Bram Ironbuckle's forge belched out smoke in a lazy rhythm, like an old dragon sighing through its nose. Laurel had barely crossed the threshold when the heat swirled to greet her, sticky and clinging, laced with a scent of singed pine and something oddly minty.
"You smell like scorched peppermint," she said.
Bram didn't even look up. "New polish. Don't ask."
He stood by the anvil, shirtless and glistening, his silver beard bound in a single thick braid tucked into his belt. One arm—his hammer arm—was wrapped in a tea-stained towel, steam rising from underneath like it was plotting its own escape.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Another friendly chat with your anvil?"
"It started it," Bram muttered, gingerly unwrapping the cloth.
A wicked-looking bruise sprawled across his forearm, blooming from elbow to wrist in hues of plum and thistle. Laurel winced in sympathy. "That's not a bruise, that's an abstract painting."
"It's fine," Bram grunted. "Just needs one of your famous slimes or gloops or whatever you call 'em."
She set her satchel down with a soft thud and pulled out a small pouch. "You mean a yarrow-salve poultice with honey binder and peppermint cooling dust?"
"Exactly. A gloopy."
As she knelt beside his workbench, Laurel noticed a faint hum vibrating through the stone floor. Not the usual clang-and-grind of Bram's forge. Something lighter. Whispery. She tilted her head.
"You hear that?"
Bram shrugged. "If it's not swearing or spitting sparks, I tend to ignore it."
Laurel narrowed her eyes at the stack of cooling metal shards on the bench. They shimmered faintly, as if they'd been dusted in glitter. A tiny, sharp-edged piece jiggled slightly—then again—like it was trying to hop.
Laurel leaned in. "Did you… enchant these?"
Bram looked genuinely offended. "I hammer. I don't fiddle."
But as he spoke, one of the fragments rolled across the bench and dropped off the edge with a chime-like plink.
Laurel straightened slowly. "Your forge is whispering. And your scraps are mobile."
Bram scratched his beard. "You sure it's not your herbs again?"
Laurel scooped the hopping shard from the floor. It buzzed faintly in her palm, a gentle vibration like a kitten's purr filtered through a tin can. She brought it closer to her ear and caught the faintest susurration—clicks and chirps, not unlike beetles gossiping in the herb garden.
"It's speaking Insect," she murmured.
"Beg your pardon?" Bram blinked.
Laurel reached into her satchel for her field loupe and a pinch of elder pollen. A sprinkle over the shard caused the surface to shimmer again—then settle into a pattern of tiny etchings, curved and almost script-like.
"Chatter script. Beetle-branch dialect, I think," she said, more to herself than to Bram.
"I forge hinges and hoe heads, Laurel. Not talking paperweights."
She glanced around the forge. More shards rested near the cooling bin, scattered like breadcrumbs. "Did anything unusual happen yesterday?"
Bram scratched his temple. "Hummingbird got into the coal stack. Chased it off with a ladle. Then I found some old ore by the back shelves—looked normal. Smelled a bit like thyme."
Laurel froze. "Thyme?"
Bram nodded slowly. "Well, like thyme and... lightning."
"Oh no," she breathed. "You used Wild Ore."
Bram's brows furrowed. "Sounds made-up."
"It's real. Rare. Veins run near spirit paths. It holds echoes—of voices, movements, even gossip. It's not dangerous... unless you melt it down and forget to invite the original chatterers."
Bram looked toward his forge, suddenly wary. "You saying I've offended a bunch of ghost bugs?"
Laurel set the shard back on the bench and pulled out a jar of glowroot paste. "No. I'm saying your forge is now a very confused insect inn, and they're not thrilled about the room service."
Bram grumbled. "What do I do? Exterminate them?"
"Goodness, no. You apologize. And brew a truce tea."
He stared. "You want me to make tea. For metal bugs."
"They're not bugs. They're fragment spirits with residual beetle tendencies."
Bram opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally sighed. "I'm going to need a bigger kettle."
By late afternoon, Laurel had transformed a corner of Bram's cluttered forge into what she declared an "Insect Ambassador's Lounge." It featured a polished saucer with spirals of sweet mint petals, a dab of thistle honey, and a carefully warmed thimble of truce tea brewed with bluebell, crushed chamomile, and a whisper of verbena.
Bram watched the setup like it might sprout wings.
"This is the weirdest apology I've ever hosted," he muttered.
