The bale of alfalfa hovered in the air, held together by three strands of twine that pulsed to a rhythm only Farmer Ben could hear. Anxious cattle swarmed beneath it. At a mental command from Ben, the twine snapped. The bale crashed to the ground where a horde of bovine maws devoured it.
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“Stop messing with your hair, girl. You look acceptable.” Smorloc’s shout echoed from the potions chamber.
I rolled my eyes at my workroom mirror. He’d yet to even see me this morning.
The glass surface rippled and the mirror’s oracle emerged from its murky depths. “Lookin’ good,” he drawled. “Old Smores got summoned to the palace, huh? I can’t believe they keep calling back the one wizard who can’t even do magic.”
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