Page 2 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

I bite my lip, unwanted memories of my last magical failure surfacing. It was after that disaster that I’d left the coven and eventually found my way to Evershift Haven, seeking a fresh start. “I don’t know. The last time I coordinated a major magical event, things didn’t go well.”

Grizelda’s expression softens, and she reaches across the table to take my hand. Her skin is warm, almost hot to the touch, and crackling with maternal magic.

“That’s precisely why you need to do this,” she says, her voice gentler now. “You came to Evershift Haven to heal and grow, yes? This is part of that journey. Besides, you won’t be alone. The whole town helps with Ostara.”

I exhale slowly, looking from the clipboard. “Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Grizelda beams, causing all the lights in the café to briefly flare brighter. “I knew you would. Now, let me walk you through the basics.”

I WIPE THE SWEAT FROMmy forehead with the back of my hand, careful not to smudge dirt across my face again. The afternoon sun beats down on my little herb cart outside Thaumaturge’s Apothecary, my newly acquired shop space in Evershift Haven’s town square. After Grizelda’s surprise promotion this morning, I’ve been stress-organizing my inventory all day.

“Lavender, chamomile, rosemary...” I murmur, checking items off my mental list as I arrange the freshly cut herbs in neat bundles. “Moonflower seedlings still need coaxing, sage looks good, and the mint is trying to take over as usual.”

My enchanted silk scarf shifts from a worried gray to a more settled blue as I work. I’ve always found comfort in the methodical tasks of herbalism. It settles me when my thoughts start spinning too fast, like they’ve been doing since Grizelda dropped the Ostara Festival coordinator bomb on me.

“You can handle this,” I tell a particularly robust basil plant. “And so can I, right?”

The basil shivers slightly, its leaves rustling in what I choose to interpret as agreement.

I reach for the next bundle of herbs in my basket and pause. Something glimmers beneath the rosemary sprigs that definitely wasn’t there when I packed the basket this morning. I push aside the herbs and gasp.

Nestled among the greenery is an egg. Not a chicken egg, but something altogether more magical. About the size of mypalm, it glows with a soft lavender light that pulses gently, like a heartbeat. Its shell isn’t smooth but textured with what look like tiny, iridescent scales that shift colors when the light hits them, from lavender to pale blue to a hint of rose gold.

“Where did you come from?” I glance around to see if anyone is watching. The town square is busy with afternoon shoppers, but no one seems to be paying attention to my discovery.

Cautiously, I reach out to touch the egg with one finger. The moment my skin makes contact, a melody fills my ears. It’s a sweet, haunting tune that somehow reminds me of moonlight on water and the first warm breeze of spring. It’s clearly a love song, though in no language I recognize. The notes weave together in a pattern that makes my heart ache with a strange mixture of longing and joy.

I look around again, startled. “Does anyone else hear that?”

A woman passing by my cart gives me a curious look. “Hear what, dear?”

“The music. From this...” I hold up the egg, which continues to glow and pulse in my palm.

The woman shakes her head. “No music that I can hear. Just the usual town square sounds. What a pretty trinket though.”

She moves on, leaving me staring at the egg in confusion. The music continues, growing slightly louder. Around my cart, something extraordinary begins to happen. The flowers—not just my herbs, but all the plants within a few feet radius—start to stir. Buds that were tightly closed begin to unfurl, stretching petals toward the sun. A row of daffodils that weren’t due to bloom for another week suddenly burst open, their yellow faces turning toward the egg in my hand as if it were the sun itself.

“Okay, this is weird,” I mutter, watching as even the ivy climbing the wall of the apothecary begins to sprout new leaves at an alarming rate.

I carefully place the egg in my apron pocket, planning to examine it more closely inside. The moment it leaves my hand, the music fades, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. It becomes a distant hum, just at the edge of my hearing.

Grizelda waddles by, her purple eyes widening as she takes in the prematurely blooming flowers around my cart. “Someone’s been busy with growth magic.”

“It wasn’t me,” I say quickly. “At least, not intentionally.” I pull the egg from my pocket, holding it out for her inspection. “I found this in my herb basket. When I touched it, it started playing music—music only I can hear, apparently—and then all the flowers started blooming.”

She reaches for the egg, and I place it in her palm. Immediately, her expression changes to one of confusion. “Nothing,” she says, turning over the egg carefully. “No music, and no magic that I can detect.” She hands it back to me. “But when you hold it...”

The moment the egg returns to my hand, the music swells again, and a fresh wave of growth ripples through the nearby plants. A climbing rose by the door suddenly produces a dozen new buds that bloom in fast-forward, their petals unfurling in seconds rather than days.

“Fascinating. It’s responding specifically to you.”

“But what is it? And where did it come from?”

She gives me a smile that can only be described as suspiciously innocent. “I have no idea.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe talk to Dorian Thorne about this. Gargoyles know all about magical resonance.”

I nearly drop the egg. “Dorian Thorne? The hermit who lives at the edge of the Glimmergrove? That Dorian Thorne?”

“The very same.” Grizelda’s smile widens. “He’s quite knowledgeable about unusual magical artifacts, and resonance magic is a gargoyle specialty.”

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