Laurel smoothed her skirts, eyes gleaming. "You'll live. They've come closer."
Indeed, the metal shards now clustered in a curious crescent around the offering, humming softly in chorus. Laurel leaned down, muttering softly in a cadence that sounded like wind through leaves—careful syllables drawn from a dusty page in the Eldergrove Grimoire.
A faint shimmer passed through the air. One shard spun once on its edge, then settled. The humming stopped.
Bram blinked. "That's it? We good?"
Laurel nodded. "They've accepted your peace. But they want one thing in return."
"Of course they do. What now—tiny armor? Leaf pillows?"
She smiled. "They want you to make them a home."
Bram squinted. "You mean a display case."
Laurel hesitated. "More like a tiny forge annex. A whisper chamber where their... conversations don't leak into your horseshoes."
He grunted. "And how am I supposed to build that?"
"I'll help. Enchanted corkwood, a shimmer stone, maybe a beetle-carved lintel. We can make it together."
Bram looked at his still-bruised arm. "Fine. But only if you name it."
Laurel tapped her chin, then grinned. "Chitterbox."
He groaned. "I regret everything."
The next morning, the Chitterbox was already half-built—Bram couldn't leave a project halfway, even a ridiculous one—and Laurel returned with a salve thick enough to scare off stubborn bruises. She handed Bram a ceramic jar, its lid sealed with twine and a sprig of basil.
"Apply twice a day. Don't eat it, no matter how good it smells."
Bram sniffed it suspiciously. "Smells like cinnamon rolls."
"That's the honeyroot. Keeps swelling down and confuses nosy beetles."
He muttered something about pastry-scented witchcraft and applied a dab, flinching only slightly. "Better already."
Laurel wandered to the new structure. The Chitterbox was a squat copper box nestled in the forge's stone nook, with tiny windows rimmed in beetle-carved brass. A soft buzz rose from within—faint, content.
"They like the oak resin seal," Bram admitted, almost sheepish.
Laurel smiled. "Told you they were reasonable guests."
"Still not inviting them to dinner."
She chuckled and took a seat on an overturned crate, sipping from her travel thermos. Outside, the late autumn sun cast copper shadows across the forge's stone threshold. Smoke curled lazily into the sky. There was a peaceful stillness to it all.
Bram broke the silence. "You ever think your job's supposed to be simpler?"
Laurel considered. "Often. But I suppose I'd be bored if all I did was mix cough syrup."
He chuckled. "You'd find a way to enchant it to sing lullabies."
"Only if it helped."
The forge hissed gently, a sound more serene now. Inside the Chitterbox, a single shard twitched—then settled into stillness.
Laurel rose, brushing off her skirts. "I'll check in next week. Let me know if they start requesting music."
Bram nodded. "And you let me know if your tea starts doing arithmetic again."
She waved as she left, boots crunching on the gravel, cloak trailing behind like a question mark. The air smelled of fire, herbs, and the faintest trace of mint-and-metal harmony.
Back at the apothecary, Laurel scribbled in the Eldergrove Grimoire under the section "Unusual Enchantment Incidents." Her quill hovered over the heading for a moment before she finally titled the entry: Metallurgical Chatter & Beetle Bunkmates.
She noted the cause (Wild Ore with lingering insect memory), the symptoms (whispering fragments and forge vibrations), the solution (truce tea and constructed whisper chamber), and the unexpected side effect: Bram smiling twice in one morning.
As she finished, a soft yowl interrupted her thoughts.
Pippin slinked in from the back room, eyes gleaming. "You reek of soot and sarcasm."
Laurel raised a brow. "Jealous you missed it?"
The cat leapt gracefully onto the counter. "I don't fraternize with blacksmiths. Too loud. And their hammers throw off my fur's humidity."
"Noted." Laurel closed the Grimoire. "What's your verdict on the Chitterbox?"
"I sniffed it. Very talkative. I recommend a warding herb—lemon balm or elder thistle. Otherwise, they'll be telling ghost stories to the broomsticks by next week."
Laurel laughed. "It's fine. They've earned their quiet corner."
Pippin circled once and nestled onto a sunny patch of countertop. "Well then. What's next on today's ridiculous agenda?"
Laurel glanced at the window, where a villager was gesturing frantically and holding what appeared to be a potted sunflower wearing earmuffs.
She sighed contentedly. "Probably something humming."
Pippin didn't open his eyes. "Of course it is."