Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Cobble Motorboat

While Leonor was busy lazing about on Kaz’s bed and demanding cuddles from every plushie with a face (and several that really shouldn’t have had one, but had been given one anyway because toy manufacturers lacked a moral compass), the children of Ms. Lorrimere’s Orphanage were actually doing something.

Which is to say: chaos.

But organized chaos. The kind of chaos that involves ledgers, whispered conspiracies, and a cart that might have been stolen from a farmer or might have been built entirely from spare fence parts. No one dared ask which.

“New orders!” squeaked Pip, skidding to a halt beside the Rolling Orchard. Pip had the look of a messenger owl that had survived a tornado,rumpled, bright-eyed, and very keen to deliver more messages if only another tornado could be arranged.

“Right,” said Clove, folding her arms. “Go on then.”

Before Pip could elaborate, the air went funny.

Not funny ha-ha. Funny the-way-the-cat-stares-at-the-empty-corner-of-the-room. Funny the-hairs-on-your-neck-have-just-written-a-formal-complaint-to-the-universe.

A ripple passed through the Brindlward. Not visible, exactly. More… moist. Magical. The sort of damp shimmer that smelled faintly of seaweed and insurance paperwork.

Everyone froze.

The cart groaned. A streetlamp two alleys over exploded into sea-scented confetti, as if the universe had decided that lighting fixtures should double as party favors.

“Er,” said Duster, summing up the mood.

“Someone left the mana tap on,” muttered Guppy.

“That’s probably the signal,” said Pip cheerfully, as though explosions were an everyday punctuation mark.

“Signal for what?” asked Jinx, who had long ago made peace with her role as designated skeptic.

“For the next part of the plan.”

“Which is?” Clove arched an eyebrow with the kind of authority only an older sibling could weaponize.

“I don’t know!” Pip beamed. He said it in the tone of someone who thought ignorance was not only acceptable, but part of the strategic charm. “My part was just to talk to every tailor in the Brindlward and convince them to prepare for a massive, possibly suspicious demand for buttons. Oh, and to make sure Ms. Lorrimere’s Orphanage got fifty percent of the profits when the inevitable supply crisis hits, since we’ll be the sole supplier.”

There was a pause. The kind of pause in which the entire Brindlward seemed to lean closer, waiting for someone to say something sensible.

Joy gave a low whistle, the sound of someone impressed against her better judgment.

“He’s terrifying,” she said.

“I know, right,” Clove muttered, with all the weary admiration of someone who knew she would never be rid of him.

“We’ll check out the circle,” said Jinx. “You three, go play motorboat.”

Cobble, Pilin, and Pip saluted with the solemnity of mischief so carefully prepared that the law itself would hesitate before trying to define it.

“Formation Sleigh!” Pip barked, in the clipped tones of someone convinced they were leading a cavalry charge and not, in fact, weaponizing playground stupidity.

Cobble hurled herself forward like a goblin missile. Gravity, which normally took these things quite seriously, found itself hopelessly outmaneuvered and allowed her to meet the cobblestones nose-first.

Pilin immediately vaulted onto her back like it was the single most sensible decision ever conceived, grabbed her arms, and held them out like sleigh handles. (They were not designed to be sleigh handles. This was not considered relevant.)

Pip hopped aboard last, clamping onto Pilin’s waist with the gravity of a man boarding an untested experimental vehicle. Which, technically, he was.

Then Pip did the worst possible thing: he cast a spell.

“Wind on the heel, fleet on the toe, let me be faster than anyone knows!”

The cobbles shimmered like they were considering unionizing. The air gave a violent cough. Somewhere, reality sighed and updated its insurance policy.

Pilin whistled, high and sharp.

The wind answered.

It came barreling up the street like a pack of friendly wolves who had absolutely no idea how big they were, slammed into Cobble’s back, and,

Cobble motorboated.

That is the only word for it.

She didn’t run. She didn’t gallop. She didn’t sprint. She motorboated. Her face stayed firmly planted against the ground while her legs churned with the relentless staccato of a misfiring engine, propelling all three of them through the Brindlward like a possessed sleigh with something to prove.

They whipped round corners. They bounced over crates. They exploded through laundry lines like a comet of questionable hygiene. A fishmonger screamed. A cat dove into a chimney. Someone’s tea set detonated in their hands in an event later described in the insurance forms as “Act of Goblin.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

And then, like the vengeful spirits of department-store efficiency, they hit the tailors.

At Stitch & Stitcher’s, Pip flung open the door with the fury of a man who believed politeness could, in fact, be weaponized. “Are you prepared for the incoming surge in button demand? Kaz Swindleton sends his regards. We are prepared to discuss terms.”

The owner stared, his soul briefly leaving his body for a calmer plane of existence.

Cobble revved in place, scattering sparks and shedding thread like an angry industrial loom.

