Page 19 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

Before Dorian can respond, a small golden-brown blur darts between the trees, momentarily visible before vanishing again.

“Was that...?” I start to say.

Ronan inhales deeply. “Hecate.”

Sure enough, the tiny Yorkie-Chihuahua mix materializes atop a moss-covered rock, her fluffy tail held high. “Don’t mind me,” she says regally. “I’m simply collecting magical pollen for my invisible tea stash.”

“Your what now?” I ask, approaching the tiny dog.

Hecate sniffs importantly. “My invisible tea stash. It’s very exclusive. Only those with dragon ancestry can appreciate its subtle notes.”

“You don’t have dragon ancestry,” says Dorian flatly.

Hecate narrows her eyes at him. “Excuse you, stone face. My great-great-grandmother could breathe fire after eating spicy enchiladas. That’s documented fact.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “And you need pollen from the Glimmergrove for this...tea?”

“Precisely.” Hecate hops down from the rock and trots over to the Lumina blossoms. “These flowers have ancient magic. Very potent. Very good for the complexion.” She sniffs at a blossom, which shivers and releases a puff of golden pollen. Hecate sneezes and disappears from sight. “I’m fine,” her disembodied voice calls out. “Totally meant to do that.”

Candice and Ronan exchange amused glances before bidding us farewell, promising to return with more supplies tomorrow. As they leave, Dorian’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Not used to so much company?” I ask softly.

“I’ve spent the last century with only Griswald for conversation, and he’s not exactly talkative.”

I laugh. “It seems you’re going to have to get used to it. The town is invested now.”

“Wonderful,” he mutters, but there’s less bite in his tone than I’d expect.

We spend the next hour working in companionable silence, planting new seedlings and incorporating the town’s compost mixture into the soil. Occasionally, we catch glimpses of Hecatedarting around, collecting pollen and muttering to herself about tea blends and dragon heritage.

As midday approaches, I notice Dorian watching me as I coax a particularly stubborn seedling to take root. His golden eyes are intense, swirling with those mesmerizing patterns that seem to speed up when he’s focused.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Your magic,” he says simply. “It’s different when you work with plants.”

I look down at my hands, which are glowing with a soft golden light. “Oh. Yes, I suppose it is. Plants respond to solar magic better than anything else.”

“It’s not just that.” Dorian moves closer, kneeling beside me. “You’re more confident with them. More certain.”

I consider this. “I guess I am. Plants don’t judge. They just want to grow, to reach for the light. It’s simple.”

“Nothing about magic is simple,” says Dorian.

“Maybe that’s the problem.” I gently pat the soil around the seedling. “We overthink it and worry about controlling it perfectly. Plants just accept the magic they’re given and use it how they need to.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then extends his hand toward the seedling. Gray stone magic flows from his fingertips, mingling with my golden light. The seedling responds immediately, stretching upward with new vigor.

“Like that?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his question.

“Exactly like that.” I smile at him, and for a moment, we’re connected through the flow of our magic and the life growing between us.

The seedling gives a happy little wiggle, its leaves unfurling toward the sun. “Thank you,” it whispers in its tiny plant voice.

Dorian pulls his hand back slowly, but his gaze remains on me. “Your magic is warm,” he says quietly. “Like sunlight on stone.”

My heart flutters at his words. “And yours is steady. Grounding.”

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