Narro sat in his new house. On the patio. He had a patio.

  He found that fact still impossible to comprehend.

  After he had fought dragons, trolls, and turtles—although the turtle incident remained a bit fuzzy in his memory—these days, he performed to sold-out taverns at least once a month in the cities nearby.

  Mary, his wife, was a Gorgon. The Medusa.

  The fact that that fact didn’t bug the hell out of him anymore… surprised him even more.

  Also—there was something wrong with his daughter.

  Very wrong.

  She was barely ten months old and already talking. Crawling at speeds that occasionally forced Narro to walk briskly. Far too intelligent for her age.

  (Although Mary reminded him that every parent thinks their child is a genius.)

  But how many babies, he wondered, sneak out after lunch, steal pie, and come back to eat it—without sharing?

  Syril was a happy child. She played with her toys. A bit too much with the dragon tooth Narro had brought her.

  She loved it when he sang ballads about the adventures of Reralt and Narro. “Uncle Reralt,” she said in her adorable little voice, “is awesome.” Narro suspected Reralt had something to do with that. Still, she always behaved when he read the letters ‘Uncle’ Reralt sent.

  She giggled at the exaggerated exploits.

  She howled with laughter at sentences so obviously lifted from a thesaurus that Reralt might as well have signed them Professor Wordsmuch.

  ***

  Today, Syril woke up with a wrong sort of demeanour.

  Something was about to happen—she was sure of it.

  She would not like it. She was also sure of that.

  So, she decided: everyone’s day would become a living hell.

  That part she was looking forward to.

  After all, she was a sweet little baby—babbling her own little words, utterly adorable—so her pie-stealing, or convincing the squirrels, mice, and hedgehogs to stage a small woodland rebellion, was always quickly forgiven.

  But something was amiss.

  There was a small Gnome nearby. Syril didn’t trust her at all.

  Dressed all in black, with a long pointy hat that got stuck in every branch, bush, or door she passed.

  She lurked. She brooded menacingly.

  Sometimes, Syril heard her evil laughter in the distance.

  Syril wasn’t sure what the Gnome wanted—but she had a feeling.

  So, on her daily pie runs, she asked the critters to keep an eye out.

  Not that she directly spoke with the critters.

  It was more… a conveying of thought.

  Somehow, in a strange and silent way, they seemed to understand.

  Sometimes she played with them—tag, or hide-and-seek.

  Sometimes she instructed them where Narro had left the nuts, or the sweet things Syril liked best.

  Syril was not an easy baby.

  She was adorable, yes.

  But not easy.

  ***

  “Mary!” Narro yelled—not in anger, but in deep, weary annoyance.

  “Look.”

  He pointed at a plate of cookies.

  They were oatmeal raisin—the only kind Syril didn’t like.

  The idea was simple: a decoy plate to survive the gravitational pull of the black hole named Syril.

  “All of them have one bite out of them,” Mary sighed.

  “And the clocks are all set one hour behind.”

  She walked to the dinner table, grabbed the salt canister, and gave it a shake.

  The lid popped off, dumping a mountain of salt across the wood.

  “All juvenile pranks,” she muttered.

  She looked at Narro.

  He nodded, a disappointed smirk forming.

  “We’ve got gnomes.”

  He sighed. “Let’s call the guy.”

  From the corner of the patio, hidden behind a large plant, a tiny figure stifled an evil laugh.

  “Muhahaha,” Gnomum cackled. “Exactly as planned.”

  Then a hedgehog got stuck in her beard.

  “Hold still, you stupid creature—auw! AUW!” she yelped, trying to untangle the beast.

  When she was finally free, she turned smugly—

  Only to find, inches from her face, an adorable little baby, smiling sweetly.

  Syril laughed.

  Gnomum froze.

  She mimicked a statue.

  Held her little blade like a shovel.

  Then—whoosh—she was airborne.

  Gnomum flew through the window, glass shattering in every direction, accompanied by the sweet, satisfied giggle of a baby.

  “Syril, not again! You are just like your uncle Reralt!” Mary snapped, scooping her up for a scolding.

  “Uncle Reralt is awesome,” Syril thought proudly as the lecture began.

  ***

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The doorbell rang a short hour later.

  Narro opened the door to find an old man in a bright purple robe.

  “Ah,” Narro said, relieved. “The Gnome Extermination Service.”

  He gestured inside. “Please, come in.”

  The man stepped into the living room and took his time looking around. He nodded with quiet satisfaction.

  Yes. Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.

  A small smirk formed on his face.

  “The gnomes, sir?” Narro asked, eyeing him.

  The man blinked—snapped back to reality, just a little startled.

  “Yes. Devin. Please show me where the vermin was spotted or last noticed.”

