Not metaphorically. Literally. The whole wooden riser buckles under the weight of Mrs. Henderson's elaborate nautical-themed propsa six-foot papier-mâché lighthouse, three anchors, and what appears to be an entire fishing net strung with battery-powered fairy lights.
The crash sounds like the apocalypse. Wood splintering. Glass shattering. Mrs. Henderson's soprano hitting a pitch I didn't know human vocal cords could reach.
"Everyone okay?" I'm already moving. Weaving through the masses. My heart hammering against my ribs.
Grath's there first. Of course he is. Lifting the riser off Mr. Yamada with one hand. Checking for injuries with the other. His face set in grim concentration.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." Mr. Yamada waves him off. Embarrassed but unharmed. "Just bruised dignity."
The crowd murmurs. Some concerned. Some filming. Because of course they're filming.
I force a smile. Bright. Reassuring. "Well. That's one way to make an entrance. Who's ready for refreshments?"
Nervous laughter ripples through the room.
Crisis contained. Sort of.
Then the lights flicker.
Once. Twice. Plunge us into complete darkness.
Someone screams. Someone else giggles. The kitten—Pebble, now wearing a tiny bow tie for the occasion—yowls from somewhere near the counter.
"Breaker probably tripped." Nora's voice cuts through the chaos. Calm. Practical. "Maris, where's your panel?"
"Back hall. I'll check it."
I fumble for my phone. Use the flashlight to navigate through the packed café. Bodies pressing close. Heat and perfume and nervous energy thick in the air.
Grath's beside me before I ask. Solid. Steady. "I'll come."
"You should stay. Reassure people."
"You need light. I'm light."
I glance up. He's holding his phone high. The glow illuminating his face from below. Casting sharp shadows across his tusks and jaw.
"That's not how grammar works."
"Grammar can wait."
Fair point.
We push through to the back hall. The temperature drops ten degrees. Quieter here. Just our breathing and the muffled buzz of crowd noise beyond the door.
I pop open the breaker panel. Scan the switches. "There. Kitchen circuit."
I flip it. Nothing.
Flip it again. Still nothing.
"Something's wrong with the line itself."
Grath peers over my shoulder. Frowns. "The keg."
"What?"
"Earlier. When we moved it. Pushed it against the wall. Maybe pinched a wire."
