Mildred had noticed the red scarflette wrapped around the old woman’s left wrist; when you worked a cafe you got to know people by traits rather than names. But she hadn’t taken particular heed. The scarflette was just… there. Unremarkably remarkable. Until the spill happened.
Judge Evans wished this case was being handled by someone with proper knowledge of werewolves. Or pet chickens.
I was woken by a tapping sound. For a moment I thought it was the oak tree outside my window. Then I remembered this new house doesn't have trees near it...
It was Gary's first time collecting materials from a magical tree, and while the tree being able to talk helped it also made him feel awkward.
At least baffling ominous prophecies encouraged investment in research.