Page 22 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

Hours pass as I perch on my spire, wrestling with thoughts and feelings long dormant. The sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I should return to my quarters, try to sleep, face Talia tomorrow with an apology and a professional distance.

Instead, I launch from the spire, wings spread wide as I glide back toward the Glimmergrove. I tell myself I’m checking on our work, making sure the new growth is stable overnight, but I’m lying to myself, and I know it.

The grove glows with its own light as dusk settles, with the luminescent moss, the moonflowers opening to greet the rising moon, and the magical fireflies dancing between the trees. I circle overhead, scanning the clearing.

Talia sits on a fallen log near the center, her head bent over something in her hands. A scroll, from the look of it, the parchment glowing faintly in the gathering darkness.

I land softly several yards away, folding my wings against my back. She doesn’t notice me at first, absorbed in whatever message she’s reading. Her expression shifts from surprise to embarrassment to something like alarm.

“What’s that?” I ask, stepping into the clearing.

She jumps, and the scroll nearly falls from her hands. “Dorian? You startled me.”

“Sorry,” I say, approaching cautiously. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

She clutches the scroll to her chest as her enchanted scarf shifts rapidly between pink, red, purple, and gold before settling on a flustered orange. “I thought you’d gone for the night.”

“I needed to clear my head,” I say, stopping a respectful distance away. “About earlier—”

“It’s a message from Grizelda,” she interrupts, holding up the scroll. Her cheeks darken with a blush. “It just arrived.”

I raise an eyebrow, grateful for the change of subject. “What is it?”

Talia’s blush deepens. She glances down at the scroll, then back at me. “It’s, um, a warning. Of sorts.”

My curiosity piqued, I move closer. “A warning about what?”

She takes a deep breath and holds out the scroll. “See for yourself.”

I take the parchment, careful not to tear it. Grizelda’s handwriting sprawls across the page in purple ink that seems to shimmer:

“Careful, sweetie. Ostara’s Mating Phase begins tonight. If you two are fated... Let’s just say spring doesn’t wait for declarations.”

I stare at the words, reading them twice to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. “Ostara’s Mating Phase?” I repeat, my voice strangely hoarse.

A small puff of air materializes between us, and suddenly, Hecate appears, her tiny form hovering impossibly in midair. “It’s like heat season. For feelings,” the dog announces with obvious glee, “And you’re definitely both doomed.” She vanishes again with a pop, leaving only her disembodied voice echoing, “Doooooomed!”

I look from the empty space where Hecate disappeared to Talia’s mortified expression, then back to the scroll in my hands. “Is this true? About the Mating Phase?”

Talia peeks through her fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe? I’m still new to all this Ostara Festival stuff.” She drops her hands with a sigh. “Grizelda wouldn’t joke about something like this though.”

I roll the scroll carefully. The Ostara Festival celebrates spring, renewal, and fertility... I’ve avoided it for centuries, preferring my solitude to the town’s enthusiastic celebrations. I vaguely recall mentions of a “mating phase” in ancient texts, but I’d dismissed it as symbolic rather than literal. “This would explain a few things,” I say slowly.

“Like what?” she asks, her voice small.

I gesture vaguely around us. “The grove responding so strongly to our combined magic. The way the plants seem to encourage us to work closely together.” I pause, remembering the vine that tripped me earlier. “The way I can’t seem to escape your presence even when I’m miles away.”

“You’ve been experiencing that too?” Talia’s eyes widen. “I thought it was just me. All day, even after you left, I kept hearing your voice in the rustling leaves. The stones felt warm, like your skin.”

Our gazes meet. This isn’t just attraction, though that’s certainly part of it. This is magic, old and powerful, recognizing something between us that we’ve barely acknowledged ourselves.

“What do we do?” she asks.

Before I can answer, Hecate materializes again, this time perched on a nearby branch. “You could try not fighting it,” the tiny dog suggests. “Just a thought.”

“Nobody asked you,” says Talia with a scowl.

Hecate shrugs, her fluffy tail swishing. “I’m just saying, magical destiny is magical destiny. You can run, but you can’t hide.” She disappears again, her laughter lingering in the air.

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