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Field trips were rare. Not because the House of the Hearth lacked resources—but because the outside world was unpredictable. Enemies could be planned for. Traps anticipated. Civilians, accidents, panic—could not.
Still, Arlecchino deemed them necessary.
The Musée de Fontaine of Old Curiosities gleamed white beneath the morning fog, marble pillars rising like frozen sentinels. The children entered in precise lines, boots striking the floor in disciplined rhythm.
Arlecchino—Father—led from the front. Her heels clicked once. Twice.
“Observe,” she said coolly. “Do not touch. Do not embarrass the House.”
“Yes, Father.”
Calico drifted near the back, hands shoved into her pockets, eyes glazing over with every glass case. Paintings. Predictable. Relics humming faintly but refusing to respond. Skeletons arranged politely, robbed of teeth. Boring.
Lyney leaned in. “Try not to steal anything historically significant.”
“I’m not trying,” Calico muttered.
Lynette shot them both a sharp look.
Then Calico stopped.
Ahead—tucked into a chilled glass chamber—lay a small furred shape.
SPECIMEN: WOOLLY MAMMOTH CALF (EXTINCT)
It looked asleep. Not preserved. Not posed. Sleeping.
Calico’s eyes narrowed.
“…That’s fake,” someone whispered.
“No,” another said. “The plaque says—”
Lyney followed Calico’s gaze and stiffened. “…Oh no.”
Lynette’s eyes flicked from the exhibit to Calico’s face. Don’t.
A voice leaned close to her shoulder, low and dangerous.
“You won’t.”
Calico turned slowly. “I’m not allowed.”
“That’s not what we said.”
The museum hummed softly around them. Somewhere, a guide droned on about preservation methods.
Calico exhaled through her nose. “…Fine,” she muttered. “But if this goes wrong—” She looked around. “—you’re all helping.”
They waited until Arlecchino was engaged with a curator, posture relaxed but attention razor-sharp.
Calico stepped up to the glass. Her fingers curled—not with precision, not with planning. Just irritation bleeding into will.
Wake up.
The air cracked. The glass fogged. Fur rippled.
The mammoth calf sneezed.
“…Oh,” Calico whispered. “…that worked.”
Its eyes blinked open—dark, wide, confused. It let out a tiny, uncertain prrrmph.
For half a second, no one breathed. Then—
“She did it—”
“It’s alive—”
“IT’S SO FLUFFY—”
The calf wobbled upright and collapsed straight into the children. Hands flew up instinctively—catching, shielding, steadying warm, living weight.
Lyney snapped out of it first. “Okay,” he hissed. “Okay. Lynette.”
“I see it,” she said sharply. “You—distraction. You—watch Father. Calico, can you carry it?”
Calico scooped the mammoth up. It was warm. Shockingly light. Breathing.
“I’ve got it.”
That was when a guard rounded the corner. They locked eyes.
The mammoth sneezed again.
“FIRE DRILL!” Lyney shouted—loud, sharp, convincing.
Everything changed.
Arlecchino’s head snapped up instantly. Fire. Her body moved before thought. Heels pivoted. Eyes swept the hall.
“Children,” she commanded, voice cutting through rising noise. “Formation—now.”
The word fire was no joke. Trained or not, fire meant chaos: smoke, panic, suffocation. Her children. Guards began shouting. Visitors froze.
And then—
Freminette screamed. Not a small scream. A full-body, soul-deep wail.
“I DON’T WANNA BURN—I HATE MUSEUMS—I WANT FATHER—”
He dropped to the floor, clutching a guard’s leg with the desperation of a child who had decided this was the end of his life.
“I’M TOO YOUNG—I DIDN’T EVEN FINISH MY PROJECT—”
The guard panicked. “I—uh—someone get this kid—”
Another display crashed as Lyney theatrically knocked it over. “SMOKE THIS WAY!” he yelled, pointing nowhere in particular.
Lynette swung a banner pole down, blocking sightlines with surgical precision. “Left corridor,” she murmured. “No—other left.”
Calico ran. Boots thundered. Alarms rose. Guards shouted conflicting orders.
Arlecchino moved like a blade through the chaos, grabbing shoulders, counting heads, her calm stretched thin over something sharp and dangerous.
“Where is Calico?” she demanded.
“Covering the rear,” Lynette said smoothly—already gone.
They burst into the street. Cold air. Fog. Freedom.
They didn’t stop running until Fontaine swallowed them whole.
Several blocks later, crammed into an alley, breath tearing from lungs, reality hit.
“…They’ll take it back,” Lynette whispered.
“They’ll experiment on it,” Lyney added.
“They’ll kill it,” Calico said, pressing the creature closer to her.
The mammoth whimpered softly, pressing its head more into Calico’s chest. That decided it. They were taking it home.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The mammoth calf whimpered softly. Calico looked down at it. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
“…This wasn’t supposed to work,” she said quietly.
Lyney glanced at her. “What?”
Calico tightened her grip on the calf’s fur. “My power doesn’t work like this. It’s for objects. Empty things. Things that were never alive.”
The mammoth shifted, trunk curling weakly around her sleeve.
