Magdalena Maginnis and the Egg of Unlaid Ambition

Magdalena Maginnis of Number 3 Nether Oak Close sipped her morning coffee and checked her calendar. Nothing until three p.m., when Mrs Slocum would arrive for her regular check-in with her late husband, David. Plenty of time to strip the bed, get the wash on, and hang it on the line before the weather turned petty, She though “The life of a part-time psychic is just one long laundry adventure”

She was rinsing out her mug when the doorbell chimed. Magdalena frowned.
No Amazon parcels due today.

When she opened the door, the morning took a turn towards what her grandson would say “WTFery”

A witch, an honest-to-god, storybook witch, stood on her porch. Black robes, pointy hat, the lot. Her expression suggested she’d been inconvenienced by the journey from somewhere improbable. She grimaced as she brushed some glitter off her dress, she muttered “Fairy dust so 1950!”

“Good morning, Mrs Maginnis,” she continued in a decidedly witchy voice. “I am Granny Sybil from the Union of D.O.P.E.S. — Department of Prognostication, Earthsight, and Seers. Terrible acronym. I voted against it. But I’m here to sort you out.”

Magdalena blinked. “Sort me out from what?”

Sybil swept past her as if invited. “From yourself, dear.”

They ended up in the kitchen, where Sybil accepted a mug of tea after sniffing it suspiciously. She waved her hand toward the chair opposite. “Sit.”

Magdalena obeyed, more out of shock than politeness.

“When,” Sybil began, “did you notice your Sight beginning to dim?”

“A year ago? Maybe two.”

“And you told yourself that was because…?”

“I’m seventy-two,” Magdalena said. “Things dim.”

“Age is a postcode, not a limitation,” Sybil snapped. “Try again.”

Magdalena stared at her tea.
“I thought’ she paused and wondered about the truth, she found it behind a memory of a tine of spam and a lost key, “…maybe the world didn’t need me as much anymore. People have apps and TikTok psychics. I felt like a relic.”

“And that made you feel irrelevant,” Sybil said gently.

“Small,” Magdalena whispered. “Like I was shrinking at the edges.”

Sybil nodded once, decisive.
“Well then. That’s your problem. Fear of irrelevance clogs the Sight like limescale in a kettle.”

Magdalena huffed. “Cruel thing for magic to do.”

“Magic follows the heart,” Sybil corrected. “You decided you didn’t matter, so your Sight agreed. You locked the door from the inside.”

Magdalena swallowed hard. The truth stung more because it rang.

Sybil patted her hand. “Come on. Upstairs with you.”

“What for?”

“To your linen cupboard.”

“My what?”

But Sybil was already marching up the stairs. When Magdalena reached the landing, the witch was pressing her palm to the cupboard door like a medium communing with a ghost.

“There’s fear here,” Sybil muttered. “Smells of lavender sachets and denial.”

“That’s just the airing …… ”

Sybil flung the door open.
Nothing catastrophic. Just towels, bedding, and a lifetime of careful folding.

“Look closer,” Sybil ordered.

She prodded a stack of bath towels. Something hissed.

Magdalena jumped. “What was that?!”

Sybil reached in and pulled out a small, smoky creature shaped vaguely like a hedgehog but with the drooping energy of a damp sock.

“Ah,” Sybil said. “A Mop Sprocket. Your self-doubt is nesting.”

“Nesting?!”

“They feed on unspoken anxieties. And Egyptian cotton. Stroke it.”

“I’d rather not …. ”

“You’ve fed it for years. Go on.”

Reluctantly, Magdalena stroked it. The creature shuddered, then emitted a soft golden glow, recognizing her.

“See?” Sybil said. “Fear shrinks when seen. In the dark, it chews holes in your life.”

Before Magdalena could respond, Sybil was rooting deeper into the cupboard. A pearlescent object rolled into her hands , a large shimmering egg, humming softly.

“Oh my.” Sybil’s eyebrows rose. “An Unlaid Ambition. Very rare at your age.”

Magdalena bristled. “My age?”

“Don’t get huffy. It means there’s still something you want, though you’ve convinced yourself it’s too late or too silly.”

The egg glowed brighter, as though offended by her disbelief.

“It can hatch?” Magdalena breathed.

“With the right conditions: warm hands, honest wishes, a bit of bravery.” Sybil offered it. “Only people who still matter grow these.”

Magdalena took the egg. It was warm. And alive. Something inside her chest loosened for the first time in years.

They carried the egg downstairs and placed it on the old oak sideboard, beside a stubborn pot plant that refused to die.

“It’ll stay dormant,” Sybil said, “until the moment you realise what you still want. Then it will hatch.”

“And until then?” Magdalena asked.

“Live,” Sybil said simply. “Notice things. Be curious. That’s how you feed magic.”

