I sat down in one of the cafe's dining chairs, indulging in a wooden surface that was flat and varnished and not the repurposed tree branch that broomsticks were fashionably made of since the invention of the word discomfort.

I'd once queried why broomsticks were spindly, since soreness aside, aerodynamics seemed to suggest that straighter was better. I was told the reason had less to do with practicality than it did with aesthetics. And thus anything I had to say about the matter was handwaved away.

As a result, sore bottoms.

It could be negated with the cushions that witches sometimes brought with them, but like hats, they too were illegal for ordinary people to use. Witchcraft was an old profession, and much like the postal market they monopolised, was something they zealously guarded.

If they couldn't stop outsiders from riding knock-off broomsticks, then they could at least petition every duke and duchess across the land to ban them from looking like one. It was much more than just image rights, though. A witch's hat was a natural windshield. Without one, it ensured non-witches could never threaten to outspeed a delivery witch. The cushion ban was just an added deterrent.

With the afternoon rush over and the cafe sign mercifully flipped to closed, Lize came over to serve her last customer of the day.

Me.

“Tea or coffee?” she said, holding up a pot in one hand and a jug in the other. “There's also single malt whisky.”

“We have single malt whisky?” I asked, not sure how shocked my face should be over my co-workers hoarding hard liquor somewhere in the cafe. I opted to keep it at the low end of the scale. “How come?”

“Madame Zaibe says a drop of highly concentrated alcohol in beverages that really don’t need them at all is all the rage these days. We'll have it as a menu option next week.”

I needed to have a word with Madame Zaiba, it seemed.

Not just about having booze as a top-up option for our tea pots, but also about the last thing, too. There was still time to stop our uniforms from becoming maid costumes altogether. At the moment, we could still argue we were waitresses. Just.

“That sounds like a new cauldron waiting to spill over,” I said, adding a thankful smile when Lize began pouring me plain tea. “Won’t that ruffle a few feathers with the people actually meant to serve alcohol with things that don't need it?”

“Can’t ruffle what’s already been plucked. All the bar, pub and tavern owners are pink as moulted flamingos at the news. I think Madame Zaiba leaked it herself. Even so, they’re not putting up as big a fuss as you’d think.”

“Huh.”

I leaned in, planting my elbows on the table while I admired the bergamot zest wafting from the tea.

This was the good stuff.

“It probably means they're doing the same thing to us,” I added, just to sound less dull. “The bars and pubs will be selling pancake and coffee combo sets soon as newly rebranded cafes.”

“Good. That's what the world needs. More cafes. War, violence and mimes are inversely proportional to the amount of establishments selling blueberry muffins.”

I looked up.

“Mimes?”

“They're just so angry. Always poking, jabbing.”

“I think that's their job.”

“No, they're so enraged they're lost for words. It’s tragic. Mimes need our cherry crumb crumble. It's hard to be angry when your cheeks are bulging with desserts disguised as breakfast, don't you think?”

I thought about it, then nodded as I sipped my tea. I'd never been called out to dragons arguing in a cafe before. Therefore it must be true. Statistics.

Knock, knock.

Lize and I turned towards the door, both of us with our lips half-formed to say that we were now closed.

Instead, we both started towards it.

My co-worker quickly shook her head as I began getting up, and I gratefully sat back down to continue admiring the citrus notes of my tea. Lize unlocked the door. Evening sunlight flooded in as it opened to a musical twinkle, illuminating the silhouette of the girl hovering on a broomstick just outside.

“Express delivery,” said the witch, adjusting her dark hat while holding onto a wrapped parcel with the other. “I have a parcel for Elise Rowe.”

I rushed to my feet. Lize shot me an apologetic smile. Oh well. She'd tried.

The witch looked me over as I appeared. At once, her already bright violet eyes flashed like iridescent pearls, then she nodded.

No other confirmation required. Even if I wasn't the heroine, delivery witches always knew precisely who and where they were going towards. It's said that when pigeons lost their sense of direction, they asked a witch to point them the right way.

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“Signature here, please.”

A scroll of parchment appeared in a puff of white smoke, floating briefly in front of me before I caught it. As I turned to dash for a quill, I suddenly realised one had already appeared in my hand.

Impressive. This was a powerful witch. Few of them knew how to do the putting-stuff-in-my-hand trick. Mostly since those that did were being better paid in a more senior logistics position. With few exceptions, being a delivery witch generally meant being newly initiated. A rite of passage. But one that also still paid reasonably well.

I scribbled my signature, which as usual changed depending on how the stars aligned, then found myself looking with interest at the witch as she studiously added her own signature, plus the exact time of delivery.

Violet eyes and dark hair knitted into an elegant bun. Soft features, with a small nose and a natural blush. Someone I’d never met before, but was definitely familiar.

Now, where had I seen her before?

