The day started like most others, with the sun creeping over the rooftops, spilling warm light into my crooked little cottage, and the unmistakable plop of my hat falling off its usual perch. That hat. Always has opinions. Sometimes I swear it knows exactly when I’m trying to sneak out without it, as if it has some sixth sense for rebellious witches. “Not today,” I muttered, scooping it up and stuffing it into its new hiding spot: a woven basket lined with lavender sachets. I shoved the basket under my work table for good measure. Lavender was supposed to mask any lingering magical aura, or so Lady Pomfrey insists. Not that the hat smells magical per se, but if I’ve learned anything from her, humans will sniff at anything that seems remotely unusual.

I tied a scarf around my head instead, partly to keep my wild hair in check, mostly to convince the world I’m a completely normal, harmless woman. Then I stood in front of the mirror and practiced my best “I’m perfectly ordinary” smile. It’s all in the eyebrows, really. Raise them too high, and I look like I’m about to scream at a squirrel. Too low, and I look like I just smelled something terrible which, honestly, isn’t always a lie. The perfect neutral expression? Somewhere between polite boredom and mild indigestion. I swear I nailed it. Probably. Hopefully. The hat, meanwhile, was quiet, for now. But I know it’s just waiting for the moment I let my guard down. Because hats like mine? They don’t stay hidden forever.

The market was alive with chatter when I arrived, like a beehive on espresso. Cobblestone streets jam-packed with a jumble of villagers and nobles, all bustling around with the kind of energy only people chasing bargains or juicy gossip can summon. The scent of freshly baked bread hugged the air, cozy and warm, but then it tangled, unpleasantly, with the sharp tang of fish that made me wrinkle my nose just a bit. I pulled my scarf tighter around my face because, well, fashion, and also to hide the faint suspicion that my hat might be watching from its secret basket, judging my every move.

“Mireille!” screeched Henrietta, the baker’s wife, from across the crowd with the enthusiasm of a town crier on her third cup of morning tea. “You’re late! The young lord from the castle’s already taken all the cherry tarts!” I froze for a heartbeat, because honestly, who wasn’t late when there were cherry tarts at stake? But I smoothed my face into what I hoped was a casually disinterested expression and said, “I wasn’t here for tarts.” Totally believable. Totally not lying through my teeth.

“Just looking for rosemary,” I added, because nothing says ‘witch in disguise’ like pretending to be a harmless herb enthusiast.

Henrietta’s eyes narrowed so hard I thought she might need a chiropractor. “Rosemary? Again? You’re practically growing it out of your ears, dear. I’d have thought you’d need something else by now, like a husband!” She cackled like I’d just told her I was secretly the queen of some hidden realm.

I blinked, then blinked again, because what even is this conversation? A husband? Really? The idea was so absurd it made me want to snort-laugh and choke on my own air. “Maybe next week,” I replied, sidestepping like a pro dancer avoiding a sudden puddle. Henrietta never knew when to quit, but I had to admit, her endless enthusiasm was part of the town’s unofficial entertainment.

Behind me, a group of children gawked, wide-eyed, probably convinced I was some sort of enchanted creature with magical herbs sprouting from my scalp. Meanwhile, a noble nearby gave me a suspicious side-eye like he was trying to decide if I was the next plague or a new fashion trend. I smiled, carefully, like balancing a teacup on a wobbly table, and kept hunting for rosemary, because nothing says ‘blending in’ like pretending you’re utterly normal while plotting how to smuggle your cursed hat through another social event without it declaring war on the village birds.

The rest of the market passed in a blur of ordinary chaos, if you don’t count Lady Pomfrey unleashing her trademark fury on a poor merchant over the cost of ribbons. “Three copper for blue? This is robbery! They’re not even indigo!” she huffed, waving a frail finger like a tiny conductor leading an orchestra of outrage. The merchant looked like he’d just been accused of witchcraft, funny, considering my day, while a small crowd gathered, murmuring about the “ribbon rebellion.”

I busied myself pretending to care deeply about picking out sage, thyme, and a few sprigs of lavender that I absolutely didn’t need but couldn’t resist because it smelled like a fancy spa and made me feel momentarily less like a cursed hat smuggler. Bits of gossip floated past me like breadcrumbs, a whispered scandal about the emperor planning another grand banquet, and nobles already scrambling to make themselves the center of attention. Which, for me, meant staying as far away from the palace as possible for at least a week. Nobles equal questions, and questions equal disaster. Basket now crammed full of herbs and mildly suspicious amounts of floral scent, I was halfway home, mind drifting to thoughts of sneaking some cherry tarts when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

Csepel von Stein, the self-proclaimed "protector of the kingdom," was standing there like he’d been airbrushed into the scene by some overly dramatic artist who really loved brooding heroes. He leaned casually against the lamppost, looking utterly flawless, his dark coat untouched by market dust, boots polished to a mirror shine that could probably blind small animals, and his sword just peeking out like a shiny secret from beneath his cloak. Honestly, if statues could sigh, he’d have been doing it with flair.

He wasn’t looking at me, not yet, thank every star in the sky, but his very existence was enough to make me wish I’d stayed in bed and eaten cherry tarts instead. Because witches and their cursed hats aside, Csepel von Stein was basically the kingdom’s official witch hunter, minus the dramatic fiery torch, for now. And seeing him here in broad daylight was like spotting a dragon casually grocery shopping, rare, terrifying, and potentially catastrophic.

