Chapter Text
The morning rolled its lazy body over into the day. The stars gleamed with that sharpness only found in the breath between darkness and dawn, and the moon cast its flickering eyes upon the bakery below.
Marinette always believed bakeries were the soul of a village. They roused before the rest of the world stirred, with hearths tended and embers coaxed to life while other fireplaces lay dormant, cold, and soot-kissed. Bread was ready just as patrons awoke, threading through sleepy lanes for sustenance, or returning home with warm bundles for their kin.
The familiar scent of baking cinnamon curled into the edges of her dreams, tugging her gently toward consciousness. It was cold that morning, the kind of chill that nipped at your bones, and Marinette burrowed deeper into her heavy woollen blankets, fending off the encroaching day. The fibres tickled her nose, her cheek itched, but she resisted the summons of wakefulness.
The warmth thickened as the rusted hinges of her trapdoor creaked open, and she blinked blearily as her Mama's face emerged, smiling kindly.
“Good morning, darling,” her mother called, hair pinned back with her signature wooden dowel, flour dusting her cheek like starlight. “Time to rise.”
Marinette groaned, moving like a sleep-charmed automaton. She stretched slowly, her small room cozy and well-loved, layered with threadbare rugs and faded tapestries. Herbs hung like cobwebs in the corners, basking in moonlight, their scent mingling with the oak bones of her furniture.
Magic, her innateness, hummed beneath her skin. It smoothed the air before her like a hand parting fabric, curling around trinkets strewn across her sanctuary. A chess piece teetered on her desk. A torn fabric scrap whispered from her wall. An acorn nestled behind a stack of ancient tomes. Her fingers brushed a book spine; it pulsed in greeting, eager to open.
A soft gleam flickered across the room, visible only to those who knew how to look. She washed her face quickly in the basin, the water freshly chilled by her mother’s hand. It bit at her skin as she scrubbed with a lye soap bar shaped like a rose.
She wrinkled her nose at her breath and reached for her flax-bristle brush and minted paste. She’d recently discovered that ground charcoal added a brilliant sheen to her teeth. Marinette preferred them white, though the trend in the capital of Parisal had turned to staining them black with crushed squid-pearls.
She dressed quickly, a cream linen frock with faded pink embroidery she'd stitched herself. Twine bound her hair, followed by a delicate lace ribbon bought just last week. As she tied it, her magic stirred, tingling at her fingertips. In her warped looking glass, her reflection shimmered. She giggled softly as blossoms bloomed in her dark hair, small, ephemeral things conjured by delight.
Pleased, she descended the ladder, woven with rugs and polished smooth by use, into the waking house. The oak walls creaked a welcome; the candles lit at her presence, their lavender-scented wax releasing a dreamy umami into the air.
In the kitchen, Mama stood at the sink, re-oiling the pastry boxes with seed oil until they gleamed like varnished walnut. Papa worked beside her, elbows-deep in dough, the edges of his hair faintly singed and his face read with heat.
“Papa,” Marinette said with mock sternness, “the oven again?”
“Stoked it too rough, my dear,” he admitted sheepishly.
She kissed her Mama’s head, sending a ripple of magic through the room. Sabine gasped, fingertips flying to her crown, where a cherry blossom unfurled.
Marinette kissed her Papa’s cheek, the singed patch softening to milky white.
“What would we do without our little spellmaker?” he murmured, hugging her too tightly for the hour.
She laughed, though her heart ached with something quiet and heavy. Tying her apron, she breathed in the stillness of the morning, letting it settle in her lungs.
The day unfurled in familiar rhythm. The family worked in harmony, soft voices threading through the kitchen like an old song. Powdered sugar drifted in the air like snowfall, and the wooden floor creaked beneath them with each step.
Tom shaped buttery brioche with the confidence of decades, the stone oven whispering warmth. Marinette joined him silently, her hands working with an almost musical precision, rounding off each bun.
Tom watched her with a wistful fondness, the kind reserved for children who’ve grown faster than time allows. Her fingers, once chubby with childhood, were now deft and scarred from magic, pins, and baking burns.
She whispered over the dough, her lips parting without sound.
He didn’t feel the magic, not like she did, but he saw the dough change, each ball shifting to a rich canary hue.
“Fortune buns are finished,” she announced, and his heart stung with pride.