The egg pulsed once, soft as a heartbeat.

Magdalena shivered. “Sybil… does it ever hatch into something dangerous?”

“Oh, certainly,” Sybil said breezily. “But only if you’re in denial. Be honest with yourself and it’ll be marvellous. Be dishonest and it might explode into regret beetles. Smell like cold rice pudding.”

“Sybil!”

The witch grinned.
“Well, I’m here to prevent that. Now, somewhere in this house is the moment your Sight will come back. Let’s hope it isn’t behind the fridge. Those dust bunnies of despair are militant.”

Magdalena laughed. A real one.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like a relic at all.

She felt like a story beginning again.

And the egg chimed softly, as if agreeing …

Authors Note … Insert your own time passes special effect here, it is better if you do it yourself, it needs to be long enough to last until the next day

Sybil’s training regimen began the very next morning, whether Magdalena liked it or not.

“You need to wake your intuition,” Sybil declared, marching in through the back door at half past eight. “It’s been napping for far too long.”

“What does that involve?” Magdalena asked warily, setting down her toast.

“Listening. Observing. And occasionally setting fire to things, but we’ll ease into that.”

Magdalena sputtered crumbs. “Fire?!”

Sybil waved a hand. “Only symbolically. Probably.”

She plonked a chipped teacup onto the table. Inside was tea, or something pretending to be tea, with a smell that suggested the insides of a clairvoyant’s handbag.

“Drink,” Sybil said.

“It’s smoking.”

“That means it’s working.”

Reluctantly, Magdalena sipped. The smoke formed little shapes above the cup, spelling out the word NOTICE before dissipating.

“Oh!” she breathed.

“Good,” Sybil said. “Your Sight isn’t gone. Just sulking.”

Over the next few days, Magdalena began seeing odd things:

• A feather that drifted in circles before pointing toward her.
• Tea leaves that arranged themselves into symbols she hadn’t seen in years.
• A spoon in the drawer vibrating whenever she told herself she was “too old for this nonsense.”

Sybil explained each phenomenon with the blunt patience of someone teaching a child to knit.

“That’s your intuition tapping you on the shoulder.”
“That’s your confidence stretching its legs.”
“That—” (as a cushion scooted itself an inch to the left) “…is the house getting involved. Don’t encourage it.”

Magdalena felt something blooming inside her. Not youth, she didn’t need that, but vitality. Purpose. A sense of still being in the story.

And from its place on the sideboard, the egg glowed a little brighter each day.

It pulsed when she laughed.
Chimed softly when she offered kindness to herself.
Warmed whenever she let herself imagine wanting something again.

It was just past midnight when a soft ting… ting… ting woke her.

Magdalena shuffled into the living room, slippers whispering on the carpet.

The egg sat in its usual place but the glow was no longer steady. It flickered, heartbeat-quick, and the humming sound had deepened into a gentle, insistent purr.

She leaned closer.

A fine crack zigzagged across the shell.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my goodness…”

The air smelled faintly of warm bread and something else something old, wild, and familiar in a way she couldn’t explain.

The egg rattled once, twice … and then split with a delicate shhrrrk.

A wisp of silvery smoke curled upward.

Inside, curled like a comma waiting for its sentence, was a tiny creature, black as deep velvet, with two closed eyes and a tail too long for its tiny body.

A kitten. A miniature witch’s familiar.

Magdalena gasped, both hands flying to her mouth.
“Oh, you darling thing…”

The kitten blinked open two enormous golden eyes.

It looked at her.
Just looked.

And in that moment, Magdalena felt something click within her chest
A door she had closed long ago swinging open, letting in light.

The little cat climbed unsteadily out of the egg and tottered straight into her waiting hands.

“Well,” said Sybil’s voice behind her. “There she is. Your familiar. Took her sweet time, didn’t she?”

Magdalena turned, blinking. “Sybil, how long have you been standing there?!”

“Since the first crack. Thought I’d let you have your moment.” Sybil stepped closer, peering at the kitten. “Bold eyes. Strong magic. Good appetite, I bet.”

The kitten squeaked. And attempted to chew Magdalena’s thumb.

Sybil nodded approvingly. “Told you.”

Magdalena held the warm, purring creature against her chest.
“I think… I think I’ll call her Maeve.”

The kitten butted her chin, as if the name suited her perfectly.

Sybil grinned. “A fine witch’s familiar. She’ll keep you sharp. And she’ll let you know if you ever downplay your worth again.” She tapped her nose. “Familiars can be very strict about that.”

Magdalena laughed softly.
The kind of laugh that comes from being known, finally known, by the world again.

Maeve purred louder.

And Magdalena Maginnis, psychic, pensioner, and newly witch-adjacent resident of Nether Oak Close, felt relevant.
Completely, undeniably relevant.

For the first time in a long, long while.