The sun had barely risen – though judging by the persistent drizzle, it might just as well have been midnight – when a polite yet determined knock rattled my front door.

  I groaned, face buried in my pillow.

  “Who could it possibly be at this hour?” I muttered, fumbling for my robe and surrendering any hope of dignity.

  “Someone who knows everything about you,” said Lord Bastion Thistlewick from his perch on the windowsill, tail flicking with theatrical suspense, “and has decided that knowledge is the same thing as authority.”

  I fixed him with a glare. “I do not require your commentary before my first cup of tea.”

  He yawned extravagantly. “Ah, but I enjoy it immensely. It’s the highlight of my mornings, really. You should feel honoured.”

  I muttered something unladylike and opened the door.

  A small cluster of neighbours stood there, each wearing the particular expression of people who had been awake far too long and had arrived armed with opinions far too large for their own good. At their head was Mrs Pemberton, gripping a clipboard like a shield and peering at me as though I were a particularly disappointing headline.

  “Mrs Rowntree,” she said briskly. “We need to discuss… recent events.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Recent events?”

  “The laundry incident,” she said crisply. “The burning hearth. And the… unusual behaviour of your cat.”

  I blinked.

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick leapt gracefully onto my shoulder, settling there with the confidence of someone who believed the world existed purely for his convenience. “Unusual?” he murmured into my ear, voice thick with disdain. “Really? That’s the word you settled on? How pedestrian. I would have gone with astonishingly educational chaos.”

  “I –” I began.

  “Oh, I know,” he continued smoothly. “You’re about to defend me. How quaint.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I assure you, I will handle this –”

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  “Handle?” he interrupted. “Dear Elspeth, I admire your optimism, but ‘handle’ implies competence. Let us not insult our neighbours’ intelligence before breakfast.”

  I ignored him with the practiced focus of someone who had learned that engaging only made things worse.

  Mrs Pemberton stepped forward. “We, the Neighbourhood Committee for Domestic Safety and Magical Etiquette, formally request that you control… whatever that cat is doing.”

  Lord Bastion lowered his head and peered at her as though she had just announced that the moon was made of cheese.

  “Control?” he purred, every syllable steeped in disdain. “My dear woman, control is a charming fiction. It exists only in pamphlets and children’s stories. You may try it with your crochet club, but not here.”

  Mrs Pemberton blinked. “He… spoke?”

  “Of course I spoke,” Bastion replied, whiskers twitching with delight. “Do you imagine I merely meow? I am a cat of distinction, madam. A connoisseur of chaos. You may address me as Lord Bastion Thistlewick, if you value politeness.”

  I sighed. “Yes, yes, he’s mentioned that. Repeatedly.”

  The committee exchanged uneasy glances, several of them taking a cautious step back.

  “Look,” I said gently, “he doesn’t mean –”

  “Oh, I mean everything,” Bastion cut in, flicking his tail in what could only be described as a deeply smug gesture. “Every incinerated sock, every singed curtain, every very polite scream of terror. I mean them all. With gusto. Glorious, unfiltered gusto.”

  Mrs Pemberton gasped. “You… enjoy it?”

  “I thrive on it,” he said proudly. “It’s educational. I am teaching her resilience. You are welcome.”

  I offered a weak smile. “He’s being sarcastic.”

  “No,” Bastion said, fixing me with a pointed glance, “I am being accurate. Sarcasm is merely the garnish.”

  A tall man at the back, whose beard resembled an anxious broom, cleared his throat. “So… what do we do?”

  I considered this carefully. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. If you leave now, nothing will happen today. That’s a promise.”

  Bastion smirked. “Ah, but do they trust you? Humans do love a bit of theatrical despair. It’s endlessly entertaining.”

  I shot him a look. “You are an arsehole.”

  “And yet,” he said loftily, “here I am – educating, instructing, elevating. Consider yourself fortunate.”

  Mrs Pemberton, clearly deciding that arguing with a talking cat before breakfast was a poor life choice, nodded stiffly. “Very well. We’ll… consider the matter resolved.” The committee shuffled away, muttering darkly about bylaws and magical hazard assessments.

  Once they were gone, I collapsed into my armchair, tea forgotten, and stared at the ceiling. “I cannot survive this.”

  Bastion hopped into my lap, settling himself with infuriating comfort and purring with a smug satisfaction that vibrated straight through my spine.

  “You will survive,” he said soothingly, “if only because I find it amusing. And I cannot have my favourite witch fail before her tea.”

  “I hate you,” I muttered.

  “Hate is such a strong word,” he replied, blinking slowly as though deeply wounded. “I prefer begrudging admiration.”

  I poured myself a cup of tea, then another, and accepted that I would need both before even considering dinner.

  And somewhere beyond the drizzle, the sky darkened with the quiet certainty that Bastion had already begun planning his next lesson in chaos.