“Thank you, honey,” he replied, as always, but meaning it anew.
He thought of the box hidden behind the loose wall panel in their room, its silver dwindling too quickly and borrowed from too often. It was all they’d saved since Marinette’s gifts had first shown themselves: birds orbiting her cradle, bluebells blooming underfoot.
One day, he swore, they would send her to study where she belonged. The village could live without charmed loaves and whispered enchantments if it meant their daughter’s future.
Customers began to arrive. An old man, his cane scraping familiar trails on the floor. A young mother balancing her babe and a brimming basket.
A small girl spotted Marinette and beamed. Marinette crouched low, arms open.
“Mari! Do the thing… please,” the child added sheepishly after a look at her mother.
Marinette laughed, and the bell above the door chimed, the coin drawer jingling softly.
She held out a scrap of dough. The child watched in awe as it pulsed under Marinette’s hand, stretching and shifting until a tiny rabbit peeked out. It sniffed the air, twitched its ears, and hopped once before collapsing back into dough.
They shared a secret smile, known only to children and the young at heart.
Back at her station, Marinette worked with intent, her fingers dancing with unspoken spells. Sigils laced into every fold, spirals of joy, flickers of courage. The dough glimmered faintly, kissed with hidden enchantments.
As the pastries baked, sugar sparkled like gemstones. Marinette’s magic didn’t demand spectacle. It whispered into warmth, weaving through scent and flame.
As the sun lifted over Parisal, so did its people. The bakery came alive. Marinette moved like morning wind, and the light curved toward her as if drawn by gravity.
She hardly noticed when Alya entered.
“Who gargoyled that pout onto your face?” she teased, and Marinette’s focus melted into joy. She accidentally caused the broom she was holding into a jig as it swept out of her hands. Marinette giggled.
“The printing press is still cursed,” Alya groaned, lifting ink-stained fingers. “They’ve got me elbow-deep in the hopper. I look like I caught the plague.”
“Have they got the warlock from the South coming in?”
Alya nodded, “You know, I’m sure if you asked, they would help you get tuition.”
Marinette chuckled, but a sad tone laced her voice, “I wouldn’t want to work there for the rest of my suns.”
Alya shrugged, her expression soft. “But you’d be able to harness that gorgeous ability of yours.” She saw her raven-haired friend shake her head. “I digress, as an apprentice, they’ve sent me to fetch the morning spread. Think you can help?”
Marinette smiled at her dear friend and the change of subject, filling Alya’s basket with care. She tucked charmed loaves in linen, fingers lingering just long enough to remind the bread of warmth. She plucked rosemary from the sill, still dewy from dawn, and breathed through her nose as she folded it into the weave. The herbs smoked faintly, as if recognising her mood and echoing it back.
At the kitchen pump, she filled a casket, tapping the handle thrice, letting the rhythm centre her thoughts before sealing the cork with a whisper and a kiss of steam.
Alya arched a brow. “Don’t make that spellbrew too energising, or they will send me every day.”
“You will earn full silver wages any day now,” Marinette said, her voice light but certain. She presented the basket with a quiet flourish, slipping a spiced-apple tart in at the last second. The scent of cinnamon rose, curling into something sweeter as the tart's glaze caught the sheen of gold-leaf—just a shimmer, like a wink from fate.
“For luck,” Marinette said, meaning it in the small, sacred way she always did. She had done it easily, without thought—but not without feeling. Her magic never worked unless her heart was behind it.
She took her lunch to the stream behind her house, a quiet pocket of the world where time moved like honey. The village, though nestled on the outskirts of the capital, felt far removed from its clamour. It was tucked behind hills and stitched with winding lanes no carriage dared to traverse too quickly.
The brook churned cheerily beneath her gaze, its waters dancing over smoothed stones and winding roots. A wide, flat stepping stone jutted from the current, a natural invitation, splitting the flow in two and offering Marinette a dry path to the stream’s centre. She hopped across lightly, balancing her basket in one hand, and settled on a warm, sun-dappled rock that peeked just above the surface.
Slipping off her boots, she let her toes sink into the cold, rushing water. Her skin, milky white and soft as clotted cream, tingled at the shock of it. The chill was a pleasant burn that reminded her she was alive, even in the sleepy drag of a long winter’s day. Though the season still clung to the village, the sun had stretched high and bold into the sky. It warmed her shoulders and brow with unexpected heat.
