Advent Calendar Day 13

 

Today we are lucky enough to have an offering from the always delightful and talented Natasha Chesterbrook. I was doubly thrilled to see Natasha chose Cosmo and John from Bedknobs and Broomsticks for the holiday treatment. 😀😉 I especially love the POV she chose!

Bedknobs and
Broomsticks

 

“Ow! Goddess above.” rubbing his knee Cosmo backs out of the closet and scowls at me as if I’d tried to cause him bodily harm while sitting perfectly still here in the hallway.

“Pye, surely you remember where we put it?” he hisses.

Raising a paw, I ignore him and proceed to groom. Hiss at me will you!

Life with Cosmo is always a bit chaotic but even hundred-year-old familiars can get used to anything if their witch is … well, their witch.

I’ll admit there was a time in the last couple of years after Cosmo had sworn off all magic that I thought I might have to move on. A witch’s familiar is a link to the magical realm and their constant companion. With his vow, I’d felt as useful as a chocolate teapot at an English tea.

And his whirlwind romance and marriage to the mortal John – or as I like to think of him, The Comish – seemed to seal my fate as unneeded, even if I wasn’t unwanted.

But then things took a turn.

A series of seemingly never-ending adventures over the last six months, both magical and mundane, happened including more than one attempt on Cosmo’s life. In fact, one home invasion was thwarted by my own heroics. I try not to boast.

“Ha! Found it!” Cosmo’s exclamation of joy from the closet is short-lived as it is quickly followed by a loud thump and the tinkling of breaking glass. “Blessed be!” he wails. That must be the box of those hand-blown glass Christmas ornaments he bought at an estate sale back in October.

He’s determined to start the yuletide season with a bang – which is exactly what it sounds like he’s just done. But why the fuss? One small spell and the baubles will be good as new. Or better still, if he wants to avoid The Comish’s disapproval, Bridget is more than willing to make the repairs.

***

Cosmo holds up a glass tumbler, its pale green contents swirling about inside. An ill-timed sneeze might have betrayed my opinion of such a concoction, but he chooses to ignore me in favor of concentrating on finding the perfect Yuletide elixir – or cocktail, in the mundane world. It reeks of rum and desperation. My all too sensitive nose is having none of it.

“Don’t be so picky. You’ll still get your special treat of Tuna Tartare. This is just for John and me. I want it to be our new Christmas tradition.”

One sip later and he is pouring the remainder down the drain. 

***

I bat the ribbon curls across the floor enjoying how they rolled and skittered away. I may have more than a century of magical experience behind me, but one never gets too old for this kind of fun.

“Ow!” Cosmo’s cry halts me in my tracks.

Around him lay the detritus of his endeavor to create the perfect holiday wreath, a combination of evergreen branches, pinecones, cinnamon sticks, dried fruit and garland. The glue gun is clearly his undoing. He stands there holding his finger with a forlorn look on his face.

It’s the same one he wore after the disaster that was the gingerbread house. Cosmo maybe a magnificent witch with a penchant for solving mysteries but he will never be tapped to solve a housing crisis. Or a baking crisis for that matter.

***

We are in the guest room looking for the perfect hiding place – well, one of us is anyway. Certainly, I know every nook and cranny of this abode and can give Cosmo a list ranked in order by comfort and fit. However, he isn’t looking to hide a Russian Blue cat but a large, gayly wrapped box. I don’t see why all the bother. The Comish would hardly be the sort to peek before the big night. That’s more Cosmo’s style.

Not that The Comish will be hiding romantic gestures in the attic eaves. His idea of gift giving perfection is a pair of handmade Italian leather boots, or a trip to Milan for a fitting of said boots. Practical, generous and elegant.

Now Cosmo is standing on a stool in an attempt to reach a high shelf above the wardrobe. Foreseeing the outcome long before it is met, I do not stick around for the tears.

***

“What exactly were you thinking?” The Comish asks gently.

They sit on their gray velvet couch with Cosmo’s foot resting in his lap and a towel full of ice pressed to a swollen ankle. Cosmo fiddles with the bandage on his burnt finger.

“Aren’t hideously ornate wreathes and hiding presents for Christmas what everyone does?” Cosmo sounds lost.

The Comish sighed, “Well, maybe on TV but this is just you and me. You could have just put my gift under the tree.”

“I want our first Christmas to be perfect. To include all those traditions you grew up with.”

“We’re spending it together. It doesn’t get more perfect than that. Anything else is just dressing.”

It doesn’t sound in the least romantic but Cosmo melts like always when given the Comish’s unvarnished but absolutely sincere truth. The towel of ice slips to the floor but I doubt they notice what with the kissing and all.

I leave them to it as I am sure the lump in my throat is only a leftover bit of tuna. Yes, tuna. No doubt about it.

Joyeux noël!