The Land of the Fae was never still, never quiet—always blooming, always watching. And in the Spring Court, where laughter fluttered like butterflies and the grass sang lullabies, Mother Goose and Father Hearth were once again on a journey that neither of them had planned quite the same way.
Well, one of them hadn't planned it at all.
"I still don't understand," Father Hearth muttered, walking with long, even strides down a path of cobblestones shaped like flower petals. "How does someone spill an entire bottle of perfume in the ceiling?"
"He was trying to see if it could make the chandelier smell nicer," Mother Goose said with a sigh. "Apparently Gunther wanted to 'enhance the ambiance.'"
"And my cologne?"
"Sold," she said with a shrug. "Three copper buttons, a beetle's shell, and a half-eaten sandwich."
Father Hearth blinked slowly. "Which child?"
"I won't name names," she said innocently, "but their name rhymes with Peo and they're King Croak's squire."
Father Hearth muttered something about strengthening the lock on his wardrobe.
The realm around them hummed with the life of spring. Trees swayed in tune with unseen music. Petals fell like lazy snowflakes. Fae flitted by, some with butterfly wings, others with glowing halos of pollen and laughter in their eyes. Everything felt alive. And mischievous.
They arrived at a shop nestled between two trees that had grown into one another like lovers dancing. Vines wrapped around archways, and floating lights circled a sign made of soft bark that read, in curling sylvan script:
"Blossoms of Breath and Memory"
The air around the shop was thick with fragrance—floral, sweet, and mysteriously nostalgic. It smelled like the first time you fell in love, or the way your favorite childhood book felt when it opened in your hands.
"Here we are," Mother Goose said, clapping her hands. "And if you behave, I'll even get you a new cologne."
"I wasn't the one who sold mine," Father Hearth deadpanned.
"Semantics."
They stepped through a curtain of living petals, entering a space that felt more like the heart of a garden than a store. The floor was soft moss, warm beneath their feet. Shelves were made of gently swaying branches, cradling bottles like flower buds ready to bloom. The ceiling pulsed with soft light, and the air was filled with the hum of bees that didn't sting and whispers from flowers that told stories if you listened close.
At the center of the shop stood Rosavelle, the Fairy Queen of Spring.
She was exquisite—even by fae standards.
Her form was made entirely of rose petals, layered and arranged in perfect harmony, shifting in subtle movement as if caught in an eternal breeze. Her eyes were like blooming roses—spirals of deep red and soft pink, watching without blinking. She wore no crown, yet the air around her bent gently, like it recognized royalty.
The moment she saw them, she smiled. "Ah... The Fire and the Feather. It has been too long."
"Rosavelle," Mother Goose greeted with a gracious nod. "You're blooming, as always."
"I am spring, darling. Blooming is what I do."
Father Hearth gave a polite bow. "Thank you for seeing us."
She gave him a look full of gentle amusement. "Do you thank the sun for rising, old one? You honor my garden just by standing in it."
He blinked. Said nothing. As usual.
Mother Goose sighed dramatically. "We're here on a matter of fragrant urgency."
Rosavelle raised a brow. "Perfume?"
"Spilled by a goose."
"Ah. Gunther."
"And cologne?"
"Stolen by a child. Sold to a beetle."
Rosavelle chuckled, the sound like wind chimes. "Very well. Come. I've made new blends."
She led them deeper into the shop, where flowers bloomed open to reveal perfume bottles nestled inside like eggs in a nest. Each one shimmered with inner light. Some glowed blue like frozen breath, others gold like liquid daybreak.
Mother Goose sniffed a rose-colored vial. Her eyes lit up. "Oh. That smells like revenge and a walk in the rain. I want twelve."
"Settle for one," Father Hearth murmured.
"And what of you?" Rosavelle asked, turning to him. "Still drawn to embers and cedar?"
"I liked the old one."
"Well," she said, plucking a dark bottle shaped like a burning acorn, "this one's called Ashes in Bloom. Made from the final petal of a cursed rose that bloomed during a forest fire. I think it suits you."
He took it, tested the scent. His eyes glowed faintly orange.
He nodded. Approval granted.
Mother Goose was already negotiating payment—a tale she hadn't told in a thousand years and a dream she bottled from one of the children during nap time.
"You always trade well," Rosavelle said, amused. "Most mortals bring gold. So boring."
"I am the Mother of Stories," Goose replied with a proud grin. "Gold rusts. Stories don't."
With their new fragrances secured in silk-leaf wraps, they stepped outside into the warm, blossom-heavy breeze. Fae giggled from hidden perches. A rabbit passed by on a mushroom cart, and a tree bowed politely.
As they made their way down the hill of singing moss, Mother Goose dabbed a bit of her new perfume on her wrist.
"How do I smell?"
Father Hearth took a slow inhale.
"Like the beginning of something," he said. "And the end of something else."
She smiled. "Perfect."
And behind them, the Spring Queen stood at her threshold, watching the two divine spirits vanish into the soft glow of her ever-blooming land.
"May your house be warm," she whispered. "And your children louder than ever."