She chewed slowly on a sandwich made with leftover brioche and goat’s cheese, her gaze vacant but her mind tangled elsewhere. Half of her was still down the trail, up the ladder, and firmly tucked in her bedroom, obsessing over the final details of a new commission.
The Mayor’s daughter, a girl with the disposition of a soured apricot, had demanded a gown. A pale blue ball dress soaked in beauty charms and pickled in grace. Every hemline was to be stitched with wit.
Marinette had smiled politely, but privately she mused that even hemming the dress with wit wouldn't be nearly enough for the girl to grow a sense of humour.
Marinette had been asked no, commanded, on a multitude of occasions, as though she were a personal mage. She had once had to sew sunlight into her hair, to attempt to bleach the girl’s stubborn mousy roots into golden strands. It was as though magic were a dye pot and she the stirrer.
Truthfully, most of the magic she worked into her creations was gentle. They were little nudges, small sparkles of joy. A smile from someone you loved. A lucky coin was found deep in a forgotten pocket. A quill that behaved for once and didn’t splatter across your final draft. Her enchantments weren’t grand, but they were meaningful, subtle as breath and just as vital. Her power moved like silk from her fingertips, renewed each time someone accepted her work with a smile or a quiet word of thanks.
Marinette supposed that it was all she was good for without proper training. The kind librarian’s borrowed books doing little without a teacher, the books refusing the reveal their tips to her out of spite.
Finishing the last bite, she wiped her fingers clean and tugged a worn tome from her satchel. Its corners were dog-eared and its spine cracked from love. She opened to a well-thumbed page, pressing it flat and reading by the glint of the water. This spell was one for the dress and was proving a challenge. Blank fabric was easy enough to charm, but a layered garment was another beast entirely. Spells could cancel each other or, worse, tangle like threads in a too-tight weave. Some hummed together to produce strange effects. Once, an attempt at charm-stitching had accidentally caused a neighbour’s cat to float for three days.
Magic, once loosed, rarely liked to be called back, unless it had been sent with a clean heart and steady hands. Spells woven with the wrong feeling tangled like briar vines, clinging and stubborn. Restoring balance required care, and a kind of tiredness that seeped into the bones.
Marinette, for her part, had never been particularly gifted at unmaking what she’d made. If a charm went astray or a glamour turned sour, it tended to stay that way. She often said her spells had long memories.
Which is why she wore ribbons. Always. Twined at her wrist, stitched into her hem, braided into her hair. Each one was a quiet safeguard and meant to fray first, to pull free if her magic ran too deep or began to sour. Little threads of warning, woven for a girl who could cast enchantments as easily as breathing, but had no gift for undoing.
She eyed Lady Chloe’s gown with more than a little caution. If it came out spiteful, well, there were some who might not mind a little bad luck stitched into the seams. But Marinette knew better. Intent mattered. Magic listened. And mischief, once dressed in silk, was hard to chase out.
She made mental notes in the margins of her mind, biting her lip. Undoing magic had never been her strength. Her learning had been piecemeal and self-taught, whispered from tomes and guided by intuition. The weight of it all was always heavy.
A flicker of red tugged at the corner of her vision. She blinked, and a ladybird landed delicately on the centre of her page. Its spotted back was glossy under the sun.
“Well, good afternoon,” Marinette said softly, as if greeting an old friend. Her eyes briefly returned to the paragraph she was reading, but the bug remained. Its wings were tucked and its tiny legs skimmed the parchment.
Then it climbed, slow and sure, onto her fingertip. Its shell nudged gently against the curve of her nail. Marinette smiled, raising her hand until her face was close. She didn't know if insects could see the way people did, but she'd hate to introduce herself as a blur.
“Hello. I’m Marinette.”
The ladybird responded with a flutter of wings and lifted into the air. It circled her head once, then twice, alighting briefly on the blossoms still tucked in her hair. Finally, it landed squarely on the tip of her nose.
She giggled, her eyes crossing slightly as she focused on it. “You seem eager to talk,” she whispered.
The bug wiggled in a little side-to-side dance before lifting into the breeze and flitting away across the water. Marinette watched it go, smiling to herself. She breathed out slowly through her nose, sending a thin thread of magic drifting after it. The willow trees on the riverbank stirred and rustled in acknowledgement. A charm of protection, small and gentle, for a creature already brimming with luck.
