The village square had finally emptied of stuck gnomes by sunset, but Elder Bramble's work was far from over. He stood beside Buttercup, both of them exhausted and splattered with butter, surveying the now-quiet plaza. "We should check the outlying cottages," Bramble said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief that immediately adhered to his forehead. He sighed and left it there. Buttercup nodded wearily, clutching their bucket of antidote butter. "Old Mossbeard lives on the hill. He always takes extra portions home." They trudged up the winding path as twilight settled over the village. Sure enough, they found Mossbeard stuck firmly to his rocking chair on the front porch, still gently swaying back and forth with each frustrated attempt to stand. "About time!" he grumbled. "I've been watching the sunset for three hours. Beautiful view, terrible circumstances." As Buttercup applied the antidote, Mossbeard's expression softened. "Though I must say, that butter was absolutely divine before it betrayed me. Best thing I've tasted in fifty years." "Perhaps we could make a non-adhesive version?" Buttercup suggested hopefully, glancing at Bramble. The Elder considered this as Mossbeard popped free with a satisfying sound. "Only if you promise to triple-check your ingredients. And maybe keep the goblin tears in a locked cabinet?" Buttercup's ears turned pink. "Already ordered a safe from the dwarven smithy." Bramble allowed himself a small smile. At least something good might come from this sticky situation after all. They were halfway down the hill when they heard a peculiar sound—a rhythmic thumping coming from the direction of the village mill. Bramble and Buttercup exchanged worried glances. "Please tell me that's just the waterwheel," Bramble muttered. It wasn't. Inside the mill, they found young Thistlewick stuck to one of the grinding stones, rotating slowly in circles as the mechanism turned. His face appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again with each revolution. "Help—I'm getting—very dizzy—" he called out in intervals. Buttercup rushed forward with the antidote while Bramble worked to stop the wheel. It took several applications and some creative maneuvering, but they eventually freed the nauseated gnome, who staggered outside and promptly sat down on the grass. "Not the bench!" Bramble shouted, but it was too late. Thistlewick had plopped himself onto a wooden bench just outside the mill. "It's fine," Thistlewick said weakly. "I didn't eat any more butter. I'm just sitting—" He tried to stand and couldn't. "Oh no." Bramble pinched the bridge of his nose. "Secondary contact. The butter on your clothes from the grinding stone." "This is going to be a long night," Buttercup said, already applying more antidote. They were right. As darkness fell completely, they discovered the true scope of the crisis. The butter had spread far beyond those who'd eaten it directly. Gnomes who'd sat on contaminated chairs had gotten it on their clothing, then transferred it to other surfaces. It was like tracking mud through a house, except the mud glued you to the floor. At the tavern, they found the bartender stuck to the floor behind the bar, unable to reach the taps. A line of thirsty gnomes sat stuck to their stools, creating what Bramble grimly noted was the most captive audience the establishment had ever had. "At least they can't leave without paying their tabs," the bartender offered optimistically as Buttercup freed him. The village library presented a unique challenge. Madam Pageturner, the librarian, had become adhered to her desk chair, which had then rolled backward and stuck to a bookshelf. She was now part of a complex stuck-together arrangement that included three chairs, two reading tables, and a decorative plant stand. "I've been cataloging in my head," she informed them primly as they worked to separate the furniture. "Very productive afternoon, actually. I've mentally reorganized the entire history section." "That's wonderful," Bramble said, applying antidote to the seventeenth stuck surface. "Very glass-half-full of you." "Glass half-full?" She sniffed. "Young gnome, I'm stuck to a bookshelf. The glass is completely empty, but I'm making the best of it." By the time they freed her, Bramble's back ached and his fingers were pruned from butter. Buttercup looked ready to collapse, but they pressed on. At the schoolhouse, they discovered the teacher, Miss Acorn, stuck to her desk at the front of the classroom. More concerning were the seven students stuck to their benches, creating what appeared to be the world's most attentive class. "We've been doing lessons all afternoon," Miss Acorn explained. "Couldn't exactly dismiss them, could I? We've covered mathematics, history, and I just started on geography when you arrived." "Miss Acorn made us do extra homework since we couldn't