Chapter Text
( chapter eleven ! )
"Just breathe. It's going to be a good day."
The words feel forced as she stares at her reflection in the small hallway mirror, adjusting the flowing sleeves of her cream-colored blouse. The fabric is soft and worn from countless washes, embroidered with tiny flowers along the cuffs—a thrift store find that Mae had insisted looked perfect on her. Paired with a long, tiered skirt in earthy brown and her favorite collection of layered necklaces, the outfit should make her feel grounded and normal. Instead, she feels like she's playing dress-up, pretending to be someone who hasn't spent the last two weeks jumping at every shadow.
The harvest festival has been circled on her calendar for months, a bright red reminder of simpler times when her biggest worry was whether Mae's homemade apple cider would sell out before noon. Now, the thought of being surrounded by crowds, smiling and making small talk while helping arrange pumpkins and corn stalks, feels exhausting before she's even left the house.
She picks up a slice of peach from the plate on her kitchen counter, forcing herself to eat despite how her stomach has been twisting lately. Sleep hasn't been coming easily—every time she closes her eyes, she sees glowing red iron or feels the weight of the bone necklace around her throat. The peach tastes like nothing, but she chews mechanically, knowing she needs the energy for what promises to be a long day.
Another piece of fruit—an apple this time, because the irony feels appropriate—and then she's padding barefoot toward the bathroom to finish getting ready. Her reflection looks pale in the hallway mirror as she passes, dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer seems to fully hide. Mae will probably comment on it, suggest she needs more sleep or vitamins, or yoga. Sweet, uncomplicated concerns from a friend who still lives in a world where the worst thing that can happen is running out of organic honey for the booth.
The bathroom light flickers as she flips the switch, casting shadows across the small space. 'Need to replace that bulb,' she thinks absently, reaching for her mascara. The mirror here is larger, framed in vintage brass that she'd found at an estate sale years ago. Usually, she loves this mirror. It has character, makes her feel like she's getting ready in some romantic old film. Today, it just makes her nervous.
She leans closer to apply the mascara, focusing on making her lashes look fuller. The repetitive motion is soothing and familiar. Stroke up, wiggle slightly at the roots, stroke up again. Her reflection stares back, looking more human with each careful application.
That's when she sees him.
Standing behind her in the mirror's reflection is Auron with his golden hair that catches the flickering light like spun sunlight. He's beautiful in an otherworldly way, with delicate features and skin that seems to glow with its own inner radiance. But his eyes are wrong, unfocused and distant, like he's looking at something she can't see.
Althea's hand freezes halfway to her lashes, the mascara wand trembling. 'I'm imagining things,' she tells herself firmly, not daring to turn around.
But the figure remains, solid and real in the reflection, though when she glances over her shoulder, there's nothing there but her shower curtain and the small window with its frosted glass. She turns back to the mirror, and he's still there, lips moving as if speaking words she cannot hear.
"This isn't real," she whispers to her reflection, gripping the edge of the sink with white knuckles. "This is just.. I'm just tired. I'm imagining things because I'm tired and stressed and—"
The mirror explodes inward.
Glass doesn't shatter—instead, the surface ripples like water, and pale, elegant hands thrust through the silver depths, reaching toward her with desperate urgency. She recognizes those hands immediately. Snow Weiss, his perfect porcelain fingers grasping for her throat, her face, anything he can reach.
A scream tears from Althea's throat before she can stop it, raw and terrified as she stumbles backward. Her hip hits the doorframe hard enough to bruise, but she barely feels it over the adrenaline flooding her system. The hands push further through the mirror's surface, followed by pale wrists, forearms, and then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.
The mirror is whole again, reflecting nothing but her own pale, shocked face and the empty bathroom behind her. No Auron, no hands, nothing but ordinary glass in an ordinary frame showing an ordinary room.
Her breathing comes in short, sharp gasps as she stares at her reflection, waiting for something else to happen. But the mirror remains stubbornly normal and the sounds of the outside world filter back in—cars passing on the street, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the familiar hum of her refrigerator cycling on.
Althea grips the edge of the bathroom sink until her knuckles turn white, staring at her reflection as her breathing slowly returns to normal. Her face stares back in the mirror, wide-eyed and shaken, with mascara smudged beneath one eye from when she jerked backwards.
'Get it together,' she tells herself, reaching for a tissue to clean up the smeared makeup, dabbing carefully at the dark streak on her cheek. The mascara comes off easily enough, though her hands still shake slightly as she reapplies it. She focuses on the familiar routine—stroke up, wiggle at the roots, repeat on the other eye. Normal things. Safe things.
A sharp knock at her front door interrupts the fragile calm she's trying to rebuild. The sound echoes, urgent enough to make her jump and nearly drop the mascara tube. For a moment, pure panic floods her system before logic reasserts itself. Snow Weiss doesn't exist outside of whatever strange dreams or hallucinations she's been having. He can't knock on her door because he's not real.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time, followed by a voice she recognizes with relief so profound it nearly makes her legs buckle.