That evening, her parents let her slip away early. After a simple supper of root stew and buttered bread, she padded upstairs to her room. Papa had chopped wood earlier that day in preparation for the deepening chill. Neat stacks of dried logs waited by the hearth, ready to burn with a slow, steady crackle.
Marinette moved towards the centre of the room after alighting from the hearth, where her carved wooden mannequin stood waiting. It looked stoic and still in the half-light. Her fingers stretched, feeling the gentle ache of use. She threaded her needle, inhaled once, and let the magic settle in her bones. She had a long night ahead, and the dress was waiting.
Tomorrow, she would need to drop the dress off in the ornate house in the centre of town in preparation for the village's debut ball. Marinette was also invited, and her own dress was hastily hung in her closet, the linen not much better than muslin, dyed a faded red with the crushed poppies she had gathered a fortnight ago, the lace secured in a clumsy way that shouted about her rushed time limits.
The Debutante Ball was, perhaps, the only ball Marinette would never attend. It marked a daunting world. One of the entries into a phase of adulthood Marinette found more complex than magic. Marriage. She was now of age, so said the whispering town and the gilded invitation tucked in a drawer she never opened. Eligible. Betrothable. A word that curled on her tongue like an incantation half-learned and wholly unwanted.
Would a husband let her keep her spellbooks? Would he mind if tea leaves danced before steeping, or loaves rose with whispered joy rather than yeast? Would he see magic as art, or as danger?
Would he be tall and fair, with eyes like summer skies? Or dark-haired and brooding, the kind who looked as if he’d once made a pact with thunder?
Marinette sighed as she pricked her thumb, drawing her out of her thoughts. It was exceedingly tricky adorning the garment. The fabric itself puckered at the slightest wrong tug, and it caused the magic to groan in tandem. Marinette whispered soft words of encouragement as she sewed, trying her best to calm the buzzing woven into the fabric.
“Be kind. Behave for Lady Chloe,” she hummed, fixing the last pleat and tucking in the last hem.
By the time she trimmed her last thread the house, and the village, had long since fallen asleep. Only the dark smoke from chimneys rose into the night, smogging over the stars.
Marinette stood up from her harsh hunched position and stretched languidly. The dress rippled with layers of precious chiffon and its peticoats of silk, it was pleased with its look, and Marinette watched happily as the ends of the dress swayed side to side without a partner, testing itself for a dance.
Marinette hastily washed her face and brushed her teeth as she readied for bed. Her garments were too chilly to wear in this weather, but she figured the fire would burn throughout the night.
The moon rested low in the sky, pouring silver through the warped panes of Marinette’s attic window. She stoked the fire, watching the flames dance in satisfaction, emanating a sustaining charm onto the flames, and she tucked into bed. Her bed creaked softly as she curled beneath the woollen quilt, eyelids fluttering shut to the lullaby of embers sighing in the hearth. The scent of lavender and old books wrapped around her like a familiar spell.
Then scratch.
Marinette blinked. The sound came again, this time followed by a low, curious mrowl. A shape moved at the window, sleek, inky, and impossibly quiet, save for the persistent tapping of claws against glass.
Marinette sat up and squinted.
“You’re not the neighbour’s tabby,” she murmured, slipping from bed with bare feet padding across worn rugs. With a whisper, the latch lifted on its own, and the window cracked open.
In slipped the cat.
A shadow with eyes of bottled starlight. His fur shimmered, not black but the absence of colour, like looking through night itself.
“Well, you’re bold,” she said, crouching. “Are you lost?”
The cat tilted his head. His tail flicked like a quill writing riddles in the air.
“Can you understand me?”
A pause.
“Where’s your home?” Marinette asked softly.
At that, the cat froze.
Marinette leaned in, voice gentling. “I think we may have some cheese lying around.”
But the moment the words left her lips, the cat let out an unexpected hiss. He leapt backwards, straight into her mannequin.
Crash.
The mannequin toppled, arms splayed like a marionette mid-collapse. And draped over it was her dress. Lady Chloe’s dress, the one she’d poured magic into all month, thread by glowing thread.
Marinette gasped, reaching out too late.
The fabric struck the fireplace.
It ignited instantly.
“No—!”
