Spindlethorpe (pop. 823, not including various itinerant pie salesmen), was becoming something of a dormitory suberb of Murkstone-Satchly. Its main attraction being that it was a town where the laws of nature mostly obeyed the rules. Well, except on Tuesdays, obviously, when nature takes a half-day and spends its valuable time lurking about at the pub instead.

It was Tuesday.

And on this particular Tuesday, a curious thing happened to Eric Blunderby, Apprentice Third Class of the Guild of Wizardly Experimentation, Tinkering and Minor Explosions.

Eric thought he had what you might call a natural gift for magic. In actual fact, Eric had a gift for being unable to stop magic from going wrong in spectacularly original ways. He was the first person in history to set a house on fire using a standard Guild fire ward, a feat previously believed to be impossible.

Currently, he was ensconced in the guild’s lower basement, which was, coincidentally, the second-most-dangerous room in Spindlethorpe, Mrs. Entwistle’s Rhubarb Chutney Pantry being considered a hazard too far.

Eric was muttering incantations at a collection of bones, string, copper nails, a chicken (live), and a teacup full of eleventh-dimensional solace. He had been instructed to create a homunculus, preferably of the non-exploding type, but the live chicken was becoming increasingly suspicious and the teacup, much against the nature of teacups, solace-bearing or not, was starting to hum ominously.

“Let’s just wodge on a bit more thaumic flux compression into that, shall we,” Eric muttered, which were the sort of words that ought only to be uttered with goggles, gloves, and liability insurance. Oh, and a safety helmet.

He jabbed his wand at the pile.

There was a sound like a care home full of elderly cigarette smokers coughing into a loudspeaker at breakfast time, and then the entire room was filled with a purple mist that smelled mostly of used piss-slipper insoles.

When it cleared, the chicken was gone, although a single, very fluffy brown feather remained.

In place of the aforementioned chicken stood a small man wearing a waistcoat, a monocle, and a look of long-suffering irritation.

“Right,” said the man. “Where am I this time? And don’t, for goodness’ sake, say Hogsfoot. I still owe the pub landlord half a goat there and I’ve got all my goats in poker chips at the moment.”

Eric blinked. “Aren’t you… you’re supposed to be an homunculus?”

The man dusted himself off. “Homunculus? No, mate. I’m Leonard. I was in the middle of a perfectly good card game with three not entirely dead pals. Now I’m here. In a basement. With you. Whoever you are?”

He pointed an accusing finger at Eric. “Have you ever been summoned before breakfast? It’s like being mugged with a bag of soggy beetroot and pulled down a plug-hole.”

Eric, to his credit, shook his head and, with a sigh and a shrug, managed to contain his disappointment. “Bugger!” he muttered.

Leonard rubbed his face and sighed. “Life is like a sharp stick,” he said. “It’s all fun and games until you try to sit on it.”

Eric nodded thoughtfully, wondering what the bloody hell this weird Leonard character was dribbling on about.

Meanwhile, in the lofty, refined Upper Reaches of the Guild, where the vast, hanging tapestries depicting great historical magical moments occasionally bit passing cleaning ladies, the Arch-chancellor was trying to ignore a disconcerting but rhythmic banging. He knew that it meant someone had triggered something that shouldn’t have been triggered.

“This,” he said, “is why I said we should install proper safeguards. In my opinion, anti-personal mines have always been an efficient solution. And surprisingly cheap.”

Dean Bilgestump leaned in. “Do we, in fact, have a suitable Containment Protocol?”

“Up to a point. I suppose. Well… actually… thinking about it… no. Not anymore. We did, until that last intern we sentenced to exile in the Swampy Wastes broke it with a tragically ill-conceived cat-summoning spell.”

“Ah,” said Bilgestump, shrugging resignedly.

Back in the basement, Eric and Leonard were getting along like a flaring blowtorch at a dry haystack arranging competition.

“I’m not entirely sure what you are,” Eric admitted, “but you’re remarkably well-spoken for a magical accident.”

Leonard looked offended. “I am not an accident, mate. I am a proper, old-fashioned freelance magical entity, I am. None of your old Guild-contractor rubbish. I’m the full magical artisan. Occasionally summoned, always annoyed. And now, thanks to you, I’ve missed breakfast, lost at least three hands of cards, and I appear to have a small basilisk in my pocket.”

He patted the pocket.

“Ah. No. That’s just my emergency coracle. I keep it close.”

The air buzzed. Magical things were shifting. Which is to say: the normal laws of matter, energy, and manners were being folded up like a napkin in a wind tunnel.

“You’ve left a hole open,” Leonard said, alarmed and pointing at the humming teacup. “You idiot. Do you know what happens if you don’t finish the incantation properly?”

Eric paled. “A puff of smoke and some minor disapproval? A week in the kitchen scullery?”

Leonard snorted. “Try: ‘reality unknitting itself like a bored grandmother with pullover fatigue and a pair of size twenty-five knitting needles to grind.’”

Meanw, upstairs, something with too many teeth and surprisingly didactic opinions on marmalade was chewing its way out of a wall sconce.

In another room Arch-chancellor Threedle stood up. “I hate Tuesdays,” he said.

Bilgestump looked out the window. “Tuesdays. Hmm. Yes. Still… anyway… Is it me or are the clouds moving backwards?”

“Elephant’s Teeth! Are you even here? This is the Guild of Wizardly Experimentation, Tinkering and Minor Explosions, for goodness’ sake, not a waiting room for the mentally bereft. Make yourself useful. Put the kettle on. Honestly, Bilgestump, we clearly need some sort of retirement plan for the 'Cerebraly Challenged Older Arch-Chancellor.' ”

"Harumph!" Was all Bilgestump could muster in response."

And in the basement: “Okay,” Eric whispered. “I can fix this. I’ve read two books on this exact subject.”

Leonard remembered the titles: Don’t Panic (Unless You Should) and Practical Incantations for People Who’ve Already Made It Worse. Which was fine, but unfortunately neither he nor Eric could remember any of the actual content of the books. Which, Eric realised, was a bit of a shame, all things considered.

“Fine,” Leonard said. “We’ll do it your way. But if this ends with me being turned into another chicken, I will haunt you.”

Eric tried to recite the reversal chant. Unfortunately, his brain had ideas of its own, and instead he recited a 14th-century, rude limerick about a banshee from Droitwich.

The teacup exploded.

Leonard vanished.

And the chicken returned, surprisingly and not a little disconcertingly now glaring guiltily at everyone through a monocle it was wearing like it owed them money.

Later, the Archchancellor arrived at the now choking, acrid smoke-filled basement.

“What,” he said carefully, “have you done this time?”

Eric, charred and ashamed, pointed at the chicken.

“It’s… improved?” he offered weakly.

The chicken nodded.

“Hmm,” the Archchancellor said. “I suppose that is a monocle.”

He turned to Bilgestump. “Put the damned chicken on the faculty meal register. We’ve probably got a spot open in Applied Ethics or somewhere equally hopeless.”

The Archchancellor turned to leave. Eric, breathing a sigh of relief, could have sworn he heard the faintest voice, like someone trying to whisper through a keyhole:

“Life is like a sharp stick… try not to poke with it too much… You’ll hurt yourself.”

And in a realm far, far away, Leonard sat back at the card table, eyeing a winning hand.

“Where were you?” asked one of the other players.

Leonard sighed. “Spindlethorpe. Again.”

“Ah,” said another. “Tuesday?”

“Tuesday.”