Page 14 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

I sigh, a sound like wind through stone crevices. “Fine. One day.”

Her smile widens, bright enough to rival the sun she channels. “Perfect. We’ll need tools, and seeds, and maybe some special fertilizer—”

“Talia.”

“Right. Sorry. I get excited about gardening.” She spins in a small circle, surveying the grove. “Let’s start with clearing some of these dead vines. They’re blocking the energy flow.”

For the next several hours, we work side by side in the awakening grove. I clear away dead branches and overgrowth while Talia follows behind, coaxing new life from the soil with her solar magic. Despite my initial reluctance, I’m drawn into the rhythm of the work and the familiar motions of tending to the grove I once guarded.

“You’re good at this,” she says when I carefully prune a thorny bush. “You’ve done it before.”

“I was the guardian for four centuries,” I say, moving my hands with practiced precision. “Tending the grove was my responsibility.”

“What was it like when the grove was alive?”

I pause, memories washing over me. “It was magnificent. The trees glowed from within, their bark translucent like stained glass. Flowers sang with the dawn and dusk, and the Heart Oak produced fruits that could heal any ailment.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“It was.” I resume my pruning, trying to push away the memories. “The grove was a place of balance—light and dark, growth and rest, joy and solemnity.”

Talia works quietly for a moment, her hands glowing softly as she encourages a patch of dormant moss to spread. “What happened to it?”

The question I’ve been dreading. I continue working, focusing on the thorny bush rather than her face. “It died.”

“Because you failed as its guardian?” Her voice holds no judgment, only curiosity.

“Yes.”

She waits, clearly expecting more, but I remain silent. After a while, she sighs. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.” She moves to another patch of ground, kneeling to work her magic on a cluster of withered flowers. “I’ll tell you a story instead.”

I glance at her, surprised. “A story?”

“About why I left my coven.” She doesn’t look up from moving her hands gently over the soil. “You’re not the only one with failures in your past, you know.”

Despite myself, I’m intrigued. I move closer, pretending to examine a nearby tree while listening.

“I was part of a coven in Seattle. The Daughters of Dawn. Very prestigious and very powerful. They recruited me right out of the Pacific Northwest Institute for Magical Arts because of my affinity for solar magic. The coven was amazing at first. Twelve powerful witches, all working together to channel the sun’s energy for healing and growth.”

She pauses over the flowers, which have begun to uncurl their petals. “The problem was, I was the youngest and the newest, and I wanted so badly to prove myself.”

I recognize the tone in her voice as the same one I hear in my own when I talk about my failure. “What happened?”

“They asked more and more of me. My solar magic was stronger than most since I could store sunlight and release it even at night, so they started scheduling more of their major workings after dark, when they needed my stored energy.” She sighs. “I should have recognized my limits, but I wanted their approval so much.”

“You burned out,” I guess.

She nods. “During the spring equinox ritual, three years ago. We were trying to heal a blighted forest outside the city. The other witches were channeling through me, using my stored sunlight as a conduit. It was too much.” Her voice drops. “I collapsed. The magic backfired. Instead of healing the forest, weaccidentally accelerated the blight. Hundreds of acres were gone in minutes.”

I watch her face, seeing the pain of the memory etched there. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? I knew I was reaching my limit. I felt it happening, but I pushed through anyway. My pride cost that forest its life.” She looks up at me, her dark eyes serious. “The coven blamed me. They said I wasn’t strong or disciplined enough and asked me to leave.”

“They were wrong,” I say firmly. “They pushed you too hard.”

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