She lunged, grabbing for her water basin, throwing it over the burning gown, but it was no use. The charm-woven silk twisted in the flames, blue turning silver, then grey, then ash. The embroidery sparked, runes unwinding like smoke signals into nothing.
Marinette fell to her knees as the last of it extinguished and the tattered dress was all that remained, its spark of magic dimmed.
The room was silent. Even the cat had gone.
She stared at the soot and silence, heart thudding like a war drum. She clutched the dress with shaking hands. The material had been brought for her, there was no way to fix it, not even her magic was powerful enough to undo every charm- now muddled with heat. The charms were not intended to bloom under heat like her pastries. Even if the magic could be fixed, she couldn’t conjure fine silks out of thin air, not with her level of magic.
Nothing could be fixed. Not the stitching, not the shape, not the enchantments laid in every pleat.
It had been due in the morning.
Tears gathered like morning dew, but she didn’t cry, not yet. Her hands trembled, resting uselessly in her lap.
From the windowsill, the night purred quietly. Not the cat but the night. Watching. Waiting.
Marinette exhaled.
“There must be a way,” she whispered to it, to herself. “I will fix it. Somehow.”
But her eyes flicked once more to the door, where pawprints faded. A book lay in their wake.
It was a dusty thing, ancient and squat, its cover scrawled with runes half-lost to time. The pages groaned beneath the weight of it, yellowed and yawning with the hush of forgotten things. It seemed to recoil from her touch, and she from it—though not quite fast enough. A tremor ran through her fingertips. Not pain. Not quite. More like a warning whispered down the spine.
Still, she pressed her hand to its crooked back, and the tome shuddered once—then burst. Pages scattered into the air like startled birds, or one thousand downy feathers caught in the night’s breath. They danced in spirals, flitting around the room in a rustle of ancient paper.
She dropped the book with a gasp. It landed heavily, as if reluctant to let go, its thud dull and final. A single page fluttered toward her, light as mist, and settled in her open hands.
It was papyrus, crisp and biting against her skin, and where it touched her palm, a faint line bloomed red, like a path being drawn. Magic erupted around her, zipping wild through the air, colours bleeding bright and strange into the quiet gloom. It was the kind of brightness that felt too old to be new, too powerful to be clean.
The page whispered to her. Of fate. Of meetings not yet met. Of danger with a crooked smile. It sang like a siren from the combers, sweet and terrible in equal measure. She dared to look closer.
The ink curled across the page in a language almost, but not quite, her own. The letters leaned at odd angles, as though they'd grown tired of being read properly. Margins bloomed with strange illustrations.
Charms of the Summoning Arts: The Helper
This transfixtion dates back to Agatha Marsh and her helper, Wizyn (See Index: Wizyn – magical specialty: tea leaf fate-twisting, thorn mending, minor song curses)
The Helper is a guardian—called, not created. Unlike familiars, it bears no true form until summoned. It is tethered by thread, not by will, and reflects the soul of its caster in curious and unspoken ways. Helpers may arrive through objects lost or given, or else from doorways that no longer lead where they should.
Take a token that knows your hands. Speak their name, intent must be incredibly pure. Wait until something old stirs in the air: the smell of apples, the sound of your own footsteps behind you, the stillness before snow.
Marinette breathed out shakily, there it was, something calling her, a magic older than time, toward the paper. This cat had left her an answer, a helper of magical prowess to fix her dress. Someone to undo the original charms and summon the fabrics.
She reached around her room hurriedly, searching for the perfect token for the job, seeing which one called to her in readiness. It was her needle, sharp as a claw, glinting from its fallen place by the fire, glinting underneath the soot.
She crouched by its place by the fire, soot staining the white of her chemise, as raven as her hair. It sat in her palms, smiling at her like a wicked dagger.
Speak their name.
“Uh—” Marinette tried, speaking into the darkness of her room. “Helper? I call on thee.” And, because it was only proper, she added, “Please.”
She waited. No response, nothing.
“Listen.” She tried again, “I don’t actually know your name, see the Chat—”
Her needle began spinning in her hand like a compass. She heard the faint whistling of a tea kettle before a deathly silence fell over the room. Nothing. As black as night, confused as the eyes of Marinette, now feeling like a small witch of minimal talent on the ground in front of the fireplace.