"Miss Everline, dear? Are you alright in there?"
Mrs. Hartwell. Sweet, practical Mrs. Hartwell from down the street who always wears cardigans and smells like lavender sachets, and asks Althea to help with her heavier grocery bags. Real, normal, completely non-magical Mrs. Hartwell who probably heard her scream and came to check like any decent neighbor would.
"Coming!" Althea calls, her voice coming out rougher than intended. She clears her throat and tries again. "Sorry, just give me a second!"
The walk to the front door feels longer than it should, her bare feet silent on the floors as she makes her way downstairs. Each step away from the bathroom brings a little more relief, as if distance itself can protect her from whatever she thought she saw in that mirror.
When she opens the door, Mrs. Hartwell stands in the hallway clutching a small watering can, her white hair perfectly curled and her expression creased with genuine concern. Behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her blue eyes search Althea's face with the practiced attention of someone who's spent decades looking after other people.
"Oh, sweetheart," the older woman reaches out to pat Althea's arm with a gentle touch. "I was watering my plants on the balcony when I heard the most dreadful scream. Sounded like someone was being murdered up there!"
The choice of words makes Althea flinch, but Mrs. Hartwell doesn't seem to notice. She's too busy scanning Althea's face for signs of injury or distress, her motherly instincts clearly activated by what she heard.
"I'm so sorry I worried you," Althea manages a weak smile, her mind racing for a plausible explanation. "I just.. there was this huge spider in my bathroom. Like, seriously massive. I walked in and it was just sitting there on the wall, and you know how I get about.." She lets the sentence trail off, hoping the woman's knowledge of her arachnophobia will fill in the blanks.
Mrs. Hartwell's expression immediately shifts from concern to understanding sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing! I remember when you called me over for that tiny little house spider last month. If this one was big enough to make you scream like that, it must have been absolutely terrifying."
The relief in the older woman's voice is palpable, and Althea realizes she's chosen the perfect lie. Mrs. Hartwell has indeed witnessed her complete breakdown over what turned out to be a completely harmless spider no bigger than a penny.
"Did you manage to get rid of it, dear?" Mrs. Hartwell peers past her into the house as if expecting to see evidence of the imaginary arachnid encounter.
"Yeah, I.. knocked it down with a broom and it ran away somewhere," Althea improvises, surprised by how easily the fabrication flows. "Probably went back outside through a crack or something."
"Well, that's a mercy. I do hope it doesn't find its way into my apartment next! These old buildings have so many little gaps and crevices," Mrs. Hartwell adjusts her grip on the watering can, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "You certainly have a set of lungs on you, dear. I thought someone was being attacked!"
The comment makes Althea's cheeks burn with embarrassment. If she screamed loud enough for Mrs. Hartwell to hear, then probably half the street heard it too. Great. Nothing like drawing attention to herself when she's trying desperately to blend back into normal life.
"I'm really sorry about that," she apologizes again. "I know it's early and people are probably trying to sleep in on the weekend."
"Nonsense, it's nearly nine o'clock. Most respectable folks are up and about by now anyway," Mrs. Hartwell waves off the concern. "Though you might want to consider calling an exterminator if you're seeing spiders that large. Sometimes they indicate a bigger problem—moisture issues, other pests, that sort of thing."
"I'll keep that in mind," she agrees noncommittally.
Mrs. Hartwell lingers for another moment, clearly reluctant to leave without ensuring Althea is truly alright. Her maternal instincts are both touching and slightly overwhelming, especially when Althea feels so raw and exposed from what just happened upstairs.
"Well, if you need anything at all, you know where to find me," the older woman finally relents, starting to turn away before pausing again. "Oh, and don't forget to shake out your bedding tonight before you sleep. Sometimes when there's one big spider, there might be others hiding in the fabric."
The well-meaning advice makes Althea's skin crawl. "Thanks for the tip," Althea manages another smile as Mrs. Hartwell finally heads back toward her home.
"That girl's got a set of lungs on her, I'll give her that," the older woman mutters to herself as she disappears around the corner, her voice carrying just enough for Althea to catch the words.
Once the door clicks shut, Althea leans against it and takes several deep breaths. She needs to get out of this house.
♬
The town square buzzes with autumn energy, transformed into a patchwork of colorful stalls and displays that seem to stretch in every direction. Pumpkins of every size and shade create orange mountains beside tables groaning under the weight of apple cider jugs, homemade preserves, and baked goods that fill the air with cinnamon and nutmeg. Children dart between the booths with sticky fingers and wide grins, their laughter mixing with the sound of fiddle music drifting from a small stage set up near the fountain.
