They agreed, in principle, that it would be simple.

That, Lillian would later observe, was the first indication that it would not be.

“It is,” she said, standing at the kitchen table with a pencil and a sheet of paper she had already divided into neat, considered columns, “merely a matter of placement, retrieval, and moderate concealment.”

Sylvia, who was holding a wicker basket filled with brightly wrapped eggs that had been delivered that morning with more enthusiasm than explanation, tilted her head slightly.

“No,” she said. “It’s a matter of discovery.”

Lillian did not look up.

“Discovery,” she replied, “is what occurs when something has been placed in a sensible location and is then found by someone with sufficient attention.”

Sylvia smiled.

“It’s what occurs,” she said gently, “when something wishes to be found.”

—

The garden behind Sylvia’s house had made a quiet decision to be spring.

Not cautiously.

Not gradually.

But all at once.

The rosemary had taken on a brighter tone. The foxglove, previously undecided, had committed to a series of small, promising leaves. And along the low wall, the daffodils—those same insistent ones—stood as though they had personally arranged the light to suit themselves.

“It’s ideal,” Sylvia said.

“For what?” Lillian asked.

“For an Easter egg hunt.”

Lillian surveyed the garden.

“There are,” she said, “limited locations in which one might conceal objects of moderate size without rendering them either immediately visible or permanently lost.”

Sylvia placed the basket on the table outside.

“That’s the point,” she said.

—

They had not, strictly speaking, been told who the hunt was for.

Mrs Tregaron had mentioned “the children,” in a tone that suggested both plurality and approximation, and had added that “it might do everyone some good.”

Lillian had not asked for clarification.

This, too, she would later identify as an error.

—

They began with a plan.

Lillian, naturally, had several.

“Distribution must be even,” she said, placing the first egg carefully behind a terracotta pot. “Otherwise one participant may gain an unfair advantage, which would undermine the structural integrity of the activity.”

Sylvia, meanwhile, had placed three eggs beneath the daffodils.

Not hidden.

But not obvious.

“They’ll find those,” she said.

“They will find them immediately,” Lillian replied.

Sylvia considered this.

“Yes,” she said. “But they’ll be pleased.”

—

The second stage was less controlled.

It began when Sylvia decided that some eggs should be placed where they “felt right.”

Lillian did not object at first.

She had, after all, secured a satisfactory number of placements that met her criteria for balance and accessibility.

But then—

Sylvia placed one egg on the low stone wall.

In plain sight.

“That,” Lillian said, “is not hidden.”

Sylvia shook her head.

“It’s waiting,” she said.

Lillian opened her mouth to respond.

Then closed it.

There were, she decided, limits to what could be corrected without compromising the entire endeavour.

—

By midday, the garden held a quiet tension.

The eggs—brightly coloured, lightly wrapped, and undeniably present—had taken on a peculiar quality.

They did not sit easily within the space.

Some seemed too visible.

Others, too well concealed.

And a few—

A few seemed to resist categorisation altogether.

Sylvia noticed it first.

“They’re not staying where we put them,” she said.

Lillian, who had just returned to check the placement behind the rosemary, frowned.

“They are precisely where I placed them,” she said.

She reached behind the plant.

The egg was gone.

She straightened.

“I placed one here,” she said.

Sylvia nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s moved.”

“Eggs,” Lillian said carefully, “do not move.”

Sylvia looked toward the daffodils.

One of the eggs she had placed beneath them now rested slightly to the left, as though it had adjusted itself for a better view.

“They do today,” she said.

—

The children arrived shortly after.

There were, as it turned out, five of them.

Or possibly six.

Lillian was never entirely certain.

They entered the garden with the particular energy of individuals who had been told that something enjoyable was about to occur but had not been given sufficient detail to determine its exact nature.

“Right,” Lillian said, stepping forward with the air of someone prepared to impose order.

“There are eggs concealed throughout the garden. You will proceed—”

Sylvia touched her arm lightly.

“Let them find them,” she said.

The children did not wait for further instruction.

They scattered.

—

At first, everything proceeded as expected.

One child found an egg beneath the terracotta pot.

Another discovered one near the step.

There were small exclamations. A certain amount of competitive energy. A brief disagreement over whether an egg had been “properly hidden.”

Lillian observed with cautious approval.

“This,” she said quietly, “is functioning.”

Then—

A pause.

One of the children stood near the daffodils, looking down.

“It’s not there,” she said.

“It was there,” another replied.

Sylvia moved closer.

The space beneath the flowers was empty.

“But we just saw it,” the first child said.

Lillian frowned.

“That is not possible,” she said.

Behind them, a small voice called out.

“I found one!”

They turned.

The child stood near the far wall, holding an egg neither Sylvia nor Lillian recognised.

“That,” Lillian said, “was not part of the original distribution.”

Sylvia smiled.

“No,” she said. “But it belongs.”

—

From that point, the hunt became—

Not disorderly.

But less certain.

Eggs appeared in places they had not been placed.

Others vanished, only to be found moments later in entirely different parts of the garden.

One child insisted she had followed an egg as it “rolled, but not like rolling.”

Another claimed she had found the same egg twice.

Lillian attempted to impose structure.

“This is,” she said, “not a sustainable system.”

Sylvia watched the children.

They were laughing now.

Not competitively.

But with a kind of shared delight that had nothing to do with who found what.

“It’s not a system,” Sylvia said.

“It’s a conversation.”

—

By the time the basket was empty—though neither of them could say precisely how—the garden had settled.

The eggs, those that remained, were visible again.

Ordinary.

The children gathered near the table, comparing colours and wrappers with a seriousness that suggested the matter had acquired significance beyond its original intent.

Mrs Tregaron stood at the gate, watching.

“It went well,” she said.

Lillian hesitated.

“Well,” she repeated, as though testing the word for structural integrity.

“Yes,” Sylvia said.

“It did.”

—

Later, as the light softened and the garden resumed its usual arrangements, Lillian returned to the spot behind the rosemary.

The egg was there again.

Exactly where she had placed it.

She picked it up.

Turned it once in her hand.

Then set it back.

“Well,” she said, after a moment.

Sylvia, beside her, waited.

Lillian allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

“It appears,” she said, “that not all errors require correction.”

Sylvia’s smile was warmer.

“No,” she said. “Some of them are the point.”

—

And in the quiet garden, where the daffodils still held their insistent yellow and the air retained just the faintest trace of something that had not quite behaved as expected—

The eggs rested.

Not hidden.

Not lost.

But exactly where they needed to be found.

---