Bartholomew's Wisdom

“Honestly, Bartholomew,” I sighed, flicking a stray leaf off my shoulder. “You’ve been nothing but a sarcastic, orange menace all night. If you’re going to be my familiar, the least you could do is offer some actual help, not just… pumpkin-flavored commentary.”

Bartholomew, perched precariously on a mossy stump that seemed to be actively wilting under his weight (or maybe that was just the general spooky aura of the place), let out a low, guttural rumble that I’d learned to interpret as a chuckle. “Oh, *now* you want help, Amy? After I’ve been dropping hints like they’re autumn leaves in a hurricane? You’re the one who thought ‘spicy’ meant ‘extra cinnamon in your pumpkin pie’.”

I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the way the blood-red moonlight made my own shadow look like it had extra pointy bits. “They *were* extra spicy! Grandma’s recipes are no joke. And besides, your hints were about as clear as mud after a badger stampede. ‘Beware the spectral soiree’? ‘The moon’s melancholic mirth’? What does that even mean?”