Althea weaves through the crowd, her flowy skirt catching on the occasional stray corn husk or wayward pumpkin vine that's escaped its designated display area. The normalcy of it all feels almost overwhelming after the morning's incident; real people doing real things, selling real products, worrying about real problems like whether they brought enough change or if it might rain later.
She spots Mae's stall near the edge of the square, recognizable by the hand-painted sign that reads "Mae's Herbaceous Intentions" in flowing script decorated with tiny botanical illustrations. Mae herself stands behind a folding table covered with mason jars filled with dried herbs, small potted plants, and an assortment of what she calls "intentional teas"—blends she creates based on what people need, whether it's better sleep, clearer skin, or just something that tastes good.
Right now, Mae looks like she's wrestling with a particularly stubborn banner that refuses to stay attached to the front of her table. Her dark hair is escaping from its messy up-do, and there's a streak of dirt across her cheek that suggests she's already been dealing with more than her fair share of setup challenges.
"Need some help with that?" Althea approaches the booth, grateful for the excuse to focus on something.
Mae looks up with relief written across her face, though she quickly masks it with her typical eye roll. "Oh, now you show up. I was starting to think you'd decided sleeping in was more important than helping your best friend avoid total humiliation in front of the entire town."
Her teasing tone is familiar and comforting, even if Althea can detect the genuine worry underneath. Mae has been dealing with social anxiety around events like this for as long as they've been friends, though she'd rather die than admit it outright. Having backup was probably more important to her than she let on.
"Sorry, I got held up by some stuff," Althea reaches for one end of the banner, helping Mae stretch it taut between two poles. "Mrs. Hartwell came by to check on something and we ended up chatting longer than I expected."
It's not entirely a lie, which makes it easier to deliver convincingly. Mae doesn't need to know about the bathroom incident or the hallucinations or any of the other weirdness that's been plaguing Althea. Mae deals with enough of her own stress without taking on someone else's impossible problems.
"Mrs. Hartwell is sweet, but that woman could talk the ear off a cornstalk," Mae secures her end of the banner with a complex system of clips and rubber bands. "There, that should hold unless we get hurricane-force winds, which knowing my luck we probably will."
The banner now hangs properly, advertising Mae's business in cheerful green letters that match the array of plants scattered across her table. Everything looks professionally arranged and inviting, though Althea knows Mae has been up since dawn making sure every jar is perfectly labeled and every plant is positioned just right.
"This looks amazing," Althea gestures to the display, genuinely impressed by how Mae has managed to make a folding table look like something out of a boutique garden store. "You've really outdone yourself."
"Yeah, well, turns out I'm incredibly vain and couldn't handle the thought of people judging my setup," Mae adjusts the position of a particularly photogenic succulent arrangement. "Plus my mom said if I embarrassed the family name, she'd make me go back to working at the bank, so the stakes are pretty high here."
Mae's mother has been pushing her toward more "practical" career choices since they graduated, despite the fact that Mae's herbal business has been steadily growing over the past year. The threat is mostly empty—Mae's too stubborn to be bullied into anything—but Althea knows the pressure still weighs on her.
"Your mom's going to be so proud when she sees how many people stop by," Althea moves around to the customer side of the table, examining the products from a buyer's perspective. "Everything smells incredible, and you know how people love anything that's homemade and local."
"From your mouth to the universe's ears," Mae pulls a price list from her bag and clips it to a small easel. "But honestly, I'm more worried about running out of stuff than not selling anything. I maybe went a little overboard with the preparation."
Looking at the sheer volume of products Mae has brought, Althea has to agree. There are enough herbal teas and tinctures here to supply a small apothecary, not to mention the various potted herbs and succulents that fill every available inch of table space.
"Better too much than too little," Althea picks up a small jar labeled "Sweet Dreams Tea" and examines the dried lavender and chamomile visible through the glass. "What's in this one?"
"Lavender, chamomile, lemon balm, and a tiny bit of valerian root," Mae ticks off the ingredients on her fingers. "It's supposed to help with sleep issues and anxiety. I've been testing it on myself for the past month and it actually works pretty well."
The mention of sleep issues makes Althea's stomach clench slightly. Her own sleep has been anything but sweet lately, filled with fragmented dreams and the constant fear of being pulled back into whatever twisted reality the music box creates. She forces herself to smile and nod.
"I might have to grab some of that later," she says, setting the jar back down carefully. "So what else needs to be done? I'm here to work, remember?"
Mae surveys her setup with the critical eye of someone who's spent way too much mental energy planning every detail. "I think the main display is pretty much set, but I brought some extra decorations in case this looks too sparse. And I need to figure out how to arrange the cash box so it doesn't look like I'm just sitting here waiting for people to give me money."
The practical concerns of running a small business are so wonderfully normal that Althea feels some of the tension leave her shoulders. This is the kind of problem she can help solve—arranging products, making change, talking to customers about the benefits of different herbal blends.
"What if we move the cash box to this corner and put some of the smaller plants around it?" Althea suggests, already starting to rearrange things. "That way it's accessible but not the first thing people see."
