The Unmentionable Truth About Mortimer Blight

In the grand city of Lankwell, where rooftops shook hands and alleys gossiped about the neighbors, lived a man named Mortimer Blight.

He was exactly the sort of man who wore grey socks with an alarming level of confidence and whose idea of excitement was alphabetizing his collection of "Interesting Spoons of the Southern Colonies (Commemorative Edition)." He was, in short, the least suspicious person you could ever meet. And that’s exactly why everyone suspected him.

Because no one, no one, is that boring on purpose.

Mortimer worked at the Bureau of Indeterminate Measurements, a government office so staggeringly irrelevant that no one was quite sure what it was for, including the people who worked there. His days were spent diligently categorizing units like the "squint" (a measurement of mistrust between villagers) and the "wobble" (used primarily by elderly butlers carrying tea trays on cobblestones).

But Mortimer had a secret.

A big one.

The kind of secret that, if whispered aloud, would make ducks fall from the sky and cause grandmothers to drop their knitting and mutter, “Oh, not again.”

Mortimer Blight could do magic.

Not the fireball-hurling, beard-scorching, tower-dwelling type of magic. No, this was small magic. Quiet magic. The kind that made teaspoons disappear only to reappear in the sock drawer, or caused potted plants to sway gently toward Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major.

But still—magic. In Lankwell, that was illegal.

Magic had been outlawed ever since the Grand Incident of the Pickled Salamander, which had turned the mayor’s wife into a rather irate potted fern. Since then, the city’s official policy was “If it sparkles, report it,” and those found guilty of magical leanings were sentenced to Community Re-Enlightenment (also known as twelve months listening to government propaganda about the virtues of practical hats).

So Mortimer, being the sort of man who couldn’t bear to wear an impractical hat, kept his magic hidden.

Very hidden.

This was harder than it sounded.

Because sometimes, when you’re very tired and trying to stir your tea, the spoon does start doing little somersaults of its own accord. And when you’re anxious, your wallpaper tends to hum Wagner.

The real problem, however, came in the form of Mrs. Pickleberry.

Mrs. Pickleberry was Mortimer’s landlady, a woman who believed that noise past eight o’clock in the evening was a direct assault on her dignity and that all tenants were probably spies. Her hobbies included peering through keyholes, overcharging for rent, and taking her pet squirrel, Geoffrey, for judgmental walks.

One Tuesday morning, as Mortimer tried very hard not to animate his toast, Mrs. Pickleberry appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed.

“Your kettle boiled before you touched it,” she accused.

“It was feeling... enthusiastic,” Mortimer replied, in the same tone one might use to explain away an unexpected badger.

She sniffed. Geoffrey glared.

It was only a matter of time.

That time arrived on a Thursday.

Inspector Peltwick of the Department for the Regulation of Unnatural Inclinations was not the sort of man who knocked. He simply arrived, usually accompanied by a hat so wide it had its own weather system and a clipboard that made people confess things they hadn’t even done.

“Mortimer Blight?” Peltwick intoned as he entered Mortimer’s office without waiting for confirmation. “You’ve been selected for a Random Civility Audit.”

Mortimer blinked. “Oh dear.”

“Indeed,” said Peltwick, setting down his clipboard with a finality usually reserved for tombstones. “I shall observe your routine for the next seventeen minutes. Do proceed as if I were not here.”

Which, of course, was impossible. The hat alone was louder than most conversations.

Mortimer attempted to resume his duties, nervously filing ‘squints’ into alphabetical order. But his nerves twitched. His magic twitched harder. And right as Peltwick adjusted his hat to better observe, the paperclips began to waltz.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

They formed into neat pairs, clicked their little metal feet together, and performed a delightful if somewhat avant-garde rendition of the tango.

Inspector Peltwick stared.

Mortimer froze.

There was a long silence, broken only by the paperclips nailing a rather passionate dip.

