Postmarked for Beasts: Part 2
A cozy fantasy for the animal lovers! And those who need a cozy fantasy fiction in their lives.
If you haven’t read the first part, please start there by clicking the button below! (Or if you just need a little refresher… It’s been awhile…)
Previously on Postmarked for Beasts
A mysterious package was left on the doorstep of Barnaby’s Beasts. Barnaby opened the package, some curious magic happened, and his shop exploded with a pink dust!
Barnaby blinked. “Excuse me, miss, may I help you?”
The young witch leaned across the counter and began dusting pink soot from his shoulders. “Excuse me! Where are my manners?” she giggled. “I’m Frannie. Frannie Fuzzlefern, at your service!” She extended her hand, palm down, like royalty expecting a courtly gesture.
Not quite sure what to make of her, he took her hand and gave it a tentative kiss, uncertain whether this was etiquette or some elaborate prank.
“Oh, you’re just precious!” Frannie squealed like a kettle set to boil, “Tell me, what do delightful gentlemen like you go by these days?”
Barnaby took a moment. The woman before him practically shimmered with enthusiasm, her pink-streaked hair still settling from whatever spell or mishap had brought her here. He studied her as one might a peculiar mushroom: unsure if it was charming, poisonous, or both.
Was she charmstruck? Bewitched? Or simply a few teacups short of a proper set?
“Barnaby Bumblebrook,” he said at last, brushing a bit of pink soot from his sleeve. “Proprietor of this establishment.”
“Oh! Barnaby Bumblebee?” she echoed, tasting the name like spun sugar. “What an adorable name!”
Before he could respond, much less correct her, she twirled away with such force her robes flared behind her like a banner in a tornado. Shelves rattled. The teacup drakes huffed in unison, tiny embers popping between their teeth. A nearby jar of gigglebugs snickered nervously, then played dead.
Barnaby blinked. Then exhaled, slow and long through his nose.
It had been less than two minutes, and already he felt like a background character in his own shop. All he could do was watch as she drifted down the aisle with the purposeful whimsy of a parade balloon guided by unseen strings.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me off guard, Miss Frannie,” Barnaby called, trying to sound less baffled than he felt. “Can I offer you tea? Or… directions?”
But she was already halfway across the room, nose pressed to a glass enclosure filled with void kittens. The little creatures shimmered with shadows and starlight, purring like distant thunder.
“No no, I mustn’t get distracted!” she chirped, tearing her gaze away at last. “I’ve got work to do!”
Barnaby adjusted his spectacles, tracking her erratic path like one might a rogue broomstick in a windstorm. “Miss, I think you have it wrong. I believe I’m supposed to be at your service.”
Frannie didn’t answer.
Her attention had already shifted again. This time to a cage of fire-nibbling finchlings. She knelt beside them, gently wiping a smudge of ash from the bars with her sleeve. The birds chirped lazily, tiny tongues flicking at ember scraps. She didn’t giggle or squeal or twirl. She simply smiled, soft and quiet, and brushed a fingertip along the cage’s edge.
Barnaby paused. For all her chaos and color, there was something oddly precise in the way she moved. Delicate.
He watched in silence, curiosity beginning to outweigh concern.
“Now, where to begin…” she murmured, rising with a rustle of fabric. She shook out her robes and turned, thoughtful.
“This place has such potential, Mr. Bumblebeard,” she said brightly, misnaming him with confidence. “But honestly? It’s in desperate need of a little sparkle.”
Frannie took in the shelves like a theater critic judging a second-rate dress rehearsal. Her eyes narrowed.
“Dreary, dreary, dreary,” she declared, waggling her fingers at a particularly bland stack of brown feed buckets. “Who stocked this place? A color pessimist?”
Barnaby folded his hands and reminded himself the buckets had never complained before.
A heartbeat later, she drifted toward a nearby cage and gasped.
“Oh, you poor darling,” she cooed. “All grumpy and gray… You need some joy in your life.”
Inside, the thorndog slowly raised its head. Its fur, if one could call it that, bristled in jagged thorns. A growl rumbled in its throat, low, guttural, and remarkably similar to a solicitor preparing a cease and desist.
Frannie clutched her chest. “Oh, no need to fuss!”
She gave the cage a light tap with her wand. In an instant, the gray metal shimmered and blushed into a vibrant shade of pink, complete with tiny sparkles shaped like hearts.
“Oh, that’s much more you,” she said, satisfied.
The thorndog blinked. Then, very deliberately, it turned to stare at Barnaby with the exhausted indignation of someone whose favorite mug had just been bedazzled.
Barnaby let out a quiet sigh. “Miss Frannie,” he said, calm as a glacier, “if that creature starts shedding thorns out of protest, you’ll be the one to sweep it up.”
But Frannie had already flounced onward, wand twirling above her head like a ribbon baton. She skipped past the rows of cages, each one blooming into a riot of pinks, rhinestones, and glittering charms. Soft chirps, disgruntled snorts, and confused squeaks echoed behind her like a growing parade of protest.
“Oh, this is so much better!” she sang, spinning with glee. “A splash of color! A pinch of charm! And voilà!”