Mae watches the repositioning with intensity. "Yeah, that's actually better. Makes it look less like a lemonade stand and more like a real business."
The morning sun climbs higher as they work, and the festival crowd begins to thicken around them. Other vendors call out greetings to Mae, and several early customers stop to browse the herbal selections. Watching Mae shift into saleswoman mode—explaining the properties of different plants, making recommendations based on people's needs—Althea feels genuinely proud of her friend's expertise and passion.
This is what normal life looks like, she reminds herself. Friends supporting each other, small businesses trying to make it, people coming together to celebrate the season. Whatever strange things have been happening to her lately, this is real and worth protecting.
Althea finds herself settling into the role of silent assistant, handing Mae the correct jar when someone asks about digestive teas, counting change when the line gets busy, and rearranging products that get disturbed by curious browsers. Something is soothing about the predictable nature of it all—people want to know what's in the sleep blend, whether the lavender soap is made locally, and how much the little succulent costs.
But as the crowd thickens and Mae hits her stride with customers, Althea becomes increasingly aware that she's mostly just standing there. Every attempt to help feels unnecessary when Mae has clearly mastered her sales pitch and knows exactly where everything is located. A woman asks about teas for headaches, and Mae launches into a detailed explanation of willow bark and feverfew before Althea can even process the question. An elderly man wants something for his arthritis, and Mae already has the perfect blend mixed and ready before Althea can step forward.
"You know, you don't have to babysit me here all day," Mae glances over during a brief lull between customers, "I've got this handled, and you look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."
The observation stings a little, probably because it's accurate. Despite her best efforts to appear engaged and helpful, Althea knows she's been drifting mentally, her attention caught by random sounds and movements throughout the festival. Every time someone laughs too loudly or a child runs by with a mask, she finds herself tensing up for no logical reason.
"I'm fine," she protests, straightening up as if better posture might convince Mae of her alertness. "I'm here to help, remember? That was the whole point."
"Yeah, and you helped me set up, which was the hard part," Mae adjusts the angle of her price sign with unnecessary precision, clearly avoiding eye contact. "But honestly, you're making me nervous just hovering there. Go walk around, try some of Mrs. Chen's apple fritters, and maybe win something ridiculous at the ring toss. Actually have fun instead of watching me count nickels."
The suggestion comes wrapped in Mae's typical bluntness, but Althea can hear the genuine concern underneath. Mae has always been good at reading her moods, even when she tries to hide them, and apparently whatever she's projecting right now isn't particularly convincing.
"Are you sure? I feel bad just wandering off when you're stuck here working," Althea glances around at the other vendors, most of whom seem to be managing their booths solo without any apparent difficulty. "What if it gets really busy again?"
Mae rolls her eyes with theatrical exaggeration. "Then I'll deal with it like a grown adult who chose to start her own business. Seriously, Althea, go do something that doesn't involve standing in one spot looking worried. You're starting to make the customers think something's wrong with my products."
The last comment is clearly a joke, but it provides the push Althea needs to stop arguing. Mae has a point—she's been more of a distraction than a help for the past hour, and the festival has plenty of other attractions that might actually lift her spirits instead of just providing a backdrop for anxious hovering.
"Okay, fine," she concedes, pulling her small bag from where it's been hanging on the back of Mae's chair. "But text me if you need anything, alright? Even if it's just bringing you water or lunch or whatever."
"I will, Mom," Mae makes shooing motions with her hands while somehow managing to smile at an approaching customer at the same time. "Now go find some trouble to get into that doesn't involve herbal remedies."
Walking away from the familiar safety of Mae's booth feels oddly difficult, like leaving a lighthouse in a storm, but once she's a few steps into the crowd, the festival's energy begins to work its magic. The scent of cinnamon-dusted pastries drifts from a nearby bakery stall, competing with the earthy smell of pumpkins and the sharp sweetness of fresh apple cider. Musicians have set up near the old fountain, their fiddles and guitars creating a soundtrack.
The town itself tells a story. The buildings surrounding the festival space rise in a mixture of architectural styles—some genuinely medieval with their timber frames and leaded glass windows, others built in more recent decades but designed to match the historic aesthetic. Steam rises from several food vendors' portable equipment, powered by small engines that chuff and whistle like miniature trains.
It's the kind of place where people still carry wicker baskets for their shopping and know their neighbors by name, where the local blacksmith does double duty as a metalworker for both horseshoes and decorative ironwork. The children running between the stalls wear simple dresses and knickers that wouldn't look out of place in an old photograph, though made with modern fabrics and dyes.
Althea wanders past a booth selling carved wooden toys that move with intricate mechanical precision; no batteries required, just clever engineering. The vendor, a man with calloused hands and wire-rimmed spectacles, demonstrates a dancing bear that performs an entire routine when wound with a brass key.
