Tara ran out. The trees seemed taller. The vegetables in her garden had doubled in size, shimmering faintly under the moonlight. And her broomstick—which usually hung loyally by the door—was now hovering by the fence, tapping impatiently.
“Update notes,” Cleocatra purred. “Check ‘Quality of Life Improvements.’ Now, can we please discuss the lack of tuna in this patch?”
“That’s not a spell I recognize,” she muttered.