Page 9 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle

“Four quarters make a whole, four seasons complete the year. Find what’s missing to make the circle clear.”

“A riddle?” I read it aloud, tracing the letters with my fingertip. “What does that mean?”

Dorian studies the message, his golden eyes swirling with thought. “Four quarters... Four seasons... The eggs must represent the seasons. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter.”

“And we need to find what completes the circle.” I tap my chin, thinking. “The circle of the year? Or maybe—”

Before I can suggest theories, the hum of the grove begins to quiet, as if the magic itself is waiting. The eggs absorb into the tree like they never existed. We exchange a glance before I nod and say, “Let’s head back. Maybe the missing piece isn’t here.”

Dorian gives one last look to the now-silent Heart of Haven, then extends his wing slightly in a protective arc as we make our way down the mossy path. The sunlight feels warmer than before, and flowers bloom in our wake, a sure sign the grove approves.

As we step into the town square, laughter greets us. The pre-Ostara festivities have begun while we were away, with enchanted tulips floating in midair and children chasing bouncing pastel eggs that squeak when touched. I barely have time to take it all in before something tugs at my senses with a soft thrumming at the edge of my awareness.

There, nestled in the crook of the fountain where the light glints just so, sits a fifth egg.

This one gleams with all four seasonal colors—spring green, summer gold, autumn copper, and winter silver, swirling together in perfect harmony. I pick it up, feeling the thrum of its magic pulse against my palm like a heartbeat.

Dorian is quiet beside me, but when I glance up, the corners of his mouth move upward in a rare, genuine smile.

“This must be the one. The piece that completes the circle.”

And that’s when he scowls again and crosses his arms, breaking the moment. “This is ridiculous. We’ve been at this for hours. Five eggs and no closer to understanding what they want from us.”

I turn the newest egg over in my hands, admiring how the sunlight catches on its iridescent shell. “I think it’s fun. Like a magical forage.”

“Fun?” Dorian’s golden eyes swirl faster, the striations of orange becoming more pronounced. “We’re being manipulated by unknown magical forces, and you think it’s fun?”

“When you put it that way...” I grin up at him. “Yes, I still think it’s fun. Come on, Dorian. When’s the last time you did something spontaneous?”

“Eighteen seventy-three,” he answers without hesitation. “It ended poorly.”

“You can’t just say something like that and not elaborate.”

“I can and I will.” He looks around the square, sweeping his gaze over the townspeople going about their morning routines.“We should take this egg to someone who can properly analyze them. Hemlock at the apothecary might have some insight.”

I nod, tucking the egg into my satchel. “Good idea. Hemlock knows all sorts of obscure magical lore.” He’s also my landlord, renting me the space for my cart outside his apothecary store.

We cross the square toward Thaumaturge’s Apothecary, a narrow building wedged between the bookshop and a bakery. The scent of herbs, potions, and something vaguely sulfuric grows stronger when we approach.

“I still don’t understand why these eggs appeared to us specifically, only to disappear into the tree,” says Dorian as we walk. “What’s the connection?”

“Maybe they sensed our magnetic personalities?” I suggest, bumping my shoulder against his arm playfully. His stone skin is cool against mine.

He makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. “Yes, that must be it. My winning charm and your subtle demeanor.”

“Was that sarcasm? I’m shocked.”

“I’ve had five centuries to perfect it.”

We reach the apothecary, and Dorian holds open the door for me. The interior is dim compared to the bright spring day outside, illuminated by floating glass orbs that emit a soft, golden light. Shelves packed with jars, bottles, and mysterious containers line the walls. The air smells of dried herbs, exotic spices, and the distinctive tang of magic.

Hemlock stands behind the counter, his pale fae features partially obscured by the steam rising from a bubbling cauldron. His long, silver hair is tied back in a neat ponytail, and his violet eyes glow slightly in the shop’s dim light.

“Ah, Dorian Thorne,” he says, looking up from his work. “This is unexpected. You haven’t graced my shop in... What has it been, thirty years?”

“Twenty-seven,” says Dorian. “The incident with the speaking stones.”

“Ah, yes. Nasty business, that.” Hemlock’s gaze shifts to me, his eyebrows rising slightly. “And Talia Brightwell, my dear tenant. What brings you both to my humble establishment?”

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