Then, a green glow of a hue Marinette had never seen burst from the fireplace. The green came from the hearth like a bottle uncorked from another world. Smoke curled up the chimney, and light twisted wildly around the room, turning shadows into vines and stars. Marinette shielded her eyes as her needle vibrated in her palm, expectant.
Wind whipped around the room, and Marinette’s heart dropped as she found her ribbon strewn in the cold embers of the fireplace. The lace was impossibly frayed. It was a harsh warning she had hoped she’d never see. Her magic had crossed the line into a realm beyond her ability to undo. She had gone too far.
Then, silence.
Out of the embers stepped not a spirit, not a monster, not an ancient deity with antlers made of bone or thread—but a boy.
No. A man.
A man dressed like a cat.
Marinette blinked hard, wondering if exhaustion was finally catching up to her. The flickering firelight played across his tall frame, revealing fitted black clothes stitched to elegance, a soft velvet bell around his neck, and leather gloves shaped like paws. His golden hair was tousled, sticking out like he’d just rolled out of a fairy ring. A mask curled across his eyes like ink, and a tail, real or not she couldn’t tell, swished behind him. And his eyes, emerald green, too bright for the night, flicked up and down the room in bewildered calculation.
“You’re not the cat I just let in, are you?” Her heart was thumping like a moth trapped in a teacup.
Marinette was thoroughly shaken, she expected a sprite, maybe a mischievous nymph, but this was a man. A man of undoubted rogue beauty, charming in looks as the spells she whispered into tarts each morning.
He looked her in the eyes as she shivered, a deep and unreadable expression on his face, something akin to curiosity.
“Plagg.” His voice was weathered and rough, bark torn from a tree.
Marinette opened her mouth, but words stuck behind the knot of confusion in her throat. She tried again, tripping over the words.
“Do you— can you understand me?”
He narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene. The papyrus littered around the room like pairs of crumpled wings, threadbare rugs clinging to the floor, wilting furniture. The raven-haired girl, soot staining her cheeks next to a tattered blue gown, blinking like an owl.
“Plagg is the cat, my familiar… of sorts.” He said witheringly.
Marinette huffed, realising with embarrassment she had given the cat exactly what he wanted. “He ruined my dress.”
“And your magic chose me?” He sounded irritated, and Marinette curled into herself out of instinct. “Out of all the realms— Plagg— why did you bind me?”
Marinette shrank a little, curling into herself. She squeaked out, “I ruined Lady Chloe’s debutant dress. I—messed up. I needed a mage to undo the spells. I thought I’d get a helper-sprite, not…”
“A frock?” He asked with venom.“You summoned me for a frock? You’ve yanked me from my work, that means more to me than moss to undergrowth, and you ask me to mend lace.”
Marinette cowered at the foot of the fireplace, staring up at the man with terror shining through her features. “I—I didn’t know it would be you.” She whispered, her voice brittle.
“I didn’t know it would drag you here, unwillingly.” Marinette lowered her gaze, focusing on her soot-stained hands which she wrung anxiously. “I promise you I will help take you back. I only wanted to save my family’s reputation by fixing the dress.”
The air was permeated by silence. Then, as if there was a small sliver of sun peaking through the clouds, Marinette saw a gloved hand outstretched in her direction. She looked up at him as she stood, meeting his green-eyed stare. His irritation has bled from his posture, his expression neutral.
He was certainly a wizard of handsome cut, and his eyes were as clear as a summer stream, his nose refined under his mask, strong and straight. His brows were arched into an expression of resigned acceptance.
“I will have to help you.” He said, simply, “If I want to leave.” Their hands intertwined and Marinette was hit with an unknown feeling of familiarity at the way his fingers intertwined with hers. “I am Chat Noir.”
She stood to her full height, which barely came up to the man’s shoulders. “Marinette.” She answered, keeping his grip to shake his hand in a stiff and formal greeting.
Suddenly, the man’s face flashed with concern.
It was then, she realised, she was shaking like a leaf. Goosebumps prickled under the thin fabric of her chemise, her nightgown wrapped around her tightly, the cotton doing little to protect her from the cold of the night and her nervousness.
Then she realised the inappropriateness of her dress. And, although the man didn’t seem to indicate he cared, she squeaked in an apology at the inappropriateness of her clothing. A desire to disappear into the floor curled into her gut.
Before she could bolt, something warm and heavy wrapped around her. His cloak.