“Is this,” said Peltwick slowly, “a common filing practice in your department?”

“Yes,” Mortimer said, at the same time as, “No,” at the same time as the paperclips formed a conga line and exited the desk.

Peltwick adjusted his spectacles. “Interesting. Do continue.”

Sweat formed on Mortimer’s brow as his inkwell began quietly burping bubbles.

It was going to be a very long seventeen minutes.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, Mortimer lunged for the paperclips, trying to sweep them off the floor and under a folder marked "Extremely Dull Memoranda." He muttered under his breath, a string of unconvincing not-spells like, “Settle, you unruly office supplies, settle!”

“I’ve always said a good filing system should be lively,” Peltwick offered, voice deadpan.

Mortimer laughed nervously. “Yes, well, ours is a bit too... interpretive.”

The inkwell gave a theatrical burp and ejected a small ribbon of lavender-scented steam.

Peltwick’s hat tilted slightly forward as if intrigued.

Mortimer braced for arrest.

But then, something strange happened. Peltwick snorted.

A chuckle.

Then a full-on giggle, the sort that hadn’t seen daylight in decades and sounded like it had to fight past a century of protocol and starch.

“My dear Blight,” Peltwick said at last, dabbing at his eye with a lace handkerchief hidden somewhere inside the hat’s shadow, “that was the most delightful bout of spontaneous enchantment I’ve seen since my own cat turned into a teakettle and back.”

Mortimer blinked. “You... you’re not going to turn me in?”

Peltwick sighed. “Officially, I’m supposed to report you. Unofficially...” He leaned in conspiratorially. “...I knit sweaters that re-fold themselves in the wash.”

Mortimer gasped. “You’re a rogue enchantist?”

“An enthusiast,” Peltwick corrected. “And between you and me, the world is far too drab without a little sparkle. Just keep the paperclips in line, will you?”

Mortimer beamed.

“Now,” said Peltwick, straightening his hat and picking up his clipboard. “Let’s conclude this audit. I think I’ve seen quite enough... vibrancy for one day.”

And with that, he vanished in a swirl of brisk footsteps, a chuckling hat, and the faint scent of cinnamon.

Mortimer sat down, letting out a long breath.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t the only secret left twinkling in Lankwell.

Mortimer didn’t float home that evening, but it was a close thing. He practically glided, his shoes only just remembering to tap the pavement now and then out of politeness. The idea—no, the confirmation—that there were others like him kindled a warm flicker in his chest. Maybe even a spark. Possibly a fizz.

That spark became a crackle when he returned to his flat and found, tucked neatly into his front doorframe, a small envelope sealed with a wax imprint of a dandelion puff.

He opened it cautiously, expecting either an invitation or an explosion. It was Lankwell, after all.

Inside was a note written in elegant, swirly handwriting that looked like it had been trained in ballroom dancing:

To Mr. Blight,If your inkwell is still burping, you may be interested in attending the Tuesday Teapot Society.We meet weekly. Discretion and good biscuits are expected. Bring your own chair. (Ours tend to wander.)

Warm regards,The Dandelion Circle

Mortimer reread it three times. The Tuesday Teapot Society? The Dandelion Circle? Good biscuits?

He was in.

The meeting was held in the basement of a very respectable hat shop that only sold “conversation starters.” Mortimer had never seen so many hats with architectural ambition. One had a windmill.

Downstairs, he was greeted by Peltwick—hatless now, though his hair had assumed a similar silhouette—as well as a dozen other eccentrics who all wore the kind of smiles you only see in people who have nothing left to hide and everything left to enjoy.

One woman stirred her tea with a spoon that wrote poetry in the foam. Another man had a pet cactus that could hum sea shanties. Mortimer felt at home in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Over earl grey and ginger snaps (one of which briefly turned into a newt before remembering itself), they swapped stories of misfired enchantments, shared recipes for non-exploding jam, and compared techniques for disguising magical furniture.

