Page 4 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

No response. Not that I expected one. Once a gargoyle enters deep hibernation, nothing short of magical catastrophe will rouse them.

I lean closer to examine the egg without touching it. Its surface appears smooth, almost pearlescent, with intricate patterns that shift and change as the light inside pulses. The magical hum emanating from it seems to resonate specifically with the stone of my chapel. “Where did you come from?”

As if responding to my voice, the egg begins to emit a melody that’s soft, haunting, and unmistakably romantic. The notes rise and fall in a pattern that reminds me of ancient love songs from centuries past. Great. Just what I need.

I extend a cautious hand toward the egg. The melody intensifies, and the glow brightens in response to my proximity. Interesting. “Griswald, if you’re secretly awake and this is your idea of a joke, I’m not amused.”

The ancient gargoyle remains motionless, his expression frozen in the same stoic grimace he’s worn for three decades.

With a resigned sigh, I carefully pick up the egg. It’s surprisingly warm against my cool stone palms, and the melody changes key, becoming more upbeat. The magical resonance vibrates through my arms and into my core. “What are you?” I ask the egg, turning it over in my hands.

No answer, of course. Just more music and glowing.

I carry the egg to my workbench near the western window, where morning light provides the best illumination. Over the centuries, I’ve collected various tools for magical analysis, like crystals that detect different types of enchantments, ancient texts on magical signatures, and specialized lenses for viewing magical auras.

The egg defies all standard classification. Its aura is complex and layered with multiple magical signatures that seem to be harmonizing with each other. That’s unusual. Most magical objects have a single, distinct signature.

Three hours later, I’m no closer to answers. The egg continues its musical performance, occasionally changing tempo or key but never ceasing. I’ve tried speaking to it in twelve different magical languages, attempted three different revealing spells, and even threatened to drop it from the bell tower—an empty threat, but sometimes magical objects respond to intimidation.

Nothing.

A familiar scent drifts through the open window of lavender, sage, and something distinctly...sunny. My muscles tense involuntarily. Talia Brightwell, the newest resident of Evershift Haven. We haven’t formally met, but I’m aware of her existence more than I should be for no explicable reason. It’s been like that since she arrived.

I hear her footsteps on the stone path leading to my chapel door long before she knocks. Light, quick steps accompanied by humming—a tune that, annoyingly, complements the egg’s melody perfectly. The knock, when it comes, is rhythmic and energetic. Just like her.

“I know you’re in there, Dorian.” Her voice carries through the thick oak door. “Grizelda sent me. My name is Talia, but we haven’t been formally introduced.”

Of course, she did. Grizelda Greenwarth, the town witch, has made it her personal mission to drag me into town affairs at every opportunity. I consider ignoring the knock, but the egg’s melody suddenly intensifies, as if responding to Talia’s voice.

Curious.

With a resigned groan, I move to the door and pull it open. The sunlight momentarily blinds me, and I squint against the brightness. Talia stands on my doorstep, radiant as always. I haven’t met her, but it’s impossible not to notice her, even for a semi-hermit like me.

Her deep brown curls are tied back with a scarf that shifts between green and yellow, reflecting her current mood, no doubt. Her dark brown eyes, ringed with a distinctive golden-brown, widen slightly at the sight of me. She’s wearing one of her typical floral sundresses, this one patterned with daisies, that contrasts beautifully with her dark skin, and she carries a small basket covered with a cloth.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice infuriatingly cheerful. “I brought you moonflower seedlings. They told me they’d like to grow near your chapel.”

“Plants don’t talk,” I say flatly.

“They talk to everyone. Most people just don’t listen.” She peers around me into the chapel. “May I come in? Grizelda said you might be able to help me with something.”

I step aside reluctantly. “If this is about the Ostara Festival, my answer is no. I don’t participate in town celebrations.”

“It’s not about the festival.” She steps inside, her presence immediately brightening the somber interior of my chapel. The scent of spring follows her with fresh soil, growing things, and that distinctive sunny quality that seems unique to her magic. “Though you really should reconsider. Your stone carving skills would make beautiful decorations.”

Before I can respond, her attention shifts to my workbench, where the egg continues its musical performance. Her eyes widen, and the golden rings around her irises become more prominent. Perhaps a sign her magic is responding to something?

“You have one too?” she asks, moving toward the egg with surprising speed.

I intercept her, stepping between her and my workbench. “What do you mean, ‘too?’”

She sets down her basket and reaches into a small pouch at her waist. When her hand emerges, she’s holding an egg identical to mine, except its glow pulses in shades of blue and silver rather than pink and gold.

“This appeared in my herb basket this morning and started playing music. A song only I could hear, apparently. The moonflowers started blooming weeks ahead of schedule when it showed up.”

The two eggs seem to sense each other’s presence. My egg is playing the same song as hers.

“Grizelda said you know about magical resonance. She thought you might be able to identify what these are.”

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