Page 96

“It’s bad luck to refuse on festival night.” She clicks her tongue at us while shaking a finger. “The Green Blessing only works if the whole community participates. Strangers included. Especially strangers. Fresh blood brings fresh fortune.”

I lean against the bar, thinking about the delicacies we passed on the way here. I love festival foods. Fried confections coated in sugar. The largest slab of meat the vendor could fit on a stick. Barely a vegetable in sight, unless you count corn or potatoes, and only a heathen would do that. “We wouldn’t want to bring bad luck.”

The woman’s smile widens. “No, you would not. Turn left when you exit the inn. The town square is already set up. If you don’t want stew, you can find any food your mind can think of there.” She leaves before Esme can form another protest.

Esme shifts toward me with wide eyes. “We can’t just⁠—”

“One night.” I can see an argument brewing in her raised chin and defiant gaze. “The tournament doesn’t start for three more days. When was the last time you went to a festival?”

Her mouth snaps shut. Her answer is written in the way her shoulders curl inward. Never.

I know I’ve won. I’m already picturing Esme’s face when I get her a ball of dragon’s beard, or whatever they call spun sugar here, her smile broad and genuine, her eyes sparking with joy. “Exactly. So, we go have fun, listen to people talk, and maybe we learn something important.”

Pocketing the key, I grab her hand and drag her outside before she catches on that my reasons are complete horseshit.

I simply want to see her enjoy a festival. Esme mentioned that she’d never been to a gala. Festivals are so much better because they’re less curated, less noble. After nearly a month of stressful traveling and having death and despair shoved in her face every day, she deserves a night of silly entertainment.

You don’t need to be a local to notice how the town transformed for the event.

Lanterns provide glowing amber light, giving the entire area a dreamlike appearance. In the center, a bonfire blazes, flames climbing toward the darkening sky. Sparks spiral upward to join the first stars, and ribbons hang from every horizontal surface.

Tables groan under the weight of the steaming food. Roasted potatoes glisten with butter and herbs. Whole pigs twirl on spits. Cooks skewer small pieces of meat and drizzle them with sauces. Pots overflow with drinks, soups, oils, and nuts. On every street, vendors hawk breads, buns, and pastries stuffed with savory or sweet fillings.

Musicians tune their instruments near the fire, at street corners, and in front of every inn. Overstimulated children weave between the adults.

Esme stops at the edge of the green. She stares at everything like she’s never seen people gather before, wide-eyed and a little frightened. Considering how awkward she says she is with others, I’m not surprised.

I nudge her with my elbow. “Let’s make a round first and see what they have. Then we can start making selections on our second pass.”

She nods, her eyes stuck on a vendor selling toys as she follows along.

Her obedience lasts until we reach the first drink stall.

Noticing her absence, I spin around just as the vendor hands her two cups crafted from tightly folded leaves.

As soon as she sees me looking, she runs over, one of the cups outstretched. “Look! They make their own cup there. Have you ever seen⁠—”

In her excitement, she squeezes the cup too tightly, and her fingers rip through. Spiced hullberry juice leaks down her arm. Then the cup folds and falls out of her hand. Shock and confusion ripple down her face as she stares at the poor shredded cup on the ground, then at her wet hand.

I burst out laughing. “You’ve got to be careful with such things. They’re not made to last.”

Scooping the other cup from her, I demonstrate by gently wrapping my thumb and forefinger around it. Then I hand it back.

She takes it properly this time. “Good thing that juice was clear.” She sips and passes the beverage to me. Spices temper the juice’s sweetness, the complex tasting notes dancing over my tongue. I smack my lips before giving Esme the rest to finish since she looks at me with pleading puppy dog eyes.

A soft melody starts, inviting people to participate. Then the music climbs, the layers of harmonies compounding as more musical instruments join in. By the chorus, people glance around, grab partners, and race for the bonfire.

The drums establish a heartbeat-like rhythm while the bright, playful fiddle weaves in and out.

Esme and I dodge excited dancers and wait to see what happens next.

Couples form a circle, along with siblings and friends of all ages. When the fiddle pauses, every participant poses with their left foot out. The musician raises his bow to start again, and anticipation fills the air.

With the first note, the couples cheer and hop, then begin to circle. The other musicians join in.

The dance is simple enough that even I can follow it. Hop, step, turn, switch arms, spin, hop, turn. Repeat. The kind of number designed for fun rather than performance.

Esme watches, her body swaying as she claps along with the beat. Her face opens in a way I haven’t seen before. A silent yearning. Still, her feet stay planted.