Mortimer told his tale of the waltzing paperclips, to much laughter and applause.

Peltwick leaned over during the laughter and whispered, “We’ve been waiting for you, you know.”

“Me?” Mortimer blinked. “Why?”

“Because you still remember that magic isn’t just rules and consequences,” Peltwick said. “It’s surprise. It’s charm. It’s paperclips with rhythm.”

Mortimer sipped his tea, which tasted faintly of lavender and hope.

And then, as it always does when one is basking in a moment of contentment, something went wrong.

Mortimer, perhaps a little too enthusiastic in sharing his newfound joy, reached for another biscuit with his wand-finger (a habit he'd picked up unconsciously), and accidentally brushed against the enchanted teapot.

The teapot, startled, hiccupped violently and launched a jet of bergamot-infused steam straight into the air, transforming into a small but determined thundercloud that immediately began raining sideways.

The poetry spoon composed a limerick about moisture. The humming cactus slipped off the table in protest. Someone’s chair shouted “TIMBER!” and collapsed in an elegant heap.

In the middle of it all stood Mortimer, dripping and sputtering, clutching a now-soggy biscuit and blinking at the chaos.

Peltwick calmly conjured an umbrella made of teacups and gave Mortimer a sympathetic pat. “Happens to the best of us,” he said.

When Mortimer returned home, slightly singed and trailing biscuit crumbs, he was ambushed on the stairwell by Mrs. Pickleberry.

“You’ve been out, Mr. Blight,” she said with the sort of emphasis usually reserved for contagious diseases.

“I have,” Mortimer admitted. He looked damp and slightly luminous.

She squinted at him. Geoffrey bared his teeth.

“You reek of... camomile and disobedience.” She leaned in. “I know what you are.”

Mortimer gulped.

“I used to be one of you,” she whispered. “Before the Registry wiped my name and gave me a squirrel with a superiority complex.”

Mortimer blinked. “You were...?”

“Top of my coven. I could charm rainclouds into embroidery patterns. Now I’m stuck managing rent and rodent rage.”

They stared at each other in the dim hallway, two generations of secret magic, equally damp.

Then Mrs. Pickleberry sighed. “I won’t turn you in, Mr. Blight. But if you ever find a way to disenchant a squirrel with a Napoleon complex, you will owe me.”

Mortimer nodded solemnly. Geoffrey snarled.

And somewhere, deep in the shadows of Lankwell, another unlikely alliance was quietly forged.

Of course, alliances are rarely what they seem.

They are fragile things, held together with glances and obligations and unspoken truths. And sometimes, the smallest participant in the alliance holds the greatest secret.

Take Geoffrey, for instance. To most, he was nothing more than a particularly grouchy squirrel with a disdain for all things cheerful. He had perfected the art of scowling while chewing, a rare feat among rodents, and had never once accepted a peanut without first inspecting it for subtext.

But beneath that beady glare and luxurious tail flick lay the mind of a master enchantist. No, not just any enchantist—the Arch-Arbiter of the Acorn Conclave.

Yes, dear reader, if you’ve come this far expecting this tale to be about Mortimer—well, you’re half right. Mortimer was certainly the subject, the chaos vector, the charmingly drippy hero. But the truth is, this has always been my story.

I am Geoffrey.

My mistake? I challenged the Registry’s ethics on memory wiping. My punishment? Fur, teeth, and a life of peanuts.

They thought I’d forget. But squirrels never forget.

I’ve lived in silence, endured endless indignities, and tolerated more than one insipid brand of rodent kibble. But now, something is stirring. Mortimer’s awakening. The Dandelion Circle. The raincloud teapot incident. These are signs.

Mrs. Pickleberry suspects nothing of my true awareness. Good. Let her think I’m a Napoleon-obsessed nuisance. Let Mortimer believe I’m just another grumpy familiar.

The time is coming. Magic is returning.

And when it does, I’ll be ready.

—G.