It was something you smelled on the edge of your dreams. A rich pine, the musk of something deeper and spiced. Marinette marvelled at how familiar it felt, like walking back into the bakery after a day out delivering. The cloak he placed over her was warm, and she resisted the urge to snuggle into it and fall into a dreamless sleep.
She couldn’t help but blush. She must’ve looked like a mess. Wild hair, smudged cheeks, blue eyes red from exhaustion. But Chat took it all in his stride. Focusing his gaze on the blue dress crumpled on the floor, he crouched over it, brushing his hands over the fraying edges.
“This is tangled work.” He murmured, “I can dismiss the charms and send them away. But, I can’t repair the clothing, you’ll need to perform an extension charm for that. Creation magic is… not my gift.” Marinette understood, having only one half of a whole in her magical repertoire was relatable, indeed.
“I can stitch,” Marinette offered. “If you teach me the theory.”
He blinked up at her, surprised. “Extension charms are simple, I learnt them as a babe. You’re too old for a fledgling and too young for a hedgewitch. Who trained you?”
“No one.”
He stared.
“We have schools, but not for us,” Marinette muttered. “I wasn’t born to a magical line. Not for seventeen generations. There’s no one to vouch for me. No coin for tutoring.”
Chat’s face twisted with pity. Marinette hated that. She squared her shoulders.
“I like my magic,” she said defensively. “Even if it’s wild.”
He nodded slowly, holding her gaze. “I meant no insult. I can feel how hungry she is.”
She didn’t respond, but neither did she argue.
Chat turned back to the dress. “I’ll need to release the spell—tear it, just a little.”
“At the seam,” Marinette said quickly. “Please.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. “As the lady commands.”
He whispered something in a language that felt like music heard through mist. His fingers danced along the seam, coaxing the magic to unspool. Marinette watched, wide-eyed, as blue shimmer bled from the fabric like moonlight pouring into a bottle.
With a hiss, the charm broke.
Marinette gasped as the spell shivered through her, like champagne and stardust and sorrow, leaving her cold and warm all at once.
“You must repair it before new magic takes,” Chat said, standing slowly. “Creation requires form. Fabric is your anchor.”
She nodded and scurried to her wardrobe. There was her own debutante gown, untouched. Her heart ached and tears gathered in her eyes as she sliced it mid-calf. It was a sacrifice, but magic always demanded something.
Her needle flew.
She stitched with a hastened precision, sewing over the tears and mending the burn marks. Her magic comforted her in her distress, she felt forget-me-nots lace into the knots of her hair, and a cluster bloomed onto the top of her hand. It was sending her a gentle reminder of comfort. Chat noticed, and she glanced up to see him looking at her with an almost shocked, awed expression.
“Your magic... You don’t shape it. You feel it.”
Marinette nodded. “It comes when it wants. Like breath.”
Chat nodded as if he understood perfectly, “Someone else I knew did that too.” He said softly.
Marinette perked up at this, it was a rare thing she had heard from other mages as they passed her village. Attracted by her expressive magical signature to wandered into the bakery to talk with her. It often came from untrained folk, who struggled to contain their magic in by-the-book spell casting, which was reserved for learning only by the elites, who knew extensive theory and magical history.
“Really?”
He nodded. “Her magic was like that too. We called it Tikki—half joke, half truth. It listened to her heart more than her head. Once, she wanted me to stop talking and vines grew over my mouth.”
Marinette laughed truly at that, her amusement evident by the accidental spell she cast onto the needle, which twirled around into a tulip stitch. She cursed under her breath, focusing back on the task.
Once she had finished she held up the dress, concentrating hard as she raked her eyes over the mismatch of fabrics. She whispered softly of her desires and concentrated on pulling out the feeling of her magic through her soul, shaping it before it left her. It dripped and flowed from her like honey, pouring slowly over the gown. The fabric from the blue began to swallow the red. The stitches she had pressed into the skirts smoothed over and the dress colouring began to grow into a rich baby blue.
Magic silk was definitely not the same as normal, and a merchant would spot it as a magic-faux with barely a glance. But Marinette, as one of the only mages in the village, knew she would be safe from prying eyes.
She finished the design by charming the entire gown. She couldn’t embed as much as she would’ve liked, nor keep up with the myriad of requests given by Lady Chloe for her gown. Just a simple beauty charm was all she could muster at this hour, no details on the hem or adorning the rosettes of the bodice.
