Vendors' stalls line the sidewalk of the aptly named Festival Row [1], forcing goers to push past each other on the cordoned-off section. The fae lights and lanterns spanning the width of the street glow a warm orange as if the entire area were under an autumn forest in golden hour.

  “It’s packed tighter than a Nyrhylic whorehouse.” Remarks Enlynn as the group pushes past people.

  The group does its best to stick as close to Dyder as possible, his height working to serve as a beacon above the crowd. ?l? holds his hand, and ?nnywella similarly, holds onto his sleeve—much to the chagrin of her headguard’s betrothed, though ?l? cannot fault her.

  “I always love looking at the crops the farmers bring to show off.” Says Awenela, glimpsing a stall advertising a one thousand kilogram pumpkin.

  “Growing them and somehow getting them up the mountain is thaumaturgical.” ?l? looks over her shoulder to ?denora.

  “Oh-hoho, big word there.” ?nnywella chides. “Since Fran refused to come, I have to do her job: what does ‘thaumaturgical’ mean?” She wished Franchesca had come; she had enjoyed going to festivals and events with her when they were younger.

  “Something to do miracles; I saw it in a book yesterday, and this context seems right.” ?l? watches Gekaryna nod; her answer was sufficient.

  ?nnywella sniffs the air. Unable to smoke because of the mask, she craves something sweet. She smells beer; she smells meat; she smells marzipan—but she wants none of them, especially not the latter. “Dyder, do you see any stands selling something sweet? licorice? any pastry without almonds?” She asks, craning her neck up at the guard.

  “There’s a stand two down from us on the left selling filled pretzels.” Dyder responds, picking the closest stand that matches Gekaryna’s request, not wanting her to go too far.

  “Excellent, I will meet you all at that lamp shortly.” She lets go of Dyder’s sleeve to point to where she wants them to go and begins making her way to the pretzel stand.

  “No! Wait—” Dyder stops himself; she will be no more than ten meters away, and people will be more likely to figure out who she really is if he starts making a scene about it.

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  Waiting in the line, ?nnywella skims the menu trying to figure out what she would like. She ends up settling on one filled with a meadwort paste; she was quite fond of the taste when Franchesca had rolled it into her cigarettes, so she should like it in a pastry.

  “Just one of the filled meadwort pretzels, please.” ?nnywella says to the street vendor.

  “Mera’Morziwayn!” A small boy yells as he pushes his way through the crowd, attempting to address the costumed ?nnywella. His mother follows shortly behind.

  Paying the vendor, ?nnywella thanks him and takes the bagged pretzel, intent on saving it for later at the college. She cannot hear the child over the other festival-goers.

  The boy takes ?nnywella by the sleeve with his free hand, tugging gently. “Mera’Morziwayn!”

  ?nnywella looks slightly down at the child; it takes her a moment to realize that she is the ‘Morziwayn’ that the child is addressing. “Yes?”

  “I grew this for you.” He says, handing Morziwayn the pumpkin he had worked hard to grow. It might not have been as large as the ones that some farmers are showing off, but it was his, and that's what matters.

  “Oh, thank you!” ?nnywella says. “You did a wonderful job—an exquisite gourd!” Doing her best to respond in character.

  The child does not respond but smiles brightly.

  “By the Gods, Loyg, do not run off like that; you will get lost.” The mother of the child pushes her way through behind him and takes him by the arm. She looks the teenager dressed as Morziwayn up and down; she had been a seamstress her whole life and can tell immediately that the costume alone would cost more than most people's entire wardrobes—she could retire off a commission of the like. “Thank you; he insisted on looking for you.”

  “No, no; thank you and your son; this is a wonderful gift!”

  The deep voice muffled behind the mask is familiar, but the mother simply cannot figure out who it is, even though she knows she should.

  “I must be off now! Please enjoy the rest of the festival.” ?nnywella waves, the pretzel shaking in its bag. “Actually, you may have this. Gifts are best when they are reciprocated, are they not?” She hands the child the bagged pretzel.

  “Thank you, mera’Morziwayn!” The boy takes the gift from Morziwayn and watches her bow before disappearing back into the crowd.

  Enlynn gives Gekaryna a confused look. “Where did you get a pumpkin from? I thought you were going to buy a pretzel.”

  “I got it from a source of childlike wonder.” ?nnywella says, sliding a hand up her sleeve and beginning to scratch at her arm. “Are we ready to go to the college? I would like to go back to the castle and have Ferran bring this to my chambers first.”

  No one disagrees; dusk is approaching, and no one wishes to be late.

  Footnotes

  [1] The main street of the entertainment district and the road connecting to the southernmost bridge of the Crown Isles. During events, Festival Row is typically cordoned off from Bard’s Walk to the grounds of the Crown Opera House.