Cats, witches, toast
But On the last warm evening before the October cold snap, a little black cat named Button decides she wants to be important.
She sat on the fence along Maple Lane, watching a round pumpkin across the street. The pumpkin’s name was Pippin. He grew up in a neat garden full of marigolds. Pippin wanted a friendly face and a quiet spot on the porch. In a nearby cottage lived a young witch, with a slightly crooked hat and a habit of drinking peppermint tea in a small iron cauldron. Her magic is focused on useful things: undoing knots, warming cold paws, helping bread rise.
Button had been seeing Wren for a few weeks and decided he wanted to get to know her. He still hadn’t found the courage to say hello. That evening she jumped down the fence and walked onto Wren’s porch and bumped against his shoe.
“ok hi incrop, (His name for the little black cat)) said Wren, kneeling down.Do you want to help me choose a face for Pippin?“Button wagged his tail once for a yes. Wren drew a simple, friendly smile on the pumpkin with a stick of chalk. Pippin felt proud, even of his slightly off-center lid.
“I need a partner,” Wren said.A familiar first class. Duties include announcing mail, chasing exactly three leaves a day, sitting… so… about… about… about.