The market was alive with noise, color, and motion—stalls packed with spices, enchanted trinkets, fresh produce that glowed faintly, and sellers shouting about their unbeatable prices and "once in a lifetime" magical deals. Birds squawked overhead, enchanted ribbons danced in the wind, and a trio of bards were arguing about whose lute was louder.
Mother Goose, resplendent in her wide-brimmed hat and feathered shawl, moved through the crowd like a seasoned general—head high, eyes sharp, and purse clutched defensively to her side like it owed her money.
Father Hearth, towering and serene as always, strolled behind her with his usual blank expression and arms politely behind his back, occasionally stopping to examine a particularly strange-looking fruit or shiny trinket with the same intensity one might study a new species of rock.
Trailing in their wake was Little Timmy, one of the House's more sensible children. Timmy was eleven, wore a tiny waistcoat far too serious for his age, and had a voice that cracked halfway through most of his warnings. But what he lacked in size and intimidation, he made up for in sheer, unrelenting vigilance.
"Father Hearth!" Timmy hissed, tugging on the man's sleeve as they paused at a booth with a suspiciously grinning vendor holding a glowing, slightly hissing egg.
The vendor beamed. "Ah! You, good sir! Clearly a man of distinguished taste. May I interest you in a dragon egg? Very rare! Absolutely won't hatch in the middle of the night and set your drapes on fire."
Father Hearth looked down at the vendor.
Then at the egg.
Then said flatly, "That's a very large pigeon egg."
The vendor faltered. "Er. Rare... fire... pigeon?"
Timmy narrowed his eyes. "You tried to scam a man who once roasted a demon king with a soup ladle."
Father Hearth blinked slowly. "He had it coming."
The vendor quietly slid the egg back under the table and whistled as they walked away.
"See?" Mother Goose said over her shoulder, "This is why I told you to stay close to me. You look too polite, and that makes people try to sell you nonsense."
"I was curious," Father Hearth replied simply. "About what kind of nonsense it would be."
"Curiosity is fine. Purchasing a bag of 'invisible beans that scream when planted' is not."
Timmy added, "Also, remember the last time you got distracted and bought that 'silent bell?' It never stopped screaming."
"I still use it to clear the courtyard," Hearth muttered.
They stopped at another stall with glittering baubles. The sign read:
"Enchanted Jewelry: Guaranteed to Make You 23% More Attractive!"
Father Hearth picked up a necklace. "This will make someone more attractive?"
The vendor, a skinny elf with gold-painted lips, leaned in. "Exactly 23%. Scientifically proven! Especially effective on people named Bob, Greg, or unpronounceable syllables."
Mother Goose snorted. "Unless the enchantment turns him into someone else entirely, I don't think you can improve on a divine spirit with cheekbones sharp enough to slice air."
"I like my current face," Father Hearth agreed, setting the necklace down.
Timmy muttered, "I once saw a version of you in a mirror dimension with three noses. Don't tempt fate."
The vendor shriveled like a wilted turnip as they moved on.
A stall selling enchanted cookware caught their eye. Mother Goose examined a frying pan that promised "eggs with personality" while Timmy fought to stop Father Hearth from purchasing a sentient colander.
"She says her name is Margot," Father Hearth explained.
"It's a colander that bites back!" Timmy squeaked.
"She's misunderstood."
"She just tried to eat your hand!"
"She was testing boundaries."
Mother Goose gave up trying to understand either of them and moved on to the spice stall, where a small sign promised:
"Seasonings that remember your childhood."
She sniffed a jar of cinnamon. "Hm. This one smells like my second cousin's wedding and poor choices."
A vendor nearby offered Father Hearth a jar filled with something that looked like shimmering dust. "Sir! A pinch of this and your soups will be sung about in epics for generations!"
Father Hearth took the jar, opened it, sniffed it, and said flatly, "That's sand and glitter."
"Er—desert flavor enhancement?"
Timmy growled. "Sir, we will call your grandmother."
"...She taught me this trick," the vendor whispered in shame.
By the time they made it to the fruit vendors, Timmy had wrestled Father Hearth away from five questionable artifacts, two "cursed but cozy" blankets, and a singing coconut.
Mother Goose, arms full of fresh produce, was smiling in that distinctly dangerous way she did when she was trying not to hex anyone.
"Next time," she said sweetly, "you stay at home and I go shopping with Margot."
"I liked her," Hearth said.
"She was going to live in your cabinet."
"She offered."
Timmy sighed and handed over a bag of safe apples.
"Why do we even go places with him?" he asked Mother Goose.
"Because," she said, patting Timmy's head, "he'd buy the whole market and declare peace with a cabbage stand if left alone."
"I liked that cabbage stand," Father Hearth said from behind them.
Timmy buried his face in his hands. "We're never going home, are we?"
Mother Goose smiled as she looped her arm through Father Hearth's.
"Not until we survive this market. With all limbs. And no sentient kitchenware."
Behind them, the colander Margot watched from a distance.
And plotted.