"Handcrafted using traditional methods," he explains to a fascinated child whose parents watch indulgently. "Same techniques my grandfather used, and his grandfather before him."
There's pride in his voice, but also a subtle defensiveness, as if he expects someone to question the value of old-fashioned craftsmanship in an age of mass production. The sentiment seems to echo throughout the festival—a celebration of ways of life that feel increasingly fragile, traditions that require conscious effort to maintain rather than simply existing as natural extensions of daily life.
A group of teenagers clusters around a game booth where the challenge involves knocking down wooden pins shaped like various animals. The prizes hanging from the booth's frame are an eclectic mix—stuffed creatures that look like they stepped out of old fairy tale illustrations, mechanical puzzles crafted from polished brass, and small bottles filled with colored sand arranged in elaborate patterns. It's the kind of place where winning something requires actual skill rather than just luck, and the proprietor clearly takes pride in the difficulty of his challenges.
Althea drifts from stall to stall with no particular destination in mind, letting the crowd's gentle current guide her movements. The cobblestones beneath her feet are worn smooth by centuries of use, and the buildings surrounding the square lean inward slightly, their timber frames weathered to a silvery gray that speaks of age and endurance.
At a booth specializing in preserved foods, she purchases a small jar of spiced pear butter for herself and a container of blackberry jam for Mae. The vendor, a round-faced woman with flour dusting her apron, wraps each jar carefully in brown paper tied with string.
"Made fresh this morning," the woman explains with obvious pride as she counts out Althea's change from a wooden cash box. "The pears came from my own orchard, and the spices are ground fresh from seed. None of those factory preservatives you find in the city shops."
The comment about city shops makes Althea smile despite herself. Here, in this pocket of deliberate antiquity, the outside world feels distant and somehow less substantial. Gas lamps flicker along the streets even in daylight, more for ambiance than necessity, and most of the vendors accept payment in actual coins rather than the paper currency that's become standard elsewhere.
A cluster of children runs past, chasing after a mechanical toy that walks on its own—some kind of brass automaton shaped like a dog that yips and wags its tail as it navigates the uneven ground. The kids shriek with delight when it changes direction unexpectedly, nearly trampling a display of gourds in their enthusiasm.
"Careful there!" The vendor calls out, but he's laughing as he retrieves his scattered produce. "That contraption's been causing chaos all morning."
One of the children, a girl who can't be more than seven or eight, approaches Althea with the confident boldness that only comes with youth. Her dress is simple but well-made, the kind of practical garment that can withstand a day of festival adventures, and her blonde hair is braided with small ribbons that have already begun to work loose.
"Miss, have you seen the puppet show yet?" The girl tugs at Althea's skirt with sticky fingers. "They're doing the old stories, the ones our grandparents used to tell."
The mention of old stories makes Althea's stomach clench unexpectedly, but she forces herself to smile down at the eager child. "I haven't seen it yet. Is it good?"
"It's great!" Another child joins them, this one a boy with freckles and a gap-toothed grin. "They have real marionettes that move like they're alive, and the stories are much better than the ones in our schoolbooks."
A third child, slightly older than the others, approaches with the air of someone who considers herself far too sophisticated for puppet shows but can't quite resist the topic. "The teacher told us those stories aren't proper education," she announces with the gravity only a nine-year-old can muster. "She said we should focus on history and mathematics instead of nonsense about magic and talking animals."
The first girl rolls her eyes with an expression that reminds Althea strongly of Mae. "That's because Teacher doesn't know how to make anything fun. The puppet man says the old stories teach us important things about life and choices and consequences."
"My grandmother says they used to be more than just stories," the boy adds in a conspiratorial whisper. "She says people used to believe they really happened, back when the world was different."
The older girl snorts with derision. "That's ridiculous. Magic isn't real. The steam engines and telegraph machines work because of science and engineering, not because someone waved a wand."
Listening to their debate, Althea feels an odd pang of loss for their innocence—both the younger children's willingness to believe in wonder and the older girl's confidence that the world operates according to rational principles. If only she could think that magic was just make-believe, that the strangest thing she'd encounter in a day would be a mechanical toy dog or an overly elaborate puppet show.
"Where is this puppet show?" she asks, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly because the children's enthusiasm is infectious.
"Near the old well, past the bread vendors," the boy points toward the far end of the square where Althea can just make out colorful banners strung between wooden posts. "But you should hurry—the next performance starts soon, and they only do three shows all day."
The children scamper off toward their destination, the mechanical dog forgotten in favor of a new entertainment. Althea watches them go with a mixture of fondness and envy, remembering when her biggest concern was making sure she didn't miss something fun.
She continues her wandering, stopping at a booth that sells small potted herbs and purchasing a tiny rosemary plant that the vendor promises will thrive on a sunny windowsill. The woman wraps the terracotta pot in newspaper and secures it with twine, creating a neat little package that fits perfectly in Althea's bag alongside her other purchases.
