They call me Mischief.
It's not a name—it's a warning.

I've got my paws full keeping Felicity from destroying herself with magic she can't handle, dodging a Magical Council that loves stripping licenses, and maintaining my rightful claim to every sunny spot in the workshop.

Then one spectacularly bad day turns me human.

Now I'm stuck in a body that doesn't purr, dealing with witches who actually expect me to follow orders, and somehow saving a realm that's falling apart faster than Felicity's last three spells combined.

The Council thinks they've got problems now? They haven't met me with opposable thumbs.

They call me Mischief. It’s not a name. It’s a warning. If Felicity had any sense, she’d paint it on the door in big red letters so only the bravest idiots would bother knocking.

The workroom stank of burnt thyme, half-drowned candle wicks, and Felicity’s latest assault on natural law, bubbling in the far corner. Sunshine streamed through a fractured pane and gathered precisely where I lounged atop the banned spellbook she required for her grand ceremony. Its leather binding was too warm and slightly tacky under my paws. It thrummed with a caged, restless magic that felt a lot like a heartbeat. Old grimoires do that when they’ve been stuffed with too many spells. Most witches keep them locked in iron chests, but Felicity leaves hers on a table.

Magic and cats don’t mix. We shed in it; we knock it over; we unravel it just by breathing on it. Spells know this.

Under me, charms fizzled and sighed, letting off the occasional purple cough—little puffs of magic that didn’t just vanish. One zipped across the table and smacked into a jar of pickled beetles, which started tap-dancing inside the glass, rattling like a drunken percussion section. Another purple puff shot into an open drawer, causing the lavender soap to leap out, sudsing itself and trying to scrub Felicity’s abandoned teacup. I kneaded the grimoire in approval.