Barnaby felt the room slip gently out of his control, becoming a surprise party hosted by a pixie with poor impulse control.
“Miss Frannie,” Barnaby said with strained composure.
She either didn’t hear him or refused to. “Ooh, maybe I’ll do the floorboards next!” she trilled, pirouetting with her wand held high. “Stripes? Polka dots? No—stars! Stars would be darling.”
“Miss Frannie,” he repeated, louder now, “please.”
Something in his voice caught her. She froze mid-spin, wand still aloft, one foot dangling in the air like a ballerina caught mid–grand jeté.
Barnaby exhaled slowly. “My dear,” he said, with a calm that bordered on desperate, “I must insist you stop turning things pink.”
Frannie finished the twirl with a graceful hop and flurry of fingers, as if blessing the moment with invisible confetti. “Oh, but Mr. Bumblebutt, it’s so much more cheerful! Don’t you think?”
Barnaby’s eyes narrowed. “The thorndog is allergic to cheerfulness.”
As if on cue, the creature gave a wet, gravelly growl, the sort that suggested paperwork would follow.
Frannie pressed a hand to her chest. “Litigation?” she gasped. “Oh no. Not again.”
The thorndog gurgled darkly.
She spun toward Barnaby. “Do you have a lawyer? I lost mine in the Great Glitter Flood of ’22.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Frannie,” Barnaby said gently, placing both hands on her shoulders and steering her toward the stool beside the register. “But I think perhaps we could do with a pause in the… renovations.”
She blinked up at him, pleasantly puzzled.
He eased her down, then returned to the chair he’d shared with the dustbunnies the night before. “Now,” he continued, folding his hands atop his knees, “I’d very much like to know why you’re here. And let’s begin with the part where you arrived in a cloud of pink smoke.”
“Oh! That’s simple,” she said brightly. “You summoned me!”
Barnaby’s brow creased. He leaned back slightly, as if to give her idea some space to float away. “I did no such thing.”
Frannie tilted her head. “You tied the Apron of Legacy, didn’t you?”
“The Apron of what?”
“Legacy!” she trilled. She leaned forward and booped him lightly on the nose. “Capital A, capital L. Standard issue, vaguely enchanted, and a total nightmare in the wash.”
Barnaby blinked once. Then twice. He clasped his hands a little tighter and gave her a look normally reserved for moonmice caught gnawing through the sugar crates. “Splendid. A riddle in ruffles. You do have a gift for saying everything but the thing I asked.”
Frannie giggled, delighted. “Oh, Mr. Bumblebread, if I stopped to explain everything, we’d be here all day.” She stood, gave her skirt an unnecessary dust-off, and beamed. “Now then! Do you have a broom? Or a goose? Either one will do.”
“Miss Frannie, please,” he said, standing up with her, “What does all this mean?”
Frannie gave him a sympathetic little pat on the shoulder. “I’m contractually bound to help whoever wears the apron. It’s a very old clause. Honestly, the paperwork was dreadful. So many scrolls.” She shivered. “And such tiny fonts.”
Barnaby opened his mouth, then closed it again. “So you’re… magically obligated to be here?”
“Mhm! Until your legacy is safely passed on. Isn’t that sweet?”
Was it sweet?
His gaze drifted down the aisle, now glowing with pink cages and glittering flourishes. It was, objectively speaking, ghastly. Barnaby winced. The thorndog was glaring again. And thank the stars no bullreds were in the shop that day. They couldn’t abide the color pink. The last thing he needed was a riot over pastels.
This may not have been the way Barnaby pictured obtaining an apprentice — not in a puff of pink smoke, but even he couldn’t ignore the… convenience of it all. Still, he wasn’t quite fond of the girl. Pink, frilly, and almost certainly unlikely to muck out cages. She struck him as someone more enchanted by glitter than grit. And yet… she had appeared. Uninvited, yes, but summoned nonetheless.
Was that fate? Or just a bureaucratic mishap wrapped in lace?
An Invitation to the readers and writers:
I am feeling particularly inspired with this story. So much so I would like to open this up for collaboration.
I invite anyone who would like to, to write a story about their own little shop, apartment, police station or whatever on Willow Way. Or, if someone wants to tackle it, write about the raccoon politics I mention at the beginning of this story!
There are only a few rules:
1) Don’t steal any of my characters. You can mention them and their shops in passing, but no more than that. I love Barnaby too much, and I’d get much too jealous if you steal him.
2) Your character’s initials have to be the same letters. Like how Barnaby Bumblebrook is BB or Sam Salamence is SS.
3) Please tag me if write a story and add a shop to Willow Way! I want to read it!
Other than that, have fun! It doesn’t have to be a cozy story like this, it can be any genre you want. Just as long as it takes place on the cobbled street of Willow Way.
Below I’ve linked the one person who has taken upon themselves the challenge. If you love this story, go read that one as well!
Oh i really loved this !!!
Until Barnaby's legacy is passed?
Oh my...
Is it about to get smutty? All that pink and skirts...
Thorndog and moonmice would witness quite a show!