leave anyway," one student complained. "Consider it a learning opportunity," the teacher replied. "How often do you get such focused study time?" "This is child abuse," another student muttered. "This is education," Miss Acorn corrected. "And you'll thank me when you ace your examinations." As Buttercup freed the students one by one, they bolted from the classroom with unprecedented speed, their enthusiasm for freedom overcoming even their butter-induced trauma. The night wore on. They found the blacksmith stuck to his anvil, still hammering away at a horseshoe because, as he put it, "What else was I going to do?" They discovered the seamstress adhered to her stool, who'd managed to finish an entire wedding dress during her confinement. The baker was stuck to his kneading table and had produced enough bread to feed the village for a week. "You know," Buttercup observed as they trudged toward their next rescue, "everyone seems to have made remarkable progress on their work today." "Forced productivity," Bramble replied. "Not exactly the management technique I'd recommend." They found the village gossip, Mrs. Chatterbeak, stuck to a bench in the town square. She'd been there since morning and had, according to her breathless account, witnessed everything. "Oh, Elder Bramble, you should have seen it! First there was poor Tumbleweed stuck to the fountain, then the Picklebottom twins got stuck together—back to back, mind you—and then—" "Mrs. Chatterbeak," Bramble interrupted gently, "we've been unsticking people all day. We were there." "Yes, but did you see it from this angle? The perspective is entirely different. I've been taking mental notes for my memoirs." "You're writing memoirs?" "I am now! This will be chapter seven: 'The Day the Village Stuck Together.' Quite literally!" As Buttercup applied the antidote, Mrs. Chatterbeak continued planning her literary masterpiece, already mentally drafting the dramatic retelling of events. Finally, as the moon rose high above the village, they reached the last known victim: Bramble's own assistant, Fumblewick, who'd been stuck to the Elder's office chair since mid-morning. "Sir!" Fumblewick said, looking sheepish. "I tried to send word, but, well..." He gestured helplessly at his predicament. "How did you even get butter on my chair?" Bramble asked. "I may have been eating a buttered scone while reviewing the village accounts. In my defense, it was a very good scone." Bramble sighed deeply. "Buttercup, if you would?" As they freed his assistant, Bramble looked at the empty bucket of antidote butter. They'd used every last bit, traveling from one end of the village to the other, unsticking gnomes from every conceivable surface. "I think that's everyone," Buttercup said hopefully. A distant shout echoed from somewhere near the village pond. "Or not," Bramble said wearily. Buttercup's shoulders slumped. "We're out of antidote." "Then we make more," Bramble said, though his voice lacked conviction. Every bone in his body ached, and the thought of trudging back to Buttercup's kitchen, preparing another batch, and then hiking to the pond felt insurmountable. Another shout, more urgent this time. "We should at least see what we're dealing with," Bramble decided. They made their way through the darkened village, following the sounds of distress. The pond lay at the eastern edge of the settlement, a peaceful spot where gnomes often came to fish or simply enjoy the evening air. As they approached, Bramble could make out a figure in the moonlight, standing at an odd angle near the water's edge. "Is that Wobblestone?" Buttercup squinted. It was indeed Wobblestone, the village's most enthusiastic fisherman, and he appeared to be stuck to his fishing rod, which was stuck to a large rock, which was unfortunately positioned at the very edge of the pond. Each time he struggled, he teetered dangerously close to the water. "Don't move!" Bramble called out, breaking into a run despite his exhaustion. "Wasn't planning on it!" Wobblestone called back. "Though I don't have much choice in the matter!" They reached him just as a particularly strong gust of wind caused him to sway forward. Bramble grabbed his arm while Buttercup assessed the situation. "The rod is stuck to the rock, your hands are stuck to the rod, and..." Buttercup leaned closer, "is that a fish stuck to your hat?" "Caught it right before I sat down for a snack," Wobblestone explained miserably. "Buttered bread. