The sun hung low over the town as Mother Goose strolled through the marketplace, trailed by a few of the children from the House of the Hearth. She chatted with vendors, offered spare coins to a lute player, and helped a young girl choose between two types of pears as if the fate of the world depended on it.
"Now remember, never trust apples that shine too brightly," she said cheerily, lifting a basket overflowing with fresh bread, vegetables, and sweets. "They're showoffs, and showoffs usually have no flavor."
The children laughed. She beamed, her feathers rustling as she adjusted her bonnet. The world was good and simple in that moment—until it wasn't.
As they turned onto the quieter path leading back to the House, the laughter dwindled. From the alley's edge, three figures stepped out—grimy, tall, and wearing the kind of smirks that never meant anything kind. Their clothes were tattered with pride, and their eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.
"Well, well," one of them sneered, cracking his knuckles. "What's an old bird like you doing with such sweet little chicks, eh?"
Mother Goose blinked at him. "We're just on our way home, dear. Please, let us pass."
Another thug, the tallest, took a step forward. "I think we'll hold on to those baskets, and maybe your coin purse too."
She sighed. "I'd really rather you didn't."
The third one spat on the ground. "And what're you gonna do about it, lady?"
That was when everything changed.
Her body, once loose and light, went still. The warmth in her voice drained. She stood taller—straighter—as if an invisible weight had settled on her shoulders and she bore it with the calm of someone who had carried it for lifetimes.
Gone was the fluttering woman of stories and tea.
In her place stood someone else. Something older.
The children sensed it. The youngest, clutching the edge of her skirt, whispered, "Mother Goose…?"
Her eyes never left the men, but her voice—quiet and steady now—cut the air like a blade.
"Close your eyes," she said. "Cover your ears."
They hesitated.
She repeated it, softer, yet sharper. "Now."
The children obeyed. They knew that tone. Somehow, it wasn't something she'd taught them. It was something ancient, buried beneath feathers and lullabies.
The thugs laughed. "What, you gonna sing us to sleep, old hen?"
Mother Goose moved.
To those few who might've seen it from a distant rooftop, it would have looked like a gust of feathers and fabric. To the children, it was only the sudden flurry of motion, muffled sounds behind their tightly shut ears, and the distant, wet thuds of something ending quickly.
There were no shouts. No heroic declarations. Just silence, broken by brief, panicked screams—and then the gentle creak of a basket being lifted again.
She returned to them minutes later, adjusting her bonnet, her expression once again soft and composed. The warmth in her eyes had returned, though a distant glimmer of steel still lingered in their depths.
"Come now," she said, brushing a speck of dust from her dress. "We don't want the milk to spoil."
The children said nothing. They didn't look behind them.
When they reached the House of the Hearth, the others noticed how quiet the little group was. How the children clung to Mother Goose a bit more closely. How they didn't mention anything about the missing bruises on their knees or the strange red stain on one corner of the basket that she'd tried to wipe away.
Father Hearth, seated at the long table near the fire, gave her a look. The kind that didn't ask what happened. The kind that already knew.
She sat down across from him with a tired breath and pulled out the tea.
"They never learn," she muttered.
He poured a second cup. "They never do."
And the fire crackled on.
It had been a few days since *the incident*—as the children of the House of the Hearth had come to whisper it. The day Mother Goose, so warm and expressive and fussing about honey and sunhats, had turned into something else. Something sharp and terrifying. Something ancient.
They hadn't spoken about it at first. They just stared a little longer at her hands when she poured tea, sat a bit straighter when she entered the room, and wondered why Father Hearth hadn't said a word about it. But curiosity, as it often does, bloomed like wildfire in their hearts. And when Mother Goose was out running errands again, it finally became too much.
"Father Hearth," one of the older boys asked as they sat near the fire, "how did Mother Goose… do that?"
Father Hearth didn't turn to look at them. He stirred the stew gently, the flames reflecting in his eyes. For a while, the only sound was the bubbling pot and the crackle of burning wood. The children leaned in, thinking maybe he wouldn't answer.
Then he spoke.
"Before she was Mother Goose," he said, voice quiet but firm, "she was known by another name: Evangeline the Radiant."
The room went still.
"She was a knight," he continued. "The shining star of a kingdom long turned to dust. They say her blade sang in battle, that her presence alone rallied armies, and that her heart never wavered—not even when the sky turned black with wings."
"A war?" one of the younger children whispered.
"No," Father Hearth said. "A massacre."
He looked into the fire as if watching it replay the past. "A horde of demons came. Endless, hungry, cruel. They swept across the land like a flood of nightmares. Her kingdom fell in a single night. And Evangeline…"
He paused.
"She was the only one left."
Gasps filled the room. The children leaned closer, wide-eyed.
"She fought for three weeks without rest. No sleep. No food. No help. Just her and her sword. She stood atop a mountain of corpses, refusing to fall. Not for vengeance. Not for glory. But because no one else could. Because someone had to."
"And then?" a girl asked, voice barely a breath.
"She took her final breath with her sword still in her hand," Father Hearth said. "And the gods—those who still watched—saw the fire in her soul and took pity. They raised her not as a warrior, but as a keeper. A guardian. A mother."
He looked at them now, his gaze heavy and kind.
"That's when she became *Mother Goose*. The Mother of Stories. She who protects childhood, guards dreams, and remembers the tales of those who would be forgotten."
"But… why stories?" asked another.
Father Hearth allowed himself the faintest smile.
"There is a secret," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. "In her private room, back when she was still a knight, behind the armor and war maps, she kept shelves upon shelves of fairy tales. Books with golden spines and silver dragons. Stories about clever foxes, brave girls, and foolish kings. She read them all."
"She *loved* fairy tales. She believed stories were stronger than steel, and dreams kinder than swords."
The room fell into thoughtful silence.
"…Is she still sad?" one of the smallest children asked.
Father Hearth stirred the stew once more, the flames dancing gently.
"She remembers everything," he said. "But she does not dwell in sorrow. She laughs so the past doesn't win."
Outside, the wind blew gently against the windows, and somewhere far down the road, a familiar voice could be heard fussing over the price of potatoes.
And when Mother Goose returned, her arms full of fresh bread and a tiny jar of jam shaped like a duck, the children all ran to greet her—not with the cautious reverence of before, but with warm embraces and brighter eyes.
They didn't tell her what they knew.
But when one of them tucked a fairy tale book under her teacup later that evening and whispered, "For you," she smiled wider than she had in days.
And Father Hearth, quietly sipping his tea from the corner, said nothing.
Because some stories are best passed down beside the fire.