Page 3 of Eggsactly the Right Gargoyle (Evershift Haven #7)

I STAND IN FRONT OF Grizelda’s Enchanted Emporium, my hand frozen mid-knock as I read the handwritten sign taped to the door.

“Closed for prenatal yoga with Atlas. Back tomorrow. For magical emergencies, please consult the talking toad in the garden.”

I turn to Dorian, who looms behind me like a particularly handsome statue. “Prenatal yoga? That’s new.”

“Atlas has been teaching special classes for Grizelda since her second trimester.” Dorian shifts the glowing egg in his hands. “She claims it helps with the baby’s magical development.”

“Let’s check Fae Fitness then. Maybe we can catch them after class.”

We walk through town toward Atlas’s gym, our eggs humming softly in sync. The streets of Evershift Haven bustle with mid-morning activity, including a group of pixies decorating lampposts with spring garlands, a Lycan delivering packages from his bicycle, and two elderly witches arguing over the proper way to enchant garden gnomes.

“So,” I say, breaking our comfortable silence, “Five hundred thirty-eight years old, huh? You must have some stories.”

Dorian’s golden eyes flick toward me. “A few.”

“Just a few? Come on. You’ve lived through, what, five centuries? That’s a lot of history.”

“Five hundred thirty-eight years of standing very still and watching things change around me.”

I laugh. “That can’t be all you did. What’s the most interesting thing you’ve seen?”

He considers this for a moment, his pace slowing. “I once watched a sapling grow into a mighty oak, then back into a sapling, then into a rosebush, then into a very confused squirrel.”

“Wait, what? How does that even happen?”

“Time witch having a nervous breakdown. The 1700s were strange.”

We reach Fae Fitness, a stone building with large windows and a sign featuring a troll lifting weights made of glowing crystals. I peer through the glass, scanning the interior. Several supernatural beings stretch on mats. A pair of dryads bend impossibly far backward, a vampire does one-handed pushups, and a mermaid in a special hovering water bubble is doing core exercises.

“I don’t see Grizelda or Atlas.” I press my face closer to the window. “Maybe they finished early?” As I step back, my egg begins humming louder, its glow intensifying. Dorian’s does the same. “That’s odd.” I hold up my egg, watching as the light pulses in rhythm with Dorian’s. “They’re really humming again.”

Dorian frowns, his stony features becoming even more angular. “They’re reacting to something.”

I turn in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint what might be triggering the eggs. My gaze lands on the town square across the street, where a large statue of the town’s founder stands proudly. “Let’s check over there,” I say, already moving toward the square.

The town square of Evershift Haven is a charming space with cobblestone paths, enchanted benches that adjust to the perfect sitting height for each visitor, and flowerbeds that bloom year-round. The bronze statue of Elara Evershift, the witch who founded the town and created its protective barrier, stands at its center.

As we approach the statue, our eggs hum more insistently, brightening to an almost blinding intensity. “They’re definitely reacting to something here,” I say, circling the statue’s base.

Dorian kneels, running his free hand along the stone pedestal. “There’s something here.” He reaches under the statue’s base and pulls out another egg, identical to the ones we already carry. This new egg begins to hum the moment it’s in Dorian’s grasp, creating a three-part harmony with our original eggs.

“Another one?” I take it from him, examining it closely. “This is getting weird.”

“Weird is an understatement.” He stands, brushing dirt from his knees. “Someone is deliberately placing these eggs for us to find.”

“But why? And who would know that both of us would be looking for them together?”

Dorian’s expression darkens. “I don’t know, but I don’t like being manipulated.”

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:

“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?”

I reach into my satchel and carefully place the egg on the counter, explaining the situation. “And this egg was the last one we found after the others resorbed into the tree. They seem to be leading us on some kind of magical treasure hunt.”