“This was taxidermy,” Calico went on, voice low, almost shaken. “Preserved skin. Stuffing. It used to be a living being.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t think it would answer when I told it to wake up.”
Lynette stared at the calf, then back at Calico. “But it did.”
“Yeah,” Calico said. “And I don’t know why.”
Silence. Worse than the alarms.
A shout echoed nearby. Boots. Orders. The Fontaine’s guards and museum security rushed past.
Lyney clapped once, sharp. “Okay. Panic later. Right now—we need to move.”
“How?” someone whispered. “We can’t just walk back with it.”
Lyney’s grin flickered—thin, nervous, brilliant. “Good thing Fontaine runs on wheels.”
They waited until dusk. Fontaine’s carriage lines rolled through the streets in steady intervals—supply wagons, service transports, deliveries bound for factories and estates. Predictable. Reliable.
They caught one near the river.
Lynette timed it. Perfectly.
“Now.”
Hands grabbed iron bars. Boots scraped stone. One by one, they slipped onto the back of the moving carriage, bodies pressed flat as it rumbled onward.
Calico crouched low, cradling the mammoth beneath a stolen tarp. Its ears flicked; its trunk twitched.
“Hey,” Calico whispered, pressing her forehead briefly into its fur. “Quiet. Please.”
It huffed softly, then stilled.
Lyney lay beside them, eyes scanning rooftops. “If anyone looks back—”
“They won’t,” Lynette said. “They’re watching ahead.”
Minutes stretched. The city rolled past in fragments—lamplight, steam, silhouettes.
At one point, Tufty sneezed. Everyone froze.
The driver shifted but didn’t turn.
Lyney exhaled silently, a prayer disguised as a sigh.
They rode like that for nearly an hour.
By the time they jumped off near the House of the Hearth’s outer streets, legs numb and nerves frayed, Lynette said, wincing, “That was the easy part.”
Neither Calico nor Lyney argued.
The guards patrolled the outer grounds. Caretakers moved between buildings, lanterns swinging.
“Do you think you can ask the House for help? To hide us—I mean—it’s an object, right?” Lyney whispered, glancing at Calico.
Calico swallowed. “I can’t just… tell the House to hide us.”
“You don’t have to,” Lynette said, her tone calm. “Just make it… help.”
Calico closed her eyes. And made the request.
The side gate creaked open as they approached. A shadow deepened along the wall, bending just enough to swallow them whole.
They moved fast. Inside, the mammoth squirmed, confused by the change in light, the smells, the echoes.
Someone rounded a corner—Freminette, perfect. Not so much for him.
Lyney grabbed him and shoved him forward, whispering an apology as footsteps approached.
“I’M SORRY I’M LATE—I LOST MY WAY—AND I THINK I’M HAVING A FEELING—”
The caretaker froze, horrified. “Oh… oh dear, are you all right—?”
They slipped past while Freminette sobbed dramatically into borrowed sleeves.
“Ten out of ten,” Lyney whispered.
They reached the interior hall—and froze.
Sir Sprigmund of Absolutely None of Your Business loomed ahead, stone branches stretching wide.
“Oh,” the gossip tree said brightly. “Well this is interesting.”
Calico hissed, “Don’t.”
“A midnight parade of children,” Sprigmund continued. “A stolen carriage route. Elevated heart rates. And—oh my goodness—is that a mammoth?”
“Lower your voice,” Lynette snapped.
“I do not possess an inside voice,” Sprigmund said proudly. “Also, did you know the night guard on the west wing—”
“Sprigmund,” Calico said sharply, eyes glowing faintly. “If you make a sound, I will put you back in the corner and let the dust win.”
A pause. “…You’re no fun when you’re stressed,” the tree muttered. But its branches leaned inward, blocking sightlines. “Fine. For the record, this is illegal.”
“Everything fun is,” Lyney said.
They moved again. Steps measured. Breaths held. At last, the mammoth was safe. The House exhaled.
Hours later, during ‘family dinner’ the newspaper hit the table:
PRIZED EXHIBIT STOLEN — REWARD OFFERED
Arlecchino at the head of the table read silently.
Unknown to her, but Lyney and Lynette were regretting the spot they hid Tufty. But then again they didn't expect for today to be one of the formal dinners Father attended.
Under the dining table, Tufty breathed, curled like an oversized cat. Hands slipped food beneath—bread, vegetables, one ill-fated attempt with soup.
The table shifted.
Arlecchino paused. Her gaze lowered.
“…Why,” she asked evenly, “is the furniture breathing?”
Silence.
Tufty trumpeted softly. Arlechino lifted the cloth.
Arlecchino blinked and then knelt. A long pause. “…Explain.”
Calico raised her hand. “It was a dare.”
Arlecchino stood. “…You stole an extinct creature,” she said, “from a national museum.”
“Yes, Father.”
“…And you were not caught.”
“…No, Father.”
She exhaled slowly. “…Clean up. The mammoth stays.”
The room erupted. Tufty sneezed. Calico slumped back in her chair, stunned.
The House of the Hearth had gained many things: weapons, secrets, children sharpened into shadows. But now—it had a baby woolly mammoth.
Calico decided, officially, this had been the best field trip ever.