The morning mist had burned off by the time Bram Thistleside arrived
in Spindlewood at the Hillspruce farmstead.
His trousers were already spattered with the dried residue of several unpleasant encounters. Croaksley bounced in the satchel at his hip, grumbling softly about the indignities of being treated like a pocket watch.
"Youâre heavier than you look," Bram muttered, swinging the gate open.
"Dignity weighs something, you know," Croaksley replied. "Unlike your judgment."
The farm was in chaos.
Chickens strutted across the thatched roof of the farmhouse, clucking with eerie synchronization. Cows wandered in slow, contemplative circles, wearing spectacles and reciting stanzas of obscure poetry. A goat, apparently convinced it was a conductor, stood atop a water barrel waving a twig at a choir of sheep that baaâd in baritone harmony.
Bram took a deep breath. "Yup. This is the place."
As he approached the barn, a blur of green and silver shot past him on horseback.
Eleanor.
She pulled sharply on the reins, bringing her steed to a graceful halt. Her cloak snapped behind her like a banner.
She blinked down at Bram, then dismounted in one fluid motion. "Thistleside?"
"Princess," Bram said, tipping an imaginary hat. "Didnât expect a royal inspection this far out."
Croaksley hopped from the satchel to a fence post. "Or maybe she missed your charming scent and tracked it here."
Eleanor folded her arms. "Iâm investigating magical disturbances. These... livestock are clearly afflicted."
"Afflicted? Theyâre hosting an opera."
"Some of them are harmonizing," Eleanor corrected. "The sopranos are struggling."
Bram snorted.
They walked together into the barnyard, where a pig was delicately painting with its trotters. It wore a beret.
"How long has this been going on?" Eleanor asked.
Bram shrugged. "Farmer says two weeks. Started with a calf quoting philosophy, ended with the chicken choir and a goose giving weather predictions."
"Accurate ones?"
"Only when it hiccups."
They paused as a cow slowly approached them, blinking through thick lenses.
"Have you considered the duality of grass?" it asked.
Eleanor looked at Bram. "I assume you have a plan."
"Well, I was going to try containment runes and maybe bait them with unenchanted salt licks. But the pigâs guarding the supply."
"Iâll handle the pig."
"You sure? It looks a bit... temperamental."
"It canât be worse than a duke with indigestion."
***
The next hour unfolded like an absurd symphony of magical mishaps and improvised heroics.
Bram tore across the barnyard in pursuit of a baritone sheep with a mane like a disgruntled opera singer and a penchant for high notes. The sheep belted out melodic lines from obscure sea ballads as it bounded between hay bales, its wool shimmering faintly from some unknown enchantment. Croaksley, perched atop a fence post like a froggy conductor, barked directions with theatrical flair.
"Left! Now roll right! Leap the troughâno, *over* it!"
Bram lunged and missed spectacularly, landing face-first in a watering bucket. He emerged dripping and wheezing.
"You're *awful* at this," Croaksley observed. "But in a charming way."
Meanwhile, at the other end of the field, Eleanor approached the pig with deliberate calm. The animal was stationed beside a lopsided crate, guarding the salt lick as though it were the Crown Jewels. A tiny beret still perched atop its pink head, and a smear of blue paint clung defiantly to its snout.
Eleanor crouched, voice soothing. "I admire your brushwork. There's real emotional layering in that abstract."
The pig grunted, intrigued but skeptical.
She reached slowly into her pouch and produced a small square of truffle-infused chocolateâa courtier's favorite. The pig's nostrils flared. With the chocolate as bait and a touch of sleight-of-hand she'd picked up from a particularly slippery ambassador, Eleanor swapped the treat for the salt lick in a seamless motion.
"Thank you," she said with a respectful nod. "The muse bless your hoof."
Together, Eleanor and Bram corralled the more cooperative animals into containment circles drawn in the dirt with silver-dipped spades. The lines shimmered faintly as they activated, locking the enchanted livestock in with gentle pulses of containment magic.
The less cooperative animals, however, demanded creativity and desperation in equal measure.
At one point, a cow reciting tragic epic poetry attempted to escape into the hills. Bram dove into its path with heroic gusto and brought it down in a pile of sweet-smelling hay. The cow, unbothered, continued reciting verses about doomed love and the agony of chewing cud.