Hemlock leans forward and picks it up, turning it over in his long, elegant fingers. “Extraordinary craftsmanship. Not a natural object, despite its appearance. This one, and I’d venture all of them, were created with powerful, old magic.” He closes his eyes, holding the egg near his ear. “And it’s singing. Can you hear it?”

“Yes,” Dorian and I say in unison.

“We were the only ones who could until now,” I add.

“Same melodies for both of you, I’d wager.” Hemlock places the egg back on the counter. “This a resonance egg. Extremely rare magical artifacts. They respond to specific magical signatures and guide those individuals toward... Well, that depends on who created them and why.”

“Someone made these specifically for us?” I ask, picking up the final egg. It hums contentedly in my palm.

“Seems like.”

Dorian asks, “What are they guiding us toward?”

“That, my stone friend, is the question.” Hemlock moves around the counter, his long robes sweeping the floor. “Resonance eggs are typically used in rituals of awakening or renewal. They gather magical energy from their carriers and, when brought together in the right location, can channel that energy toward a specific purpose.”

“Like what?” I ask, suddenly less certain about the fun of our scavenger hunt.

“Awakening dormant magic, breaking curses, or sealing pacts between magical beings.” Hemlock shrugs. “Or they could simply be leading you to buried treasure. Without knowing who created them, it’s impossible to say for certain.”

Dorian’s expression darkens further. “I’ve had enough of this game. We should destroy this before it can be used for whatever purpose they were created.”

“No.” I step between Dorian and the egg. “We can’t just destroy it. What if it’s meant to help us? Or help the town?”

“Or trap us in some ancient magical binding?” His wings flare slightly. “We know nothing about their origin or purpose.”

“Which is why we should follow where this one leads. At least then we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”

“I agree with Talia,” says Hemlock while moving back behind his counter. “Destroying magical artifacts without understanding their purpose can have unpleasant consequences. Better to follow the path and remain vigilant.”

Dorian’s jaw tightens with a rock-grinding sound. “Fine. This better be the last egg, because after this, I’m done with this wild goose chase.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a grump. Would it kill you to embrace a little mystery and adventure?”

“Possibly,” he says flatly.

Hemlock chuckles, and the sound is like dry leaves rustling. “You two make an interesting pair. Sun and stone, warmth and endurance. Perhaps that’s why the eggs chose you.”

Before either of us can respond, the remaining eggs glows brightly, its humming growing louder and more insistent.

“It’s responding to something,” I say, watching as the egg rises a few inches off the counter, hovering in the air.

“Or someone,” says Hemlock, stepping back from the counter.

The egg begins to spin, its glow intensifying until it’s almost painful to look at directly. Then, with a sound like a thousand wind chimes, the egg bursts into a shower of golden flower petals.

“Oh.” I gasp, reaching out to catch some of the petals as they fall. They’re warm to the touch and smell like sunlight and honey.

The petals swirl in the air, dancing around Dorian and me before arranging themselves into words that hover between us:

“ Awaken what was left to rest, by balance found and hearts confessed. ”

“What does that mean?” I ask, watching as the words shimmer in the air.

“It means I was right,” says Dorian grimly. “This is some kind of ritual, and we’re being manipulated into performing it.”

Hemlock studies the floating message, his expression thoughtful. “The Glimmergrove,” he says finally. “That’s what this refers to.”

“The sacred grove?” I ask, remembering stories I’d heard since moving to Evershift. “The one that’s been dormant for a century?”

“The very same.” Hemlock nods. “Legend says it was once the heart of Evershift’s magic, the source from which the town’s protective barrier draws its power, but it went dormant long ago, when its guardian...” He glances at Dorian, then quickly away.

“When its guardian failed,” finishes Dorian, his voice flat. “When I failed.”

I turn to him, surprised. “You were the guardian of the Glimmergrove?”

“A long time ago.” His tone suggests he doesn’t want to discuss it. “The Heart of Haven became the magical source. The end.”

I arch a brow, certain that’s very much not the end.