The day began with optimism.
Father Hearth had left on a brief trip—a summit of old divine spirits, or perhaps a long-overdue reunion with the ancient mountains that occasionally asked for tea. He had departed before dawn, after giving Mother Goose a soft nod and a warm pat on the shoulder. "Only for a few days," he had said.
It was now the second day.
And Mother Goose, despite her ageless poise and seemingly infinite patience, looked like a woman who had been through war.
The House of the Hearth was quieter than usual, which in itself was suspicious. No flaming spoons. No pillow politics. No chanting of a new child-elected monarch. She had, for a fleeting moment, believed—hoped—that things might actually remain that way.
Of course, they didn't.
After a long morning and a chaotic lunch—where someone enchanted the mashed potatoes to scream every time they were scooped—Mother Goose had finally managed to wrangle the house into a fragile calm. Nap time had taken most of the younger ones. The older children were told to quietly read, and for once, they obeyed. Mostly.
With aching shoulders, feathers out of place, and the whisper of a migraine forming in her temples, she collapsed onto a couch in the study.
"I'll just close my eyes," she muttered. "Ten minutes. Maybe twelve."
The house creaked around her. A soft hum of enchantments passed through the windows.
Then—
BOOM.
The world shook. Windows rattled. The ground beneath the house shivered like a nervous cat.
Mother Goose jolted upright, hair askew, feathers wild, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Please," she whispered to no one. "Please let that be someone cooking soup very, very badly."
But then came the screaming. And the sirens. And the unmistakable scent of magically-enhanced fire.
She staggered to the front window. Her hand trembled as she pushed aside the curtain.
The city—the beautiful city just beyond the garden—was on fire.
Not just a house. Not a chimney. The entire skyline was a billowing column of smoke and flame.
And above it all hovered a glowing script in magical fire, spelling the words:
"I WANTED TO MAKE THE SKY PINK."
Mother Goose inhaled.
She exhaled.
And then she said in the coldest, quietest voice she had used since the last war:
"Which one of you got into the restricted section?"
Several hours later...
The flames had been tamed. The sky had stopped weeping caramel. The birds had ceased screaming the alphabet backward.
The child responsible—a cherub-faced six-year-old named Pip—had been found hiding in a laundry basket, still clutching the grimoire he had pulled from beneath the floorboards of Father Hearth's sealed study.
"I just wanted pink clouds!" he explained, sniffling. "Like the ones in the painting! The book said 'Paint the Sky in Firelight,' and I thought—"
He was promptly put on a magical probation list, forbidden from approaching anything that sparkled, glowed, shimmered, or hummed for the foreseeable future.
Mother Goose, soot on her face, a smudge of jam in her hair (don't ask), simply nodded. She didn't shout. She didn't scold.
She sat down in the hallway, leaned against the wall, and sighed a sigh so deep, so soul-worn, it echoed through the bones of the house.
Later that evening…
The front door creaked open.
Father Hearth stepped inside, brushing travel dust off his cloak, the scent of wild winds and old pines clinging to him. He looked around, immediately noticing the broken vases, the faint scorched scent in the air, and the thin layer of soot dusting the hallway.
He turned to see Mother Goose stumble into the room.
Her hat was missing.
Her shawl was singed.
Her eyes were red—not from crying, but from rage, fatigue, and at least two hours spent dragging magical fire out of the city's plumbing system.
She opened her mouth to say something.
Then closed it.
Then simply trudged past him, dragging a blanket behind her.
Father Hearth watched her go.
"Goose," he asked gently. "Why is the city... mostly black now?"
She paused. Glanced at him over her shoulder with the face of someone who had lived three lifetimes in the last twelve hours.
Then said, very slowly:
"I'm going to bed."
And she disappeared up the stairs.
Father Hearth stood in the entryway, blinking.
Then he noticed his grimoire was glowing faintly in a corner, smelling faintly of burnt marshmallows and sugar smoke.
He sighed, picked it up, and muttered, "I should have locked this in a deeper pocket dimension."
Then added, almost affectionately:
"Remind me to bring her cake when she wakes up."
The house hummed in agreement. And outside, the last embers of magical fire gently fizzled out into the night.