“There, that’s it,” she hummed, as if speaking to someone who had just worked a knot out of her shoulder. Molly Pratt was speaking to her cat— one of many, a decade-old faded charcoal thing with a misleadingly lethargic stare and whisking tail. Such was his countenance as he stared at Molly from his spot on the kitchen floor, his belly sprawled near the island so that hairs were a hair’s breadth from the cabinetry. (Which had luckily been painted and installed long before the pets had access to the kitchen. If the living room had not faired so well, if Casper had had to paint over paw marks, Molly knew it was all out of love: love from the cats, and love from her husband.)
Molly drew her hands back from the vase. The bouquet was the perfect edition the absurdly charming view from the window above the farmer’s sink. They were among the first blooms of the season: white daisies with bright yellow middles. Buds of similarly hued flowers lingered just out of her line of vision— below the kitchen window— ready to wake with the rest of Casper’s garden. Molly couldn’t wait to stop buying the blooms from the market down the road, and instead pick the ones her husband had been growing. She’d already had to stop herself from clipping every plant in their dining room to bring more cheer to the (indisputably cheerful) kitchen.

In the winter, the old greenhouse that had become their dining room made a refreshing contrast to the snowy grounds and gray skies, but it still matched, still felt like a cozy extension of their garden. In the spring, the sun overhead only further highlighted the room's beauty. Molly didn’t think there was a lovelier place in England to have a cup of tea, eggs, and sausages.

Bits of stem littered the kitchen counter, having somehow found their way off of the butcher’s block the witch had been using to chop them. Water droplets made a spotty river between them. Her wand, cutting instrument of choice, sat a few inches from the block. It might have been the evidence pointing to the culprit, if Molly Pratt were a culprit, and if she weren’t admiring the flowers she’d just made a mess sprucing up. If her husband was more organized than she, he also knew that the kitchen was Molly’s arena; if he did have anything to say about the mess, it wouldn’t be hard to discern who had made it. Besides, it was not as Casper could accuse the cats of this mess.

But then he might try, her sweet husband. This did not come to Molly’s mind, though, or if it did, it didn’t linger long; the mess itself was negligible, the usual disarray, something she could sweep into the dustbin in a wand’s wave, here in her bright little domain. It hardly compared to the sprawl that was this evening’s dessert: two bags of sugar (one brown), eggs, flour, butter, any number of other sweet ingredients, and baking instruments a plenty. Their unfussy places in the fridge, pantry, cabinets, and drawers were squeezed with other such pleasantries. They would be at home, if not in the exact same spot as an hour ago, whenever Molly decided to put them away. Which was likely to be a dish here, a spoon there, tasks spread out over hours, unless her favorite patron arrived home from work in time to tag-team the cleanup with her.

As if on instinct— that was what Molly called it— one of the cat’s adopted siblings trotted in; it was a dainty trot, befitting a sweet ragdoll (who was a different kind of sweet from Casper, but still sweet, to Molly). “Daisy,” she sang, bending down to sweep up the cat whose namesake she had just finished attending. “Smart girl,” she purred, as the cat did. She scratched behind her ear, and fished into a jar for the treats she kept remarkably close to the ones for people. She plucked the creature back down on the floor next to her brother, whom Molly also showered with treats, despite his needing anything but. “You two wouldn’t dream of getting up to trouble in the garden when things are finally starting to bloom, would you?” She asked, a bit humored, almost daring them, but not really. Molly was not malicious.

“You’ll have to stay out of the shed, too,” she said, sympathetically. “And the dining room.” The list was getting long. Molly felt bad. But Casper had just surprised her with the greenhouse dining room, which was the most beautiful room Molly Pratt had ever seen. Kittens only made it prettier, it was true, but she was going to let them get into too much trouble, not yet. Maybe in summer… "Ok, just a peak," she said eyes widening, bits of green shimmering on honey brown, a sugary, whimsical trait.