🕸️ Daisy Graves 🔮

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Got a mystery to solve or just want to say hello? 🖤✨Whether you have questions, bookish musings, or need advice on dealing with a particularly mischievous familiar (looking at you, Shadow🐈), I’d love to hear from you! Just fill out the form below, and I’ll get back to you—no séance required.Alternatively - email [email protected]Stay cozy, stay cursed, and drop me a message anytime!— Daisy

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✨Dear Kindred Spirit,You’ve done it—you’ve stepped into a world of mystery, magic, and the occasional misbehaving feline (Shadow says hello, by the way). 🐈Thank you for your email! Whether you arrived by broomstick, haunted carriage, or sheer curiosity, I’m delighted to have you here. Expect cozy-yet-eerie tales, behind-the-scenes bookish mischief, and a little something delightfully unexpected lurking in your inbox. Think of it as a secret society, but with more tea and significantly fewer ominous Latin chants. (Unless you’re into that. No judgment.) ☕📜💀Stay cozy, stay cursed, and beware of talking cats.🖤 Daisy GravesP.S. If you ever want to chat about books, mysteries, or which cursed objects make the best home decor, just hit reply—I read every message!

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Tiberius Familiar File 01

The Case of the Olfactory Offense

Right. The Key is secure. The wards are stable (mostly). The sunbeam, while disappointingly autumnal, provides adequate warmth for strategic napping. I am meticulously groomed, my fur radiating the quiet dignity befitting the Guardian of Gloomwood Manor. For the first time in what feels like an age (though technically only forty-eight hours, the indignity stretched time considerably), a semblance of order has returned. I allow myself a brief moment of purring satisfaction, a low rumble against the aged mahogany of the library table I currently occupy. Absolute perfection.Or it would be, if not for that.My purr stutters to a halt. My nose twitches involuntarily. There it is again. An… aroma. No, aroma is too generous. It’s an effluvium. A miasma. An olfactory offense of the highest order, currently infiltrating my perfectly curated atmosphere.It’s not magical, I ascertain that immediately. No tang of ozone, no cloying sweetness of poorly cast illusion, no acrid bite of hostile intent. This is something distressingly… mundane. And yet, utterly pervasive. It hints at… synthetic fruit? Chemical flowers? The ghost of a tragically misguided air freshener? It’s aggressively cheerful in a way that sets my teeth on edge.My tail gives a single, sharp thump against the polished wood. This cannot stand. Such assaults on the senses are precisely the sort of creeping chaos I am duty-bound to eradicate. First misplaced Keys, now this nasal nuisance. Is there no end to the entropy?With a sigh that carries the weight of centuries tolerating incompetence, I hop down from the table, landing silently on the rug. The investigation commences.Nose low to the ground, I begin a systematic sweep of the library. Dust, old paper, the faint, comforting scent of Archimedes… nothing unusual here. The offending smell seems weaker near the floor, suggesting an airborne assault. Typical. Ground-level threats are so much easier to manage.I move into the main hall. The grandfather clock ticks with infuriating solemnity, utterly oblivious to the aromatic crime being committed. Portraits of dour Carfaxes stare down, their painted expressions suggesting they, too, might disapprove, were they capable of olfactory perception. The scent here is stronger, swirling in the faint drafts that perpetually haunt Gloomwood’s corridors.Could it be Mrs. Ash? She sometimes experiments with new cleaning concoctions, often with regrettable results. I recall a particularly harrowing week involving something that smelled suspiciously of boiled cabbage and regret. I pad towards the kitchen wing, ears slightly flattened.The kitchen is immaculate, as always. Gleaming copper pots hang in orderly rows. Surfaces shine. But the smell… yes, it’s definitely stronger here. My gaze sweeps the room. No obvious source. No discarded cleaning bottles. No suspicious spills.Then I hear it. A muffled sound from the pantry. A rustling, followed by a distinct crunch.Intruder? Unlikely. The wards would alert me. Unless… could it be Duke? That oafish Chow Chow belonging to Detective Donovan? He possesses an uncanny ability to bypass basic security measures, usually through sheer, blundering luck rather than skill. And his culinary standards are… questionable. Did Donovan leave him here unattended again? The nerve.I approach the pantry door, a low growl vibrating in my chest. Pushing it open with my head, I peer into the cool dimness.And there, amidst sacks of flour and jars of preserves, sits Mrs. Ash. Not Duke, thankfully. She’s perched on a small wooden stool, holding a small, brightly coloured bag, and munching on… something.Crunch.The air here is thick with the offending odour. It’s emanating directly from the bag in her hands. She looks up, startled, crumbs clinging to the front of her apron."Oh! Guardian, you gave me a fright," she says, lowering the bag slightly. "Didn't hear you come in."My eyes narrow, focusing on the garish packaging. Pictures of cartoon fruit dance across its surface. The label proclaims, in offensively cheerful letters: "Fruity Puffs! The Zesty Snack Sensation!"Fruity Puffs.The source of this sensory violation is… artificially fruit-flavoured corn snacks.I stare at her. Then at the bag. Then back at her. The sheer, unadulterated banality of it is staggering. I braved potential spectral incursions, navigated dusty corridors, mentally prepared for canine confrontation, all for… Fruity Puffs."Just having a little treat," Mrs. Ash explains, seemingly oblivious to my internal crisis. "Found them at the market. Thought I'd try something different. Bit strong, aren't they?" She pops another one into her mouth. Crunch.Strong? It’s an olfactory declaration of war! It’s the scent of cheap perfume crossed with a chemical spill in a candy factory!I want to hiss. I want to deliver a scathing lecture on the importance of maintaining atmospheric integrity. I want to knock the offending bag from her grasp and bat it under the heaviest sack of potatoes until its synthetic stench is muffled forever.Instead, I execute a maneuver perfected over centuries: the Look of Utter Disdain. I let my gaze linger on the Fruity Puffs, then slowly sweep it up to meet Mrs. Ash's eyes, infusing it with all the disappointment and weary judgment a Guardian of my stature can muster. I allow a single, deliberate blink.Mrs. Ash falters mid-chew. "Oh. Right. Suppose they are a bit… much." She hastily closes the bag, the crinkling plastic loud in the sudden silence. "Probably best saved for… well, not for inside the Manor, perhaps."Precisely. I turn, tail held high, and stalk out of the pantry without a backward glance. The lingering scent follows me for a few paces before dissipating, leaving only the familiar, dignified air of Gloomwood.Honestly. Fruity Puffs. The challenges never cease. First Keys, then floorboards, now breakfast cereal masquerading as a snack food. It’s a wonder this place hasn't collapsed into utter chaos already. It just goes to show, a Guardian's work is never done, especially when surrounded by beings with such questionable taste. Time for that nap. And perhaps a strongly worded mental memo to Mrs. Ash about appropriate pantry snacks.

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