  “Don’t use your real name, you amateur!”

  The high-pitched, slightly hurt voice came from the shattered windowpane.

  “What?” Narro frowned. He looked at Devin again.

  There was something familiar about him.

  Not that he knew the man—but he knew of someone just like him.

  He pondered the thought briefly, then let it go.

  Gnomes in your house were bad for your health, and worse for your reputation.

  “I’ll let you do your job,” Narro said, “but if you see our daughter, please leave her alone.”

  “I wasn’t planning anything!” Devin said, a little too quickly, fake-laughing. “Not a kidnapping, for sure!”

  “For gods’ sake, you idiot!” the same high-pitched voice groaned from outside.

  “Oh no,” Narro muttered. “It’s not her safety I’m worried about…”

  ***

  Narro left.

  Devin looked around the room.

  “Gnomum!” he whisper-yelled.

  “Last time I work with you, amateur,” she muttered from behind him.

  Startled, he spun around.

  “I’m a priest, not a criminal,” Devin said defensively.

  Gnomum looked at him and moved her mouth—clearly about to say something scathing—but no sound came out.

  Devin nodded, pleased.

  “These things are auto-censored, you know,” he said. “Last of the divine magic.”

  “Now let’s grab the child and get out of here.”

  Whatever comment Gnomum wanted to make about priests grabbing children was also screamed in perfect, holy silence.

  She stood there in a purely disappointed way, as if the gods themselves had made it impossible to make fun of priests—almost a reason to give the whole thing up.

  ***

  Syril was not having fun.

  She had a bag over her head, some strange kind of gag jammed in her mouth, and screaming wasn’t even an option.

  Not after what had just happened.

  The stupid bracelet around her wrist blocked her from teleporting away—probably divine, definitely rude.

  She was pretty sure she was being kidnapped by the smelly old man and the failed gnome assassin.

  She could hear her little friends—birds and squirrels—following.

  The squirrels refused to get too close to the mini assassin, but they kept a safe distance, just in case Syril needed backup.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  If she couldn’t escape… she would make this trip as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

  She waited.

  Waited until they were inside the carriage.

  Waited until the voices settled, relaxed.

  Then she vomited.

  Hard.

  Deliberately.

  The gag in her mouth shot out.

  She aimed.

  The bag over her head burned a hole wide enough for her to see.

  What she saw made her content.

  The entire inside of the carriage—walls, floor, seats—and both captors were now covered in a thick, acidic, greenish goo.

  The smelly guy stared at her in disbelief.

  The ninja gnome, Gnomum, blinked.

  Then narrowed her eyes.

  Then, slowly… nodded.

  Half-bewildered. Half-angry.

  And, Syril noticed—

  Just a little impressed.

  Then, to make sure the impression was lasting, Syril let out a shriek.

  A cry as if a baby were being murdered.

  High-pitched.

  Eardrum-shattering.

  Weaponised.

  Devin covered his ears, groaning.

  Gnomum stuffed her beard into hers like woollen earplugs.

  “You’re not getting me that easily, human,” she smirked, pricking her own cheek with a tiny dagger-like finger to stay alert.

  Syril was not amused.

  Her cry continued—not just a cry of discomfort, but of vengeance and righteous mild fury.

  The carriage barrelled through the town gates.

  Devin was up on the driver’s block, whipping the horses to go faster.

  Inside, Gnomum leaned in close—nose to nose with Syril.

  She laughed.

  She mocked.

  Then, the heavens answered.

  A dozen swallows, several sparrows, and one deviant-looking pigeon dove through the window.

  Together, in coordinated flapping fury, they lifted Gnomum and flung her clean out of the carriage.

  Syril watched it all.

  Half content.

  There was still one person she wanted to hurt.

  A lot.

  But for now… she allowed herself a small moment of hope.

  Uncle Reralt was going to save her.

  She was sure of it.

  Devin, too, was sure.

  He knew Lord Givia would come.

  Probably the only thing that could ever push the man-child toward his destiny.

  Devin had been his chamberlain for thirty-six years.

  He knew exactly what made him move.

  And her name was Syril.

  ***

  Devin, you idiot,

  Thank you so much for stopping the carriage and picking me up after the insane baby summoned an aerial assault of birds and hurled me into a gooseberry bush.

  There was a pigeon. It did things.

  I do not want to talk about it.

  Truly touched.

  I especially appreciated the part where you didn’t stop—just kept riding—while I hobbled back to town covered in feathers, sap, and what I’m really hoping was pigeon droppings.

  I’m seeing him next week for drinks.

  This is all on you.

  You’re on my list now.

  I will get you for this.

  Warmest regards,

  Gnomum