“Thank you,” said the witch, making the scroll disappear as quickly as it'd come. “On behalf of the Bewitching Postal Service, I apologise for the delay. Your consumer guarantee has been observed and a full refund will arrive by warded letter at your registered postal address tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, I see,” I replied, hoping I wouldn't have to sign it, but knowing I definitely would. “Was this delivery late? I didn’t even notice.”

“Your package was sent via our Witching Hour service. This delivery is almost two minutes overdue.”

“Ah.” I paused. “Is that bad?”

The witch nodded, seriousness creasing her expression.

“We fly through the sky, Miss Rowe. There are no detours in the clouds. Only straight lines. There is no excuse for tardiness, hence why our Witching Hour service boasts a 100% punctuality rate until now.”

“... Mine is the first late package?”

I had to raise an eyebrow at that. To be the first known bearer of a late delivery. I knew being a heroine was all about letting fate rain bad luck on me like it was always monsoon season, but this just seemed petty.

“As far as I'm aware,” said the witch. “I apologise once again for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, offering the same smile I did to customers who apologised for taking too long to order. “You must be busy, what with the... well, I'm sure there's something happening somewhere.”

The witch returned the smile, though hers was noticeably more tired.

“For witches, always. Currently, all of Witschblume’s delivery witches are unavailable. I was drafted in at short notice. This delivery would have been even more late otherwise.”

I blinked at the use of the word unavailable.

It didn't merely imply the local delivery witches were busy. They were very busy.

That was new. The delivery network was their flagship service. Was it even possible for all of the local witches to be doing something else to the detriment of the postal service?

An uncomfortable feeling started making its way known somewhere in my stomach. It was either a disagreeable sandwich or a premonition of doom.

So far, it's always been 50/50.

“... Is there trouble?” I asked bluntly.

The witch considered my question with an unreadable expression. Taken from anyone else, it’d be small talk at best and nosiness at worst. But I wasn't only a waitress. And that meant a weight to my queries.

“Perhaps,” she said as her broomstick began to rise, and I knew this was all the answer I would get. “But witches have our own tales to tell, and few require the presence of a heroine.”

She adjusted her pointy hat once more, then did the same with her dark robes.

“Good day to you,” said the witch, nodding at both Lize and I. “And should you require sending mail in the next few days, I advise use of a ground delivery service.”

The witch twice tapped the back of her broomstick, then began setting off. She didn't look back as she accelerated towards the clouds, her small figure leaving behind a fluffy trail of vapour in her wake.

Lize admired the dot fading away into the distance, then closed the door.

“That’s nice,” she said, locking up once again. “I like listening to your conversations. Always polite, with a bit of vague mystery and allusions to possible greater calamities on the horizon. Witches this time, huh?”

“Witches.” I nodded. “Although I might be able to excuse myself. Witchly affairs aren't in my jurisdiction.”

“You say that, but I don't think that witch made your delivery just to stave off a customer complaint. Did you know who she was?”

“No, although she looked familiar.”

“Good. All that time zipping through yeti caves hasn't made you a complete current affairs hermit. That was Marissa Haycroix.”

I let the name filter through my mind. Nothing came up. Maybe I needed to do heroine stuff closer to the nice shops where the older ladies liked to gossip.

“Marissa Haycroix?”

“She's a bit of a starlet in the witchly world. Well, I say a bit. She's actually super famous. You don't read any magazines?”

“Of course I do. I visit the dentist every six months.”

Lize gave me a pitying look, as though I were a lost chick pining after my mother.

“I have a subscription to Cosmos Magazine. Want to have a read?”

“No, it's okay. I'd like to make use of my new alibi of being too busy zipping through yeti caves. Thanks for that one.”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, you probably know her since she's popular enough that all good magazines falling apart at the spines feature her. She has her own cosmetics range, you know? Her lip glosses are pretty good.”

I peered through the glass of the door, unable to spy the witch who I hadn't taken as a business diva at all.

“Huh. I didn’t know. So she’s a magazine model, an entrepreneur and a delivery witch?”

Lize nodded, smiling brightly.

“What's the percentage, you reckon, of her only dropping by just to deliver a slightly late parcel to you?”

“Zero.” I gave a light stretch of my arms, then turned back to glance over the cafe counter. “Did any of the new walnut cakes sell?”

“No. Want to finish it together?”

“Sure.”

I headed over to the unsold merchandise while Lize went to fetch cutlery, plus a teacup for herself.

Somewhere, a sound boomed in the distance, and I felt a tingle of primordial crackling in the air. A vibration shook the ground, eliciting a brief chorus of clinking from the plates and cups. A flock of sparrows outside the window took flight, and a group of chubby cats sprinted ineffectually after them.

Lize paused for a napkin. Some of my tea had spilled onto the table.

Then, I opened the counter display and reached for two slices of cake.

It was still just a normal day.