Page 3 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

“I’ve never even met him. Everyone says he doesn’t like visitors.”

“Oh, he’s not as grumpy as people make him out to be.” Grizelda waves a dismissive hand, causing a few sparks to fly from her fingertips. “Just a bit solitary, but for something like this, I’m sure he’ll make an exception.”

From inside the shop, a small golden-brown blur zooms out and leaps onto the herb cart. Hecate, Bella’s familiar, stretches luxuriously in a patch of sunlight that’s fallen across my display of mint.

“Oh, yes, talk to Mr. Growly,” she says, lifting her head just enough to smirk at me. “I’m sure he’s thrilled to be your emotional support statue.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the café with Bella?”

“Day off.” Hecate yawns, showing tiny sharp teeth. “Bella’s doing inventory, and I find counting coffee beans tedious. Besides, Grizelda has those excellent almond cookies I like. Dorian might actually be helpful with this one if you can get him to talk instead of just glowering and grunting.”

“Has anyone actually spoken to him recently?” I ask, suddenly realizing I know very little about the gargoyle beyond town gossip.

“I deliver his weekly groceries,” says Grizelda. “Always polite if a bit terse.”

“He let me sleep on his porch during that thunderstorm last month,” says Hecate. “Didn’t even threaten to use me as a garden ornament, which is his usual greeting to visitors.”

I look down at the egg, which continues to glow and pulse in my palm, its song a constant, presence. Whatever it is, it’s clearly magical and clearly connected to me somehow. If Dorian Thorne is the local expert on magical resonance... “Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll gosee him, but if he turns me to stone, I’m holding both of you responsible.”

“He won’t turn you to stone,” Grizelda assures me, patting my arm. “Probably.”

“Very comforting,” I mutter.

“Take him some of those moonflower seedlings,” suggests Hecate, nodding toward the small pots on my cart. “He has a garden behind his cottage. Mostly night-blooming flowers. I think he gets lonely when he’s on watch duty.”

“Watch duty?”

“Gargoyles are guardians by nature,” says Grizelda. “They patrol their territory. It’s instinctual.”

I carefully wrap the egg in a soft cloth and tuck it into my satchel, along with a few of the moonflower seedlings. The music dims to a gentle hum, just on the edge of my awareness. “How do I even find his place?” I suddenly realize I’ve never ventured to that part of town.

“Follow the path past the Luminous Lagoon,” says Grizelda. “When you reach the split in the trail, take the right fork. The trees get older and taller as you go. You’ll know you’re close when you see stone lanterns lining the path.”

“And if you get lost, just listen for the sound of brooding,” says Hecate helpfully. “It’s like a low-frequency grumble that makes the leaves vibrate.”

I give her a look. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.” She stretches again, then hops down from the cart. “Good luck with Mr. Growly. Try not to stare at his wings. He’s sensitive about them.”

“Wings?” I’ve never actually seen Dorian Thorne at all, so I don’t know what to expect.

“Magnificent ones,” says Grizelda with a dreamy sigh. “Dark gray with these elegant hooks at the top. Very dramatic.”

“Great. A dramatic, brooding gargoyle with wing sensitivity. This day just keeps getting better.” I close up my herb cart, making sure everything is secure. The prematurely bloomed flowers continue to stretch toward the sun.

“I’ll watch your shop while you’re gone,” says Grizelda. “I need to sit down anyway. The baby’s been doing somersaults all afternoon.” As if on cue, a small ripple moves across her rounded belly, visible even through her flowing robes. She places a hand on the spot.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful. With a final check of my satchel—egg secure, seedlings packed, and notebook and pen just in case—I set off toward the Glimmergrove, the mysterious egg’s song humming softly in my ears all the way.

Chapter 2—Dorian

THE VIBRATION IN MYstonework wakes me from a half-slumber. My eyelids snap open as I register an unfamiliar magical hum resonating through my chapel roost. I push myself up from my perch, scraping my stone skin against the ancient masonry. “What now?” I grumble to no one in particular.

The hum grows stronger as I move toward the eastern alcove, where several of my gargoyle companions rest in various states of hibernation. Most haven’t moved in decades—lucky bastards. My attention fixes on Griswald, the most ancient among us, whose granite form has been motionless for nearly thirty years. He’s due to sleep for at least another decade.

Except something is different. Beside him, nestled against his wing, sits a peculiar egg-shaped object. It glows with a soft, pulsing light that shifts between pink and gold. The magical signature is unlike anything I’ve encountered in my five centuries of existence.

“Griswald,” I say, tapping his stone shoulder. “Wake up.”

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