The bookstore across the street used floating shelves because the owner claimed ordinary shelves took up too much floor space.

Even the streetlamps had personalities—one of them had been openly flirting with the local postman for three years.

I loved it here. Maybe because I'd never known anywhere else, but Bellwether had always been my home, and I had never imagined living anywhere else. The Vale family had lived in the valley for generations, and our repair shop had been here almost as long as the town itself.

The sign above my door read:

VALE & VINE

MAGICAL REPAIRS

The gold paint had faded years ago. I kept promising myself I would repaint it, but I never did.

The shop itself was small and always smelled faintly of dried herbs, old wood, polished metal, and whatever magical substance I'd accidentally spilled that week. Shelves covered every inch of the walls. Some held clocks; others held enchanted jewelry, broken wands, singing teacups, boots that walked backward, mops that cleaned on their own, cursed books, and mysterious objects I couldn't identify even after years of working here.

My great-grandmother, Lyra Vale, had started the shop. I had never met her, but Bellwether knew more about her than I did. She had died long before I was born, but her name had been a constant presence in my childhood. According to my grandmother, Lyra could repair almost anything. According to everyone else, she was just stubborn enough to try.

I wasn't sure which description was more accurate.

The bell above the door rang again, bringing me out of my thoughts.

Mara walked in carrying a steaming paper bag. "I brought you breakfast."

A smile immediately curved my lips. "You are my absolute favorite person."

"I know."

She placed the bag on my counter, and I opened it immediately. The rich smell of cinnamon and baked butter filled the shop.

"You made these?" I asked, already swooning over the aroma.

"Of course."

"Then I take back everything bad I've ever said about you," I said, my eyes practically shining with gratitude.

Mara placed her hands on her waist. "You said I was annoying."

"I stand by that," I grinned.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Mara owned the bakery next door with her sister. She had known me since we were children and had somehow appointed herself responsible for making sure I ate at reasonable hours.

I pulled out a warm pastry. "Did you put magic in these?"

"No," she replied quickly—a little too quickly, which made me instantly suspicious.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"You enchanted the muffins last week, Mara."

"They were supposed to stay warm!"

"They screamed when I bit into them! I nearly took pity on the poor things," I said, laughing.

"That was an unfortunate side effect," Mara added, unable to keep a straight face as we both laughed.

Mara leaned over the counter. "So, what happened to Mrs. Kensington this time around?"

I gestured toward the back. "Her kettle."

"Again?"

"Again."

"What did she do to it this time?"

"Strengthened the water."

Mara stared at me. "Why?"

"Apparently, she wanted stronger tea."

"That woman is going to get herself blown up one of these days."

"Probably."

For a while, we talked about nothing important. The bakery was busy today; the mayor's youngest son had apparently fallen into the town fountain again, someone's enchanted chickens had escaped into the main square, and a shipment of magical flour was late.

Normal Bellwether problems.

Mara eventually picked up the empty paper bag. "I should get back."

"Thank you for breakfast."

"Make sure you eat it."

"I will."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "All of it."

"I promise."

"Good."

I waved her off as she left before taking another huge bite of my pastry. The shop grew quiet again as I returned to my workbench and began dismantling Mrs. Kensington's kettle.

I had just removed the first enchanted ring when the bell above the door chimed.

I expected another local customer—or at least a familiar face from around town—but when I looked up, I saw a total stranger.

He stood just inside the doorway. He was tall—so ridiculously tall that he had to stoop slightly just to clear the frame. He had dark hair, broad shoulders, and wore a long black coat that looked far too expensive and tailored to belong in a place like Bellwether.

It had been a long time since we'd seen a new face in town. Was he a traveler? Was he lost?

He didn't look lost. His sharp eyes moved around the shop, taking everything in with calculating precision without touching a single thing.

Then those silver-gray eyes settled directly on me.

"Elara Vale?" a deep, raspy voice called out, pronouncing my name in a way that made my throat go completely dry.