Somewhere in the distance, church bells chime the hour, their bronze voices carrying across the festival grounds with ceremonial gravity. The sound triggers a flash of memory—another bell, in another place, tolling for a wedding she'd rather forget—but she pushes the thought away before it can take root.
A vendor selling scarves and shawls catches her attention, his display featuring fabrics in jewel tones that shimmer slightly in the sunlight. The shawls appear to be woven with metallic threads that create subtle patterns when they move, and Althea finds herself drawn to a deep green one that reminds her of forest shadows.
"That's a fine choice," the vendor observes as she examines the fabric. "The green suits your coloring well. And see how the threads catch the light? It's an old weaving technique, passed down through generations. They say garments made this way bring good fortune to the wearer."
The mention of good fortune makes her hesitate. After everything she's been through lately, the idea of wearing something that's supposed to attract positive energy feels both appealing and potentially dangerous. What if whatever force controls her strange experiences decides to interpret 'good fortune' in its own twisted way? But the shawl is genuinely beautiful, and she finds herself handing over the coins before she can overthink the decision too much.
♬
The puppet show draws Althea like a magnet, partly from curiosity and partly because of the children's enthusiasm. She follows the colorful banners toward the old stone well that serves as the performance area's backdrop, weaving through clusters of families who've claimed spots on the grass with blankets and folding chairs brought from home.
The puppet theater itself is an elaborate construction of painted wood and draped fabric, designed to look like a miniature castle complete with towers and battlements. Intricate marionettes hang from a complex system of strings and pulleys, their wooden faces carved with remarkable detail and painted in vibrant colors that catch the afternoon light. The puppeteer, a man with silver hair and weathered hands that move with practiced precision, manipulates multiple characters simultaneously while narrating in a voice that carries across the gathered crowd.
The story currently unfolding involves a princess locked in a tower and a prince attempting various increasingly ridiculous methods of rescue. Unlike the sanitized versions Althea remembers from childhood books, this tale has darker undertones—the princess isn't waiting passively but actively trying to escape on her own, and the prince's motivations seem questionable at best.
"She's been planning her own rescue for months," the puppeteer explains as the princess marionette lowers a rope made of braided bedsheets from her tower window. "Built makeshift tools, studied the guards' routines, even learned to pick the lock on her chamber door. Then along comes this fellow claiming he'll save her, expecting gratitude for solving problems she'd nearly worked out herself."
Several parents in the audience shift uncomfortably at this interpretation, clearly expecting something more traditional. The children, however, are riveted, especially when the princess confronts the prince about his presumptuous behavior.
"Why should I go with you?" the princess puppet demands, her wooden arms gesturing emphatically. "I don't even know your name, and you've just interrupted months of careful planning without asking what I actually wanted."
The prince puppet stammers through various justifications before finally admitting he'd heard there was a beautiful princess in need of rescue and thought it sounded like an adventure. The princess responds by climbing down her rope alone while the prince is still explaining himself, leaving him standing awkwardly outside her empty tower.
Some of the adults mutter about the inappropriate message this sends to impressionable children, but Althea finds herself genuinely engaged with the story's unexpected complexity. There's something refreshing about seeing familiar narratives questioned rather than simply repeated, even if the topics hit uncomfortably close to her own recent experiences.
The performance ends with the princess establishing herself as a successful entrepreneur in the nearest town while the prince eventually learns to ask people what they actually need before offering help. The children applaud enthusiastically, though several parents gather their families and move on with expressions suggesting they'll be having conversations about 'proper' stories later.
"Quite a different take on the classic tale," an elderly woman beside Althea observes, her tone suggesting approval rather than criticism. "My grandmother used to tell versions more like that, before they got cleaned up for modern sensibilities."
The comment sparks something in Althea's memory—fragments of stories her own grandmother used to tell, darker and more complex than their published counterparts. Tales where the heroes weren't always heroic and the endings weren't always happy, but somehow felt more honest.
Moving away from the puppet theater, she discovers a section of the festival dedicated to traditional games and activities. Apple bobbing barrels have been set up near the old fountain, surrounded by towels and good-natured spectators cheering on participants who emerge dripping and triumphant or empty-handed but laughing.
"Come now, miss, surely you'll give it a try?" The game operator, a jolly man with rolled-up sleeves and an infectious grin, gestures toward the water-filled barrels. "First apple's free, and there's a prize for anyone who manages three in a row."
The idea of dunking her face into cold water while strangers watch feels mortifying, but something about the man's genuine enthusiasm and the other participants' obvious enjoyment makes her reconsider. 'When was the last time I did something silly just for fun?'
"What's the worst that could happen?" she mutters, accepting a towel from the operator and approaching the nearest barrel.
