The evening was calm, with the summer air still carrying the laughter of children from the markets and the warm glow of lanterns lighting the streets. Father Hearth and Mother Goose had, for once, a quiet evening to themselves. The children had been left under the care of Gideon and Gunther (though Father Hearth muttered something about the city probably catching fire again), and now the two were walking side by side toward the grand Rosewood Theatre, an elegant old building draped in red banners.
"I've heard wonderful things about this production," Mother Goose said with her usual energy, tugging at Father Hearth's sleeve. "It's a new troupe, very experimental. They're supposed to weave stories into stories into—oh, you'll see!"
Father Hearth, stoic as always, gave her a side glance. "So, not a normal play."
"Well, it starts as one. Probably," she said, fanning herself with the ticket.
They entered the theatre, found their seats near the middle, and the curtains soon rose. The play began like any ordinary tale: a young prince embarking on a quest to save his kingdom from famine. The first act seemed straightforward enough—villages in peril, whispers of betrayal, a mysterious old sage guiding the way.
But then Act Two began.
The "old sage" revealed himself not to be a sage at all, but a trickster god who had stolen his role from another play entirely—and that play's characters suddenly walked on stage. The audience gasped as knights from a completely different story about a cursed kingdom began arguing with the prince's companions.
Father Hearth blinked. "...They're blending plays."
Mother Goose was already leaning forward in delight. "Oh, this is wonderful!"
The performance twisted further: the cursed kingdom was revealed to have been ruined not by famine or demons, but because the prince's own grandfather—disguised as a wandering bard—had betrayed his people. The bard suddenly threw off his cloak to reveal he wasn't even the grandfather at all, but a villain from another legend, who was himself being controlled by a witch from yet another story.
Each revelation was more dramatic than the last. Whole backdrops shifted mid-scene as characters crossed from one tale into another: a pirate ship crashed into the prince's royal palace, a princess from a romance novel announced she was actually the missing heir to the cursed kingdom, and the supposed villain turned out to be a hero acting under duress.
The audience groaned, gasped, and cheered in turns.
Mother Goose clapped her hands in glee. "This is the most chaotic thing I've ever seen—and it's brilliant!"
Father Hearth didn't clap, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed amusement. "It makes no sense."
"That's the beauty of it—it shouldn't, and yet somehow it does."
By the final act, the stage was overflowing with characters from at least six different tales: princes, witches, cursed beasts, pirates, fairies, and even a talking sword. Just when the audience thought the villain had been defeated and the lovers united, the talking sword revealed it had been orchestrating the events all along to free itself from its curse.
Everyone gasped. Then the curtain fell.
The theatre was silent for a heartbeat.
Then came thunderous applause.
Mother Goose leapt to her feet, clapping wildly. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Oh, I must write a book about this!"
Father Hearth remained seated, arms crossed, though his eyes gleamed faintly with something close to amusement. "A story of stories. Twists on top of twists. At some point, it stopped being a play and became a riddle."
She beamed at him. "And you love riddles."
"I tolerate riddles," he corrected.
"And yet," she teased, elbowing him as they made their way out, "you didn't leave."
He didn't answer, but the faintest warmth lingered in his silence.
As they walked back into the cool night air, the crowd still buzzing about the impossible narrative they'd just witnessed, Mother Goose mused aloud, "A tale of tales, a story made of broken pieces stitched together… yes, yes, I could do something with this."
Father Hearth adjusted his coat. "Just don't let Zephyrion see it. He'll take it as a challenge."
Mother Goose paused, imagining the Fairy King's version of such a play. She shuddered. "...You're right. Let's never speak of this again."
And the two of them walked home, the echoes of applause and a dozen plot twists still fresh in their minds.