Page 8 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

I hold up all three eggs, watching as they glow and hum in perfect synchronization. “They’re beautiful though. Like they’re singing to each other.”

“Beauty can be dangerous.”

“So can excessive brooding, yet here you are.” I grin at him.

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close enough to count as a victory. “We should continue looking for Grizelda,” he says, taking one of the eggs back from me.

We cross the square, heading toward the residential area where Grizelda and Atlas live. As we pass the entrance to Mystic Meadows, the town’s enchanted park, our eggs begin humming more loudly again.

“They’re reacting to something in the park,” I say, already veering onto the path.

Mystic Meadows is especially beautiful in spring. The grass shifts colors based on the moods of those walking through. It’s currently a patchwork of hopeful greens and curious purples around our feet. A group of children play with an enchanted ball that giggles when caught.

Our eggs lead us deeper into the park, their humming growing more insistent with each step. We follow the sound to a massive weeping willow, whose branches sway gently despite the lack of wind.

“There.” Dorian points upward. Another egg is dangling from one of the higher branches, just visible through the curtain of leaves. It sways slightly.

“How are we supposed to get that?” I ask, craning my neck to look up at it.

Dorian gives me a flat look, then unfurls his wings with a sound like stone grinding against stone. The dark gray appendages extend to their full impressive span, casting a shadow over me.

“Oh. Right. Flying. That’s handy.”

“One of the few perks of being a gargoyle.” He hands me his eggs. “Hold these.”

With a powerful thrust of his wings, he launches himself upward, moving his stone body with surprising grace. He hovers near the branch, carefully untangling the egg from where it’s been secured with what looks like enchanted twine. Once free, he descends, landing beside me with barely a sound.

The moment the fourth egg is near the others, all four begin to hum in complex harmony, their lights pulsing in patterns that seem almost like communication.

“They’re definitely meant to be together,” I say, watching the light show. “But why four? And why hide them around town?”

Dorian examines the new egg. “This one has a symbol etched into it.”

I lean closer, brushing my shoulder against his arm. The contact sends an unexpected warmth through me, despite his stone skin being cool to the touch. A tiny engraving of a tree with spreading branches is on the egg’s surface.

“The Heart of Haven,” I say, recognizing the symbol of the ancient oak tree in the center of town. “Maybe that’s where we need to go next?”

“It’s worth investigating.” Dorian hesitates, then adds, “We should probably still try to find Grizelda.”

“Right. Grizelda.” I’d almost forgotten our original mission, distracted by the egg hunt and, if I’m honest, by Dorian himself. “Though I’m starting to think these eggs might be more urgent.”

We walk through the park toward the exit that leads to the Heart of Haven. The ancient oak tree stands in a special circular plaza, its massive branches extending over benches where townspeople often gather. As we approach, our four eggs begin to vibrate in our hands, their humming reaching a fever pitch. “They’re definitely responding to the tree,” I say, stepping closer to the massive trunk.

The Heart of Haven’s bark glows with faint internal light, pulsing in rhythm with our eggs. Small luminescent buds dot its branches, showing early signs of the magical blossoms that will open during the Ostara Festival.

“Look at that.” I point to a hollow in the trunk, just above eye level. “Does that look new to you?”

Dorian steps closer, examining the perfectly egg-shaped indentation in the bark. “This wasn’t here before.”

I reach up, placing one of the eggs into the hollow. It fits perfectly, its glow intensifying as it connects with the tree. The egg’s humming changes pitch, becoming deeper and more resonant.

“Try another one.” I hand Dorian a second egg.

He places it in the hollow beside the first. Immediately, a second indentation appears in the bark, as if the tree is molding itself to accommodate our discovery. The two eggs glow brighter together, synchronizing their humming into a pleasant melody.

We place the third and fourth eggs into newly formed hollows, completing what now looks like a diamond pattern on the tree trunk. The moment the last egg is in place, all four burst into brilliant light, their humming rising to a crescendo before suddenly stopping.

The tree’s bark ripples around the eggs, seeming to absorb them into its surface until only their glowing outlines remain visible. Then, slowly, a section of bark below the eggs begins to shift and change, forming words in an elegant script:

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