Market day arrived with a bright sky and the scent of baked apples drifting down the cobbled lanes of Willowmere. Laurel, basket in hand, navigated the morning bustle with a practiced grace, nodding to familiar stalls: Bram's bronze tools gleaming like polished autumn, the baker's stand overflowing with sweetberry tarts, and a pair of goatlings inexplicably wearing knitted scarves.
But it was the new cart near the herb booth that drew her attention.
It was painted a vivid sea-glass green, with swirling runes lacquered in silver around the edges. A sign, dangling slightly crooked, read:
"Master Burble's Bewitching Beverages – Taste the Magic!"
Laurel approached, cautious. Pippin trotted at her heels, ears forward in curiosity.
A man popped up from behind the counter—round-cheeked, wild-haired, and wearing a coat several shades too bright for polite society. "Good morning! You must be Laurel Eldergrove. Word precedes you like a well-cast scent charm!"
"Does it," Laurel replied, eyeing the collection of glass vials arranged like a rainbow on velvet cloth.
Master Burble clapped his hands. "I've brewed a series of sample elixirs to invigorate the common folk! Harmless, delightful, and full of personality. Would you care to try?"
Pippin jumped onto the counter. "You go first."
Laurel peered into the tray of elixirs. Some shimmered like bottled soap bubbles; others pulsed faintly, as if containing breath. "What's in them?"
"Trade secret!" Burble beamed. "But entirely within regulation. No volatile herbs, no spirit interference. Only the finest flavor-forward enchantments."
That raised a brow. "Flavor-forward?"
"Indeed. I believe magic should taste as delightful as it feels. Observe!"
He plucked a vial—swirling pink and gold—and uncorked it with a flourish. The scent was something between honeyed pear and fresh lightning.
Before Laurel could object, Burble tossed it back like a shot of spring rain.
He hiccuped.
Then a single, iridescent bubble floated out of his mouth.
Another followed. And another.
Soon the man was surrounded by shimmering bubbles, each drifting lazily into the air, some popping with faint musical tones.
A crowd gathered. Children giggled. Bram raised a skeptical brow from his anvil demo. Rowan, passing with a basket of turnips, blinked. "Is that... fizzy?"
Laurel took the offered bottle with some reluctance. "I don't normally drink on market days."
"It's non-alcoholic," Burble promised, hiccupping a bubble shaped like a teacup.
With one sip, Laurel felt a tingling on her tongue. Her next exhale released a delicate string of silver bubbles that danced in formation before drifting upward like lanterns.
The crowd applauded.
"Well," she said, watching one swirl into a heart. "That's... new."
"Let me try," Rowan said, already reaching for a vial marked with a swirling R.
Laurel caught her wrist gently. "Half a sip. Not more."
Rowan nodded, uncorked the bottle, and took the tiniest swallow.
She exhaled—and a flock of hummingbird-shaped bubbles darted from her nose, spiraling in playful loops before popping into puffs of cinnamon. Her eyes widened in delight.
Pippin, of course, leapt down and inspected the tray. "Anything for felines?"
Burble scratched his chin. "I suppose... well, none explicitly say not for cats."
"That'll do."
He sniffed, selected a pale green one, and licked the rim with ceremonial dignity.
A hiccup.
A pause.
Then a cascade of bubbles erupted—small, rapid, and alarmingly frequent. They floated upward, popped mid-air, and each burst released a sarcastic-sounding meow in Pippin's voice.
"Oh no," Laurel muttered.
"Oh yes," Pippin chirped—three times in succession, from bubbles that bobbed around him like ghostly echoes.
The stall next door burst into laughter. Even Seraphina, passing with a bouquet of ribbonweed, smothered a chuckle.
"Why do they all sound like me?" Pippin demanded.
"You've finally met your match," Laurel said, dodging a bubble that sang "I'm elegant and misunderstood!"
"Sabotage," Pippin growled, tail fluffed.
The bubbles multiplied.
A gentle wind lifted them down the lane. Villagers paused their errands to watch flocks of luminous spheres soar past—each one releasing a ridiculous sound effect, a chorus of tiny hiccups, or increasingly absurd versions of Pippin's voice.
One particularly large bubble bounced against a baker's crate, popped, and recited:
"I require tuna and validation."
Rowan doubled over in laughter.
Burble scratched his head. "Might've over-infused the mimic moss."
"Might've?" Laurel pulled her scarf over her nose as a bubble whizzed by yelling, "Bow before me, fools!"
"I was aiming for 'whimsical commentary,'" Burble said sheepishly. "Seems it adapted to the loudest personality nearby."
"That explains everything," Laurel muttered.
Pippin leapt into her basket. "Make it stop."
Laurel scanned the tray. "Do you have anything in here to neutralize effects?"
"I... have a ginger fizz for hiccups?"
Laurel opened it and waved it near Pippin. The cat sniffed once, sneezed, and a final bubble—silent this time—floated gently up and popped.
All was quiet.
Burble clapped. "Marvelous show! Unintentional, but marvelously engaging!"
"You might want to label that batch," Laurel said, handing him the now-silent bottle. "And limit cat interactions."
"I'll add a clause."
As the afternoon settled into golden hour, the crowd drifted away, pockets of laughter still echoing between the stalls. Children chased lingering bubbles, giggling as they burst with sparkles and faint mews. Someone strummed a lute near the bakery, and the air thickened with the smell of caramelized apples and woodsmoke.
Laurel sat on the edge of a planter, sipping a chamomile blend to settle her still-tingling tongue. Rowan sat cross-legged nearby, trying to sketch a hummingbird bubble before it popped.
"Do you think the spirits were watching?" Rowan asked suddenly.
Laurel glanced at the leaves above them. "If they were, I suspect they were entertained."
Pippin prowled into view, tail still puffed. "No more 'taste the magic' stalls. Ever."
Rowan grinned. "But you were the star."
"I am always the star," he replied, with a final, theatrical huff.
Burble approached, now considerably more subdued, holding a small thank-you pouch of peppermint shavings and bubbleweed seeds.
"For your garden," he said. "And your forgiveness."
Laurel accepted both with a nod. "Keep it under ten bubbles next time."
As twilight crept in, she hung a bell of woven thyme on her shop door—one that would tinkle if overly fizzy magic ever wandered too close again.
Inside, the apothecary glowed with evening calm.
Outside, a single bubble drifted upward—quiet, clear, and carrying nothing but the scent of mint and laughter.