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The fish flopped up and, well, here we are." The fish, a respectable-sized trout, was indeed adhered to the side of Wobblestone's fishing hat, still flopping occasionally in a futile attempt at freedom. "We're out of antidote," Bramble admitted. "We'll need to go back and make more." "Could you maybe hurry?" Wobblestone asked. "My back is killing me, and this fish is starting to smell." Bramble looked at Buttercup. "You go start the new batch. I'll stay here and make sure he doesn't end up in the pond." Buttercup nodded and hurried off into the darkness, leaving Bramble alone with Wobblestone and his unfortunate fish. "So," Wobblestone said after a moment of awkward silence, "quite a day, eh?" "You could say that." "I heard about the Picklebottom twins. Stuck back to back?" "For three hours." "Bet that was awkward." "They didn't speak to each other the entire time." Wobblestone chuckled, then winced as the movement pulled at his stuck hands. "You know, Elder, I've been thinking. Maybe this whole thing isn't entirely bad." Bramble raised an eyebrow. "You're stuck to a rock with a fish on your head. How is this not entirely bad?" "Well, I've been standing here for hours, and I've had time to really think about things. Life, you know? We're always rushing around, busy with this and that. When was the last time you just stood still and thought about things?" "I prefer to do my thinking while unstuck." "Fair point," Wobblestone conceded. "But still, there's something to be said for forced contemplation. I've decided I'm going to spend more time with my grandchildren. And maybe take up painting. I've always wanted to paint." "That's wonderful," Bramble said, genuinely pleased despite the circumstances. "Though you might want to avoid painting while eating buttered bread." "Lesson learned." They fell into companionable silence, watching the moonlight dance on the pond's surface. The fish had stopped flopping and appeared to have accepted its fate. "Elder?" Wobblestone said after a while. "Yes?" "Do you think the fish is dead?" Bramble leaned closer to examine it. The fish's eye swiveled to look at him accusingly. "No, just resigned." "Poor thing. This has been a bad day for everyone." Footsteps announced Buttercup's return, slightly out of breath and carrying a fresh bucket of antidote. "Made a quick batch," they panted. "Not as refined as the first, but it should work." "Should?" Wobblestone asked nervously. "Will," Buttercup corrected. "It will work." They started with the fish, carefully applying the antidote to where it adhered to the hat. With a wet plop, it came free, and Bramble quickly grabbed it and tossed it into the pond. It disappeared beneath the surface with what seemed like a splash of relief. "One down," Buttercup muttered, moving to Wobblestone's hands. The process was delicate. They had to free his hands from the rod without causing him to lose his balance and tumble into the water. Bramble braced himself against Wobblestone's back while Buttercup worked, carefully applying the antidote and gently prying each finger loose. "Almost there," Buttercup encouraged. "Just your left thumb and—" The thumb came free suddenly, and Wobblestone lurched backward into Bramble. They both stumbled but managed to stay upright. "Sorry, sorry!" Wobblestone gasped, flexing his freed hands. "Just step away from the rock," Bramble instructed. They moved to safer ground, and Bramble finally allowed himself to sit down on the grass—carefully checking first that it was butter-free. "Is that really everyone now?" he asked Buttercup. "I certainly hope so." "We should do a final sweep in the morning," Bramble decided. "Check every building, every corner. I don't want to discover someone stuck in their attic three days from now." "Agreed." Buttercup sat down beside him, setting the nearly-empty bucket aside. "Elder Bramble?" "Yes?" "I'm truly sorry about all this. I never meant—" Bramble held up a hand. "I know. Accidents happen. Though perhaps in the future, we should implement a system for labeling magical ingredients more clearly." "Already working on it," Buttercup assured him. "Color-coded labels, separate storage, and I'm writing up a complete inventory system." "Good." Bramble looked up at the stars, feeling the weight of the day settling over him. "You know, despite everything, the village came together today. Everyone helped everyone else. Even stuck to furniture, they kept working, kept going." "That's true," Buttercup said thoughtfully. "Mrs. Chatterbeak is already calling it 'The Great Sticking.'" "Of course she is." They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Wobblestone cleared his throat. "So, uh, can I go home now?" Bramble laughed, a genuine laugh that surprised even himself. "Yes, Wobblestone. Go home. And please, no more buttered bread by the pond." "Wouldn't dream of it, Elder." As Wobblestone departed, Bramble and Buttercup remained by the pond, too tired to move just yet. Tomorrow they would do their final sweep, ensure every last gnome was unstuck, and begin the process of cleaning every contaminated surface in the village. But for now, they simply sat, watching the moon's reflection ripple across the water, grateful that at least they weren't stuck to anything.