I clutched my basket like it was a life raft and forced my legs to keep moving because the moment you freeze in front of a witch hunter, you might as well start rehearsing your “I’m innocent” speech or prepare to be turned into a cautionary tale.

So I smiled. Not a polite smile. Not a nervous smile. The kind of smile that says, “I am so normal right now I might just win an award for Normalcy.” My shoulders relaxed even though I wanted to launch into full-on panic mode, and I walked like I was headed to a knitting circle rather than trying to smuggle a sentient, muttering hat through a crowd that included the kingdom’s most feared hunter.

My thoughts, meanwhile, were a chaotic jumble of “Don’t look suspicious, don’t look suspicious,” mixed with  “If I get caught, can I bribe him with cherry tarts? No? Worth a shot.”

Every step felt like walking on a tightrope made of spider silk, delicate, terrifying, and definitely not made for someone who trips over her own shadow. Breathing deeply, I told myself: “Mireille, you’ve got this. You are just another average girl carrying a basket of herbs. Nothing unusual here. Absolutely no magical, judgmental, potentially murderous hats involved.”

Spoiler alert: I absolutely did not have this.

I rounded the corner, heart pounding like a runaway drum, trying to pretend I wasn’t mentally drafting my will. The market sounds faded a little, just enough for me to hear the unmistakable snap of a twig behind me.

Great. Just great.

I dared a glance over my shoulder. Csepel von Stein had decided to follow me. Not that he’d made a dramatic announcement or anything. No, he was just walking quietly, all serious and broody, like a shadow with really expensive boots.

“Lovely day for herbs, isn’t it?” I blurted out, immediately hating myself for sounding like a nervous squirrel.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step closer, eyes scanning me from head to toe as if trying to decide whether I was a threat or just an innocent woman who’d wandered into the wrong story.

I clutched my basket tighter, almost crushing the poor thyme inside. The bustle shifted ominously, and for a terrifying second I thought I heard a low growl.

“Just... admiring the market,” I added, trying to sound casual while simultaneously calculating how fast I could run if things went sideways. Spoiler: not very.

He smirked. A dangerous smirk that said, “I know exactly what you’re hiding, and it’s probably not rosemary.”

I swallowed hard and prayed my hat stayed put. Honestly, at that moment, I would have traded every tart I’d ever eaten just for a moment of invisibility.

But instead of accusing me or lunging for a torch, Csepel sighed and said, “You’re fortunate today, Mireille. The emperor demands no witch hunts during the banquet week.”

I blinked, stunned into silence. My mouth went completely dry. My eyes widened like saucers, and my heartbeat sounded like a frantic drum solo inside my ears. I was halfway between turning and running so fast the pigeons would think I was a thunderstorm, and collapsing in a puddle of nervous sweat. My eyes probably went three sizes too big, and my mouth hung open like I’d just swallowed a live frog.  

No, no, no! He wouldn’t know, right? Right?!

“Huh…” The word slipped out before I could stop it, but inside, I was about as pale as a freshly washed sheet. My heart was doing somersaults in my chest, and my brain desperately scrambled for a safe escape route. Please take it back. Please don’t let those words mean what I think they mean. Please don’t light that torch, don’t drag me to a pyre, don’t yell “WITCH!” at the top of your lungs. Not right now. Not before I’ve had breakfast. I forced my eyes to stay calm and steady, but my hands were shaking like leaves in a storm. Because if you want to survive as a witch in this kingdom, you don’t fight the hunters. You out-weird the weird, out-smile the suspicious… 

“What… what does that mean?” I managed, voice somewhere between “utter disbelief” My eyebrows probably looked like they were having a contest to see who could touch my hairline first. Csepel raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my stunned expression. “It means,” he said slowly, “that even the emperor knows some traditions are best left undisturbed, at least for a week.”

“Witch hunt for a week…” My mind is empty, I feel like I can’t think anymore. I couldn’t process what was happening. Csepel just looked at me like I was the one who had lost her mind. “No, girl. I mean the emperor ordered a pause on witch hunts. Nothing personal.” My spirit tried to sneak back into my body, but it tripped over my jaw on the way down. “Oh.” I managed, wiping a bead of sweat that wasn’t really there. “That’s… that’s good news. Very good news.” I smiled like I’d just dodged a dragon and simultaneously won a pie-eating contest.

“So… no torch, no pitchfork, no screaming mob?” I whispered, like asking might make the whole thing vanish.

Csepel raised an eyebrow. “No. I’m just here to ensure the market runs smoothly.” I forced a shaky laugh, clutching my basket like it was a shield. “Right. Market. Definitely normal market stuff. Nothing suspicious. Definitely not a terrified witch about to have her cover blown.” As I shuffled away, I could almost hear my hat grumbling from its hiding place, “I told you to stay home today.”

Well, mostly ordinary. The hat still hums sometimes, but that’s a story for another day. Back in my crooked little cottage, I unpacked my herbs and brewed a pot of tea, letting the warm steam chase away the day’s lingering nerves. The hat sulked in its hiding spot beneath the table, grumbling in Old Hexan about being left out of the fun. Honestly, it didn’t have much to complain about. Another day had passed, and somehow, we were still alive. And really, isn’t that what counts?