The dress, regardless, was happy with its repair. Marinette giggled as it began to swish its skirts, Chat Noir watching on in something Marinette could almost mistake as amusement, a soft smile curving from underneath his mask.
“You learn fast,” he said, bemused. “Who trained you, really?”
“No one,” she replied again.
“You’ve been alone all this time?”
She bristled. “I’ve done fine.”
He raised his hands in peace. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean harm. I only meant… your magic is hungry. She wants to grow.”
Marinette exhaled. “So do I.”
Chat Noir sauntered toward the hearth, flicking imaginary lint off his shoulder as though finishing a grand performance. “Well.” He said with a dramatic finality of someone taking a bow centre stage. “I’ve fixed the frock. It’s time for me to take my leave.” He plucked the silver needle out of Marinette’s fingers.
He held it up to the sooted fireplace like a wand. “I have performed my service,” Chat whispered to the needle, and it began to glow, spinning again.
The hearth from the fire came alive once again, smoking curling outwards into the room and swirling into a smoky veil. Weaving itself into the air with silvery loops of ash and curving into a door. Chat Noir stepped in front of it, glancing over his shoulder just once, to offer her a small smile.
“You can keep the cloak.” He mused, then he cast a smug wink in her direction, like he was some sort of hero and not a glamourised seamstress. He squared his shoulders with theatrical poise and spoke to the portal.
“I am Chat Noir. Return me.”
He stepped foot first into the fireplace. Just the toe of his boot, before promptly yanking himself back with a straggled yelp. “Merde!”
Marinette panicked, yelping too. “Are you alright?” She cried. She leapt toward him, attempting to look at his leg for burns or blisters.
But Chat Noir shrugged her off, his face crumpling not in pain, but in utter disbelief.
“I am Chat Noir.” He gritted out, hissing at the smoke like it personally insulted him. “Return. Me.”
The doorway rippled, then spluttered, and the smoke began to ebb away and unwind like a spool of thread. Marinette coughed violently as it dispersed, her eyes stinging. When the haze cleared Chat Noir was still there, glaring at the fireplace as though it had just closed a door in his face.
“I said my name,” he whispered, his tone wounded. “The portal didn’t recognise me.”
It took all of two seconds before he rounded on her. “You.” He said, pointing a finger in the direction of her chest and glowering at her. “What did you mess up?”
Marinette paled instantly. “Nothing!” She squeaked, throwing her hands up as if it might ward off the blame.
Chat Noir looked at her with a disbelieving expression, stalking toward her, his shoulders hunched and black attire dripping with venom. His face was sharp enough to slice parchment.
Marinette stumbled backward, tripping over a half-melted candle.“I don’t know! I was casting, and my ribbon, it frayed and I—.”
He cut her off with an incredulous scoff. “Your ribbon frayed?” He pressed his fingers to his temples, groaning. “You’re still using a ribbon? That’s basically magical training wheels!”
He began pacing, a black silhouette in the flickering light. “If the spell frayed, it’s knotted now. That means it’s too unstable to unwind. Who knows what you ended up casting? Fantastic.”
“Then teach me!” Marinette cried, puffing up like a furious hedgehog. “I can fix it! I’ll send you back.”
“When?” He spat, eyes glittering “In a week? A month? I don’t have time to babysit a baby witch who casts first and reads the fine print never. I have to get her back.”
The last line hit like a stone dropped in a well, reverberating through the room. Marinette’s indignation faltered, lips parting.
“Well…” She said quietly, “You can’t go back. And I’m the only one who has any clue how the spell started, so whether you like it or not… You’re stuck with me.” Marinette could feel her magic trying to soothe the scene, the crumbled papyrus from the book began stacking neatly back into the books cover.
Chat Noir’s anger cooled slightly. His scowl softened to a grimace. His ear twitched, before his tail flicked thoughtfully. He hummed a command with a careful sweep of his tail, and around them the room responded. The soot-stains vanished grain by grain, as though swallowed by invisible paws.
He noticed. She noticed that he noticed. A half-apology hung between them. The silence stretched. His tail coiled once, then relaxed.
Marinette crossed her arms, but not tightly.
“So.” She tilted her chin. “Balcony or linen cupboard?”