Pilin beamed and produced a contract that looked simultaneously legally binding, morally bankrupt, and artistically enthusiastic.

They signed.

Next stop: Hem & Howl.

Same process. Pip declaimed, Pilin brandished documents, Cobble motorboated a spool of thread into the ceiling fan with the accuracy of divine retribution.

By tailor number four, they didn’t even need words. Just burst in, gestured broadly at the chaos, left behind the papers, and a faint smell of burning upholstery.

At one point, a particularly large and self-important tailor attempted resistance. This lasted exactly three seconds, until Cobble revved louder, her face grinding into the floorboards with the authority of a thousand engines.

The man folded like poorly laundered linen. “Would you like tea?” he asked meekly.

“Don’t bribe us,” Pip said sternly. “We’re professionals.”

But they took the tea anyway. It was excellent.

By the time they skidded back into the central square, the rest of the crew had already reached the alleyway ,Jinx, Clove, Joy, Duster, Guppy, and the rest, standing before the magic circle.

And what a circle it was.

It hummed.

It gleamed.

It sparkled with the smugness of something very aware it had recently achieved aesthetic glory.

They all stood there for a long moment, letting the moment be properly dramatic.

Then, as one, they dumped their sackfuls of buttons onto the center.

Buttons rained down like candy from a mischievous god.

They clicked. They bounced. They arranged themselves in inexplicable spirals.

Then,

bzzz-zzz

The Talker doll twitched.

Its stitched zipper mouth unzipped with a suspiciously self-satisfied snrk.

The red button eye blinked.

It opened its mouth,

And then it began to release a sound.

Not words, not yet,just the prelude to them. A lesser act before the main show, perhaps, but one that filled the alleyway as though the stones themselves had been waiting for it. The sound threaded into the marrow of the children who heard it, settling into their bones with the inevitability of rain soaking into earth.

It was a song older than time, older than memory. The first rhythm. The beating heart that all life hears, long before breath, long before thought. The call that greets every soul in the dark before birth, reminding them,whether they wish it or not,that they belong to something vast, and ancient, and awake.

But to the children, this song was no grand proclamation, no jig meant to rouse or entertain. It was familiar, oh so familiar, and familiarity can wound more deeply than strangeness ever could.

It pressed on them like a hand around the heart,a choking sadness that gripped and would not release. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

And when the talker doll’s voice at last faltered into silence,when the echo of something long gone, something never to return, bled into the stones,the children in the alley did not clap. They did not sigh. They did not turn their faces aside to forget.

Instead, they remembered.

And in remembering, they renewed the pact forged long ago,

Upon that fated day,

amidst the sound of teeth grinding upon stone.

Never again

Even if it damned them.

Even if it named them enemy.

Even if it marked them heretic, traitor, or servant of all that was feral and depraved.

They would not let them through the orphanage doors.

They would not let them reach the basement.

They would not let the world take,

and take,

and take,

and take from them.

Ever again.

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[SYSTEM TRIVIA: COBBLE MOTORBOAT]

It is an unfortunate truth that when people invent things intended to cross water, they invariably try them on land, and when they invent things intended for land, someone, somewhere, will attempt to see if it floats. The Cobble Motorboat solves this problem neatly by refusing to acknowledge the distinction in the first place.

→ Top Speed: Forty miles per hour. This is a number that has been carefully measured, recorded, and ignored, because users insist on seeing how much faster it can go if you lean forward, shout encouragement, or make vrooming noises.¹

→ Protective Feature: The vehicle automatically safeguards its passengers during crashes, which is a marvelous bit of engineering until you consider the fine print. The system takes great care to emphasize during. After the crash is, technically, your own business and may involve limping, paperwork, or being laughed at by passers-by.

→ Terrain Compatibility: It works on water, obviously. It also works on land, mud, gravel, sand, cobblestones, and,regrettably,flower beds. Performance on the face, however, is ill-advised and will result in a sensation best described as “unfortunate exfoliation.”

→ Hair Warning: Extended operation will absolutely ruin your hairstyle. Helmets, far from protecting your dignity, merely redistribute the resulting disaster until you resemble someone who lost a fight with an unusually aggressive hairbrush.

→ Wall-Scaling: Yes, it can. No, it shouldn’t. The user avoids doing so because, as she notes, it makes her look like a slug. She does not like slugs. They are slimy.²

→ Uniqueness Clause: The Cobble Motorboat is unique to Cobble, which is both a place and a person, depending on who you ask. Attempts to explain why it is unique are traditionally met with the phrase: “It has my name in it.” This, logically speaking, ends the conversation.

→ System Notice: The ability is of extreme interest to the System, which has determined that mandatory analysis and replication are required. Failure to comply will result in consequences described as “severe,” a word the System uses with great enthusiasm and no further explanation.

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¹ The latter, inexplicably, works.

² In the interest of fairness, slugs feel much the same way about her.