The water is shockingly cold against her face, and the apples prove more elusive than they appeared from the outside. Her first attempt results in nothing but a mouthful of apple-flavored water and hair dripping down her back. The second try nets her a small apple that she manages to trap against the barrel's side, earning applause from the gathered onlookers.
"Well done!" A woman about her mother's age offers an encouraging smile. "The trick is to go for the smaller ones first—they're easier to maneuver."
Emboldened by this advice and the supportive atmosphere, Althea makes another attempt. This time she succeeds in capturing a decent-sized apple, much to the delight of several children who've been watching her progress with invested interest.
"You've got the hang of it now," the game operator declares, handing her a small prize; a carved wooden apple painted in bright colors. "Natural talent for apple wrangling, you have."
The absurd compliment makes her laugh, a genuine sound that surprises her with its lightness. For a few minutes, standing there dripping wet and holding a tiny wooden apple, she feels almost like herself again—not someone constantly looking over her shoulder or jumping at shadows, just a young woman enjoying a ridiculous game at a local festival.
By the time Althea makes her way back toward Mae's booth, the sun has climbed high enough to chase away the morning chill, and the festival has reached that perfect state of organized chaos where everyone seems to know exactly where they're going despite the apparent randomness of it all. She weaves through families pushing wooden carts loaded with pumpkins and preserves, past teenagers clustered around a ring toss game that seems designed to be nearly impossible to win.
Mae has attracted a small crowd of customers, mostly women around their age who lean in conspiratorially as she explains the properties of various herbal blends. Althea waits at the edge of the group, not wanting to interrupt what appears to be a promising sales pitch about teas that supposedly help with monthly discomfort and general feminine wellness.
"And this one," Mae holds up a jar filled with dried red petals mixed with what looks like crushed bark, "is particularly good for those times when you want to tell someone exactly what you think of them but need to stay calm enough to be articulate about it."
The description earns knowing laughter from her audience, and several women immediately reach for their coin purses. Mae's ability to market her products with humor and relatability has always impressed Althea, who tends to freeze up when strangers ask her questions about anything more complicated than the weather.
When the customers finally disperse, purchases in hand and promises to recommend Mae's stall to their friends, Althea approaches with her small collection of festival acquisitions.
"Brought you something," she pulls the wrapped jar of blackberry jam from her bag, along with the carved wooden apple from the bobbing game. "Thought you might like these."
Mae unwraps the jam with the careful attention she reserves for gifts, examining the handwritten label and testing the seal. "This is from Mrs. Patterson's stall, isn't it? Her preserves are incredible. And what's this little guy?" She picks up the wooden apple, turning it over to admire the painted details.
"Prize from apple bobbing," Althea explains, feeling slightly embarrassed by the admission. "I know it's kind of silly, but the kids made it look so fun that I couldn't resist trying."
"You actually stuck your face in a barrel of water that random strangers have been spitting in?" Mae raises an eyebrow, but her tone carries amusement rather than disgust. "That's either very brave or very gross."
"It was surprisingly fun, actually," Althea admits, surprised to realize she means it. "I definitely need to work on my technique if I ever want to win the three-in-a-row challenge, though."
The conversation flows easily as Mae rearranges her display to accommodate a few customers who've taken nearly half her inventory. Business has clearly been better than expected, and watching her friend's excitement over each sale reminds Althea why she'd wanted to help in the first place. There's something deeply satisfying about seeing Mae's hard work pay off, about witnessing someone's passion project actually connect with people.
"You should go explore more," Mae gestures vaguely toward the rest of the festival while counting coins into her cash box. "You're kind of hovering again."
"I don't mind helping," Althea protests weakly.
"You've helped already," Mae waves her off with characteristic bluntness. "Now you're just standing there looking like you're waiting for something terrible to happen, which is not exactly the vibe I'm going for at my cute herbal booth."
The accuracy of Mae's assessment is uncomfortable. Althea has been on edge all morning, scanning faces in the crowd and jumping slightly whenever someone approaches too quickly or speaks too loudly. Apparently her attempts to appear relaxed haven't been as successful as she'd hoped.
"Seriously, go try the honey cakes or watch the blacksmith demonstration or something," Mae continues, her tone gentling slightly. "Have an actual good time instead of babysitting me. I'm a big girl, I can handle selling dried plants to suburban moms."
Before Althea can mount another protest, a family with three young children descends on the booth, and Mae is immediately drawn into explaining the differences between various sleep aids. Recognizing defeat, Althea steps back and lets the professional handle her customers.
As she turns to leave, the air around her seems to shift subtly, taking on a quality she can't quite name but somehow recognizes. It's like the moment before a storm when the atmosphere becomes electric, or the way light changes just before sunset. But this is different—warmer, more inviting, tinged with something that makes her think of childhood summers and half-remembered dreams.
The sensation tugs at something deep in her chest, a feeling so familiar yet distant that it makes her breath catch. Without really meaning to, she finds herself walking away from Mae's booth with more purpose than she'd had all morning, drawn by an invisible current toward the narrow alleyway that runs between the bakery and the candlemaker's shop.
