Laurel was the first to notice something odd.
She'd stepped out that morning, basket in hand, ready to check the lavender cuttings behind the greenhouse—and instead found a bed of suspiciously smug-looking cabbages.
"Hmm."
She tilted her head, as if the vegetables might offer an explanation. They didn't. But they did seem rather pleased to be there, dew glinting like jewels on their round leaves.
Behind her, the lavender plot was gone. In its place grew a disorderly tangle of sunflowers, marigolds, and—Laurel blinked—what looked suspiciously like barley.
A shuffle of footsteps approached.
"Morning!" Rowan's voice bounced around the corner, cheerfully unaware. "I checked the mint! Except... it's carrots now?"
Laurel turned, lips pressed into a line. "We've been garden-swapped."
Pippin, lounging on the greenhouse roof with a paw over his eyes, lifted his head. "Again?"
Rowan squatted beside the sunflowers. "Wait—again?"
Pippin yawned. "Last time was in the spring. That one involved a squirrel, two enchanted gloves, and a map of questionable accuracy."
Laurel crouched to examine the soil. "No digging. No broken stems. No signs of translocation magic."
Rowan leaned in. "So… they didn't move the plants?"
"No." Laurel poked a sunflower with her trowel. "The plants stayed. The beds changed."
Laurel stood back up, surveying the chaotic patchwork of mismatched plants. "Something mischievous is at work here. This isn't natural."
Rowan's eyes brightened. "Do you think it's a garden spirit? I read about field sprites who cause trouble like this!"
Laurel glanced at Pippin, who had hopped down to the ground, tail flicking with a mix of interest and boredom. "I suspect it's something more subtle than a spirit trying to grow its own dinner," she said. "Let's look for signs."
Rowan knelt next to the newly sprouted barley and began tugging at the stalks. "I can't believe this. I had plans for the strawberries today! And now we're—what is this? Oats? Do oats grow like this? I've never even—"
"Laurel?"
Laurel turned at the sound of the voice. It was Seraphina, the mayor, her silver hair glimmering like strands of moonlight in the early sun. She stood at the edge of the garden, a curious smile tugging at her lips as she surveyed the scene.
"I don't suppose this is part of your herbal experiment?" Seraphina asked with a raised eyebrow.
"No," Laurel replied dryly. "It seems to be an experiment of someone else's making."
Seraphina stepped forward, her robes flowing lightly behind her as she crouched to inspect the area. "Odd. The sunflowers appear perfectly healthy, though they don't belong here, and I don't think barley belongs next to lavender."
"I was just saying that," Rowan said with unrestrained relief. "I thought I was losing my mind."
Laurel gave a small smile. "Something's at work here. The question is... what exactly?"
Pippin padded across the garden, flicking his tail. "Could be a sprite. I'm not as fond of those as you are." His tone was nonchalant, but there was an edge of caution in his voice that Laurel caught.
"Why aren't you fond of them?" Rowan asked, intrigued.
"Let's just say they don't share my appreciation for personal space," Pippin replied, now eyeing a particularly plump cabbage suspiciously. "I've had... encounters. They're good at mischief, and when it's their idea of fun, it's usually a bit too much for me."
Seraphina smiled. "I'd be careful, then. There are rumors of a particularly playful field sprite around these parts. He tends to be more trickster than helper."
"Does he have a name?" Laurel asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Not one he's shared," Seraphina said. "But he's often spotted near the old stone fence by the far meadow. I'd suggest you start there, if you're seeking answers."
Laurel, Rowan, and Pippin followed the winding trail toward the far meadow, where the old stone fence traced a sleepy arc along the village's edge. The morning mist had burned off, leaving a crisp scent of thyme and fresh soil. Wildflowers bobbed in the breeze, some blinking as if just waking up.
About halfway there, Laurel paused.
A sprig of dill danced on its own in the path—no wind, no beast, just one stem doing a cheerful jig.
Rowan squinted. "Do herbs normally… do that?"
"Only when watched by something playful," Laurel said.
She knelt, brushing aside dewdrops with care. There: a tiny footprint, smaller than a mouse's, but shaped like a curled leaf.
Pippin's fur fluffed. "I don't like it when they leave tracks before introducing themselves."
As they approached the fence, a shimmer of gold darted across a patch of clover. Laurel narrowed her eyes.
"Show yourself. We're not angry—we just want to understand."
A silence, broken only by the buzz of a sleepy bee.
Then: a soft giggle, high as a reed whistle.
The air rippled like heat off stone, and a sprite blinked into view—no taller than Laurel's hand, his skin the green of spring shoots and eyes like polished seed pearls. His hat was a thistle bloom, slightly askew.
"You found me!" he beamed, arms raised in triumph.
"I had a feeling," Laurel said, crouching. "You've been swapping our gardens."
The sprite puffed with pride. "It was boring! All the beds so orderly. I just… borrowed a bit of variety."
Rowan blinked. "You swapped the actual earth?"
"Of course not!" The sprite sniffed, offended. "I tickled the roots. They got curious. They wandered."
Laurel pressed a hand to her temple.
"You made the plants move beds?"
"Well, walk," the sprite corrected. "Only a little. It was fun!"
Laurel took a deep breath. "You do realize some of those plants need specific soil, shade, moisture—"
"Boring," the sprite said with a grin, spinning mid-air. "They needed adventure!"
Pippin muttered, "You needed supervision."
Rowan tilted her head. "Can they go back?"
"Oh, sure," said the sprite, flipping upside down. "They just have to want to."
Laurel crossed her arms. "And how do we convince curious cabbages and wandering barley to return to their proper places?"
The sprite tapped his chin. "Mmm... storytime?"
Rowan's face lit up. "What if we host a little... garden gathering? Something festive. Convince them it's a celebration of roots, returning, and growing strong?"
Laurel blinked. "That might actually work."
"And I can make invitations!" the sprite declared, pulling out a pouch of glittering beetle wings and acorn paper.
"Only if you promise to undo the swaps," Laurel said firmly, "after the event."
"Promise sealed!" He spun three times in the air and snapped his fingers—tiny fireworks of pollen exploded overhead.
"Also," Laurel added, "no uninvited root tickling from now on."
The sprite gave a sheepish nod.
That evening, the garden glowed with firefly lights and leaf lanterns. Villagers brought tea and tarts. Laurel spoke gently to the lavender. Rowan sang a silly root-ditty. And one by one, plants returned to their proper beds.
By moonrise, the cabbages had waddled back to their plot—grumbling but grateful—and the barley bowed politely before settling.
The sprite floated beside Laurel, clutching a strawberry like a trophy.
"Your garden's boring again," he said.
"And peaceful," she replied.
He shrugged. "Fair trade."
Pippin yawned. "Next time he swaps my napping thistle, I'm sleeping in his hat."