There's an art to mundane life. It sneaks up on you—the simplicity of daily chores, the comforting rhythm of repetitive tasks. Like weaving fabric on Ingrid's loom, or pretending I understood what Einar wanted when he asked me to fetch something called a "drawknife." (I had assumed it was a knife meant for artists. I was disappointed.)
Today's masterpiece was laundry. I was elbow-deep in frigid water, scrubbing out mud stains that could have been mine—though Einar was probably responsible for at least half of them. Ingrid, humming softly, chopped vegetables nearby. Outside, the world was quiet except for distant birdsong and the occasional clang from the blacksmith's forge in the distance. The wind rustled through the trees in that constant, low whisper unique to our patch of woods.
I wrung out another linen tunic, my fingers pink from the cold. There was something satisfying about this. Simple work. Honest. Predictable. My shoulders ached from the effort, but in a good way—the kind of tired that meant I'd done something useful. I couldn't help but hum along with Ingrid, a nonsense tune made up of half-remembered songs from both lives.
Predictable, right up until Ingrid set down her knife, sighed deeply, and muttered, "Blast. I forgot the rosemary."
She glanced at the bundle hanging just above the hearth, drying alongside various other herbs. Rosemary, sage, and a few whose names I'd never quite mastered. The air around the hearth always smelled of earth and resin, an herbal haze that clung to everything like memory.
"I'll get it," I volunteered brightly, wiping my hands hastily on the edge of my damp apron. Ingrid raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"You're sure?" She studied me, hesitating only briefly. She had good reason. I'd spent the better part of last week proudly attempting—and spectacularly failing—to climb the oak tree by the shed. But this was different. It was rosemary, not a death-defying climb. Simple. Easy.
Absolutely nothing to worry about.
"Piece of cake," I assured her, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head reminding me that every previous declaration of "piece of cake" had ended with bruises. Confidence was key. If I believed it, maybe physics would agree. Or at least look the other way for once.
I dragged over a stool carved by Einar, solid wood, rustic enough to look charming rather than cheap. Clambering up, I stretched as far as my five-year-old limbs would allow, fingertips brushing the fragrant herbs. The stool creaked under my weight—not dangerously, but enough to make me consider rethinking my strategy.
I was almost there. My toes curled, balancing precariously, one hand bracing against the wall. Just… one more… inch…
"Yes!" Triumph surged as my fingers finally closed around the bundle. Victory was sweet, tinged with rosemary's sharp, piney scent. I held it aloft like a trophy, basking in the imaginary applause of a nonexistent crowd.
Then came the part I hadn't thought through. With my attention fixed on the rosemary, I hadn't noticed my elbow nudging the shelf to my left—specifically, the old clay crock that held Ingrid's precious honey, painstakingly collected over weeks and strictly off-limits.
I barely heard the scrape as it teetered, tipping dangerously, until suddenly—
"Oh no."
It fell, spinning in that slow-motion inevitability you experience when your brain has just enough time to process exactly how screwed you are.
Instinct kicked in. I lunged after it, forgetting gravity, forgetting balance, forgetting pretty much everything except the crock's imminent collision with the unforgiving floor. My hands grasped desperately at empty air.
It was too late. I could already picture the disaster: pottery shards, sticky honey, Ingrid's quiet disappointment, and Einar's silent judgment. An epic fail, even by my lofty standards.
But somewhere between panic and resignation, something inside me rebelled. I wasn't letting gravity have this win—not today.
"No!" The shout tore itself from my throat, raw and desperate and startlingly intense. My fingers stretched out uselessly toward the crock as if sheer force of will alone could stop it—
And then it stopped.
The crock hovered—hovered!—just inches above the flagstones, trembling slightly, like reality was trying very hard to remember how gravity worked.
I stared—expecting the spell to snap like a twig underfoot. But the crock remained suspended in midair, honey sloshing slightly inside, perfectly upright. I stared, open-mouthed, lungs frozen, not daring to breathe. It felt like one blink might unravel the illusion and leave me kneeling in a puddle of sticky yellow disaster.
A faint shimmer surrounded the clay vessel, subtle, like heat waves off sun-warmed stone. My brain finally caught up to the scene unfolding before me.
"Oh, hell yes," I breathed.
A quiet, triumphant chime sounded softly in my head, followed immediately by a familiar blue screen flickering into existence at the edge of my vision.
~~~~~~~~~~~
[Skill Unlocked: Telekinesis]
Rank: F (2%)
You can now influence small objects through focused willpower.
~~~~~~~~~~~
My grin threatened to split my face in two. I'd done magic. Real, actual, physics-defying magic. Sure, it was just a crock of honey—hardly dragon-slaying heroics—but at last some of the fantasy loki had promised.
"Alice…?"
The voice behind me froze my blood faster than midwinter ice. Ingrid stood perfectly still, one hand still clutching the chopping knife, eyes wide and fixed squarely on the floating pottery.
We stared at each other, the moment stretching painfully.
"Um." I swallowed. "I can explain."
The crock abruptly remembered its purpose and dropped the remaining inch to the ground with a dull thunk. It didn't break—but the awkward silence was deafening enough to shatter glass.
Ingrid's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Alice, what just happened?"
I took a deep breath. Honesty seemed safest, but how exactly do you explain magical pottery-catching to your medieval mother? Carefully, I guessed.
"I…caught the honey." I gestured weakly toward the unharmed crock.
"With your mind?" She sounded more astonished than angry, which I counted as a small victory.
"I think so? Maybe?" My voice cracked slightly. "It was sort of an emergency."
Another silence. Finally, Ingrid carefully put down the knife. She took a slow step closer, crouching to my level, eyes meeting mine with a mix of awe, caution, and—damn it—a familiar touch of fear.
"Have you ever done this before?" Her voice was gentle but wary, like she was approaching a skittish animal.
I shook my head emphatically. "Nope. First time. Honest."
Ingrid took another breath, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of blue hair from my face. "Alice, you must promise me something."
I nodded quickly. "Of course."
"Never, ever let anyone else see this," she whispered firmly. "Not Einar, not Father Aldwin. No one. Understand?"
I blinked. "Are you mad?"
Ingrid hesitated, then shook her head, a faint smile creeping onto her lips. "No. Not mad. Just…" She sighed softly, worry tightening her brow. "We need to be careful, love. The world isn't always kind to those who…stand out."
The intensity of her words hit me hard, settling heavily in my chest. Loki's amused grin flashed briefly through my thoughts. Magic wasn't a simple gift—it was a warning label slapped on my forehead.
But still.
"I'll be careful," I promised softly. "I swear."
She nodded, visibly relaxing. "Good. Now—" She gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Let's put the rosemary in the stew before we burn supper."
I hopped off the stool, heart still racing from adrenaline and discovery, my excitement barely tempered by Ingrid's warning. I had magic. Telekinesis. I could defy gravity—or at least, gravity-adjacent events involving honey jars.
The crock lay quietly on the floor, mocking me slightly with its ordinariness. I smiled at it anyway. My fingers tingled, like they remembered the pull of the spell, the way it had answered without hesitation. That power—it had felt like a part of me waking up from a long sleep.
Who knew? Maybe tomorrow I'd move onto something bigger. Possibly even something involving fewer near-disasters in the Kitchen.
But let's be honest—probably not.