"Althea?" Mae calls after her, but the sound seems to come from very far away. "Where are you going?"
Althea doesn't turn around to answer. Something is calling her forward, something that feels like coming home.
The alleyway feels different the moment Althea steps into it, as if she's crossed some invisible threshold between the ordinary world and something far more ancient. The cobblestones here are older, worn smoother by centuries of foot traffic, and the buildings lean in closer together, their upper floors nearly touching overhead. But it's not the architecture that makes her breath catch, it's the way the air itself seems alive.
Tiny points of light dance between her fingers when she holds up her hand, like miniature stars that have escaped their celestial moorings to play among mortals. The lights pulse with gentle warmth, and when she moves her fingers, they follow in trailing spirals that remind her of something she can't quite place. A memory hovers at the edge of her consciousness, something about summer evenings and wonder, but before she can grasp it fully, the lights swirl around her wrist like a bracelet made of captured starlight.
"Oh," she breathes, and the sound comes out soft and amazed, like a child discovering snow for the first time. "Oh, you're beautiful."
The lights seem to respond to her voice, clustering around her face and hair with what feels like affection. One particularly bold point of radiance settles on her nose for a moment, tickling gently before spiraling away to rejoin its companions. Without thinking, Althea reaches out toward them, and they gather in her palm like luminous flower petals.
When she was young, things like this used to happen all the time. Lights that danced when she was happy, shadows that played hide-and-seek in the corners of her room, dreams that felt more real than waking. But then she'd grown older, and adults had claimed that such things were just imagination, just the way children's minds worked before they learned to see the world properly.
Now, standing in this narrow alley with magic literally glowing between her fingers, she realizes how much she's missed this sense of wonder.
The lights begin to weave themselves into more complex patterns, creating shapes that shift and change too quickly for her to identify. A flower becomes a butterfly becomes a tiny dragon that loops through the air before dissolving back into individual sparks. Each transformation draws a delighted laugh from her throat, the kind of pure joy she hasn't felt in years.
"How are you doing that?" she whispers, though she doesn't really expect an answer. The magic doesn't speak in words, but somehow she understands that it's responding to her emotions, feeding off her happiness and wonder to create even more elaborate displays.
A cluster of lights forms itself into what looks like a miniature carousel, complete with tiny horses that rise and fall as the whole structure spins slowly around her head. Another group creates what appears to be a flock of luminous birds that perform an aerial ballet just out of her reach. The beauty of it all brings tears to her eyes, the kind that come from being overwhelmed by something too wonderful to fully comprehend.
She spins in place, arms outstretched, letting the lights swirl around her in increasingly complex spirals. For the first time in weeks, she feels completely present in the moment, not worried about any of the inexplicable things that have been haunting her days. This is pure magic, untainted by danger or manipulation, just joy made visible.
The lights seem to sense her complete absorption in their dance and grow bolder, creating larger formations that fill the entire width of the alley. Streams of radiance flow between the buildings like ribbons, and the cobblestones themselves begin to shimmer with reflected illumination. It's as if the whole space has been transformed into something from the old stories, back when magic was commonplace rather than relegated to half-remembered legends.
Faintly, so quietly she almost misses it, music begins to drift through the air. At first, it seems like it might be coming from the festival—perhaps another street performer has set up nearby—but as she listens more carefully, she realizes the melody is coming from everywhere and nowhere, woven into the fabric of the magic itself.
"Seven A.M., the usual morning lineup, start on the chores and sweep 'til the floor's all clean, polish and wax, do laundry, and mop and shine up, sweep again, and by then it's like 7:15.."
She dismisses it as background noise from somewhere else in the town—maybe someone practicing for a performance, or a music box left playing in one of the nearby shops.
"And so I'll read a book, or maybe two or three, I'll add a few new paintings to my gallery, I'll play guitar and knit, and cook and basically just wonder when will my life begin?"
The magic around her pulses in time with the distant melody, the lights swaying as if moved by the rhythm. Althea is too enchanted by their dance to pay much attention to the song, too caught up in the pure wonder of witnessing something impossible made real.
The lights begin to coalesce into a single, brilliant point that hovers just in front of her chest, pulsing like a heartbeat. Without thinking, she reaches toward it, and the moment her fingers make contact with the radiance, the world around her begins to shift and blur.
"Tomorrow night, the lights will appear, just like they do on my birthday each year.."
The alley fades away, replaced by swirling colors and sensations that feel like falling through a kaleidoscope. The music grows louder and more insistent, and Althea realizes with a mixture of excitement and dread that she's being pulled somewhere else entirely.
The last thing she sees before everything goes white is Mae's face, turned toward the alley entrance with an expression of confusion and growing concern, calling her name into the empty space where moments before, magic had danced.
"For the first time in years, she feels like she's home."