"That was... unexpected," Eleanor admitted, lowering her sword as the ward circle completed with a hum and a brief flash.
She was dusted in straw and a feather or two.
Bram, squashed beneath the contemplative bovine, groaned. "I find cows respond best to enthusiasm."
"And sarcasm," Croaksley added from the fence. "Donât forget the sarcasm."
By midday, the scene had transformed. The pig sulked in its pen, muttering about being misunderstood by critics. The goat, previously a fervent conductor, now stood in the center of the yard swaying rhythmically and calling its performance "wind-based movement philosophy." The sheep choir had quieted to murmured harmonies.
Bram leaned against a sun-warmed fence post, panting and red-cheeked.
"Well," he said between breaths. "That was a thing."
Eleanor offered him her canteen. "Youâre better at this than I expected."
He took a long swig. "Thanks?"
"That wasnât meant as an insult. Merely... a surprise. Your methods are unorthodox."
"Unorthodox keeps me breathing."
They stood side by side, watching the animals mill about within their containment wards. The air smelled of trampled grass, faint magic, and something oddly floral coming from the goat.
Eleanor broke the silence. "I think weâre both tracking the same signs. Spirals. Strange behavior. Ancient magical residue."
Bram nodded. "Saw similar signs in Mottlewick. Glowing rats. Sneezed fire."
Croaksley added, "And they sang sea shanties in their sleep. Donât downplay the cultural impact."
Eleanor's expression grew more serious. "Definitely magical interference. Possibly Morvaene's design."
"Then we should share what we learn. Compare notes as we go."
She considered, then nodded. "Agreed. Iâll head north. You take the western routes. In one weekâs time, meet me at the old mill in Greenthicket."
"Iâll bring the frog."
"Try not to let him negotiate."
Croaksley sniffed indignantly. "I am a master negotiator. Just ask the cheese wheel."
Bram and Eleanor exchanged a glanceâwry, tired, but with the beginnings of camaraderie. For the first time, they shared a genuine smile.
"Be safe, Thistleside."
"You too, Princess."
They mounted their respective steeds, Eleanorâs polished mare and Bramâs dusty, stubborn gelding. With a final nod, they turned away and rode in opposite directions, the wind tugging at cloaks and thoughts alike.
Behind them, the pig dipped a trotter in paint and began work on a striking, if slightly unbalanced, mural capturing the moment. The goat applauded with delicate stomps.
The barn cat, perched on a fence post, observed it all with an expression of profound resignation.
And sighed. Loudly.
***
As the sun began its descent behind the western hills, casting long golden shadows across the pasture, a gentle calm settled over Hillspruce farm. The last traces of magic shimmered faintly and then dissolved like morning dew, leaving behind an ordinary breeze and the soft bleating of well-behaved sheep.
The animalsâformerly reciting, painting, conducting, and philosophizingânow seemed to blink with vague confusion, as though waking from a very peculiar dream. The cow that had once lamented the futility of chewing cud wandered over to a patch of clover and resumed chewing it with quiet satisfaction. The pig rooted through the soil, its beret abandoned atop a paint-smeared crate. The goat gave one last interpretive twirl before plopping down and beginning to chew on the hem of an old feed sack with benign apathy.
Inside the barn, the chicken choir had dispersed to lay eggs in their proper nesting boxes. The conductor twig had been trampled underfoot and forgotten. Feathers floated lazily through the air, and the barn cat, newly assured of the return to normalcy, stretched luxuriously across a windowsill and resumed its reign of dignified indifference.
From the crest of the hill, Bram glanced back once more. He watched as Farmer Hillspruce cautiously approached the animals, holding a rake like a pike, then paused in shock as the cow merely mooed at him and turned to chew cud in the most pedestrian fashion imaginable.
"Looks like the enchantment wore off," Bram muttered.
Beside him, Croaksley adjusted his perch on Bramâs shoulder. "And not a single ovation for the goatâs finale. Tragic."
Farther along the lane, Eleanor turned in her saddle, casting one final glance over the paddock. The breeze caught her cloak, and her expression softened.
"Back to normal," she said aloud, mostly to herself. "For now."
Then, without another word, both riders nudged their mounts forward and continued along their separate paths, their silhouettes drifting apart as twilight claimed the fields.