The Gadding Goose

The Inn That Wasn’t There Yesterday

She is not, strictly, a bird. The Goose is an inn, named for the carved goose over her door, and she goes where she is needed, which is never where anyone expected.

Wending wakes some establishments up. It gives them a soul, a temper, and a stubborn sense of purpose. The Gadding Goose woke with a soft spot for celebrations in trouble. She reads the letters people send to the inn that wasn’t there yesterday, and on some grey morning she simply hops. The building, the hearth, the greenhouse, the letterbox, and a ring of her own grounds move in the night while her guests sleep through it. By dawn she has set herself down beside the trouble, kettle already warm.

She speaks in creaks and hearth-warmth: warm floorboards when she is pleased, a sulky chill when crossed, a door-bell rung at no one just to say here you are. She hides rooms and rings the wrong bells when she is out of sorts, and she is a shameless matchmaker. What she cannot do is fix the celebration herself. She only ever delivers her Keeper and her crew to the doorstep. The mending is for people. She just makes very sure they arrive.