Halfway back to Gallontea, Gareth paused on Unity’s bridge to lean as far as he could over its stone walls. Hungry black water churned below, but Gareth wasn't worried about the old brick giving way. It had stood for two thousand years and would stand for two thousand more. To Gareth, this bridge was a passage between worlds. Above, below. Unity, Gallontea. The change started somewhere around the third set of lampposts, where Gallontea fell away behind and the bridge stretched ahead until all that remained was Unity, alone against an endless horizon. Gareth was always relieved to cross back over to Gallontea, to descend from these distant heavens.

He’d heard the two places referred to interchangeably: Gallontea meant Unity and Unity meant Gallontea. That was nothing short of offensive to Gallontea’s bursting population. If you’d seen both, if you’d crossed this bridge and stood on Unity’s cobbled paths, then you would know. You’d know how different they were. Physically, “Unity” referred only to the small island off the coast, set apart from the mainland to create an illusion of impartiality. Gallontea, by contrast, was just a city.

Gareth ran his hands over the stone, the cold seeping up through his palms, and looked back at the island. From here, it looked peaceful, the clock tower ticking on while two alfar changed the world as they all knew it. Gareth’s eyes were drawn habitually toward the clock’s glowing face.

“Blast!” he suddenly swore. He took off down the bridge at a run. It was five minutes to the hour. He was going to be late.

At least he didn't have to pass through Unity’s security gates on the way off the island. He hurried through the public square, weaving and murmuring litanies of “Terribly sorry,” and “Pardon me,” as he jostled bodies. From there, he turned onto a side street, then another. He reached his destination just as the clock struck the hour and began to chime.

He stopped beneath a colorful archway to catch his breath, the words “Rinehart Festival Grounds” painted on the fluttering canvas in friendly lettering. A ticket booth sat up ahead, a dryad girl with flowers in her hair and skin the texture of birch lounging behind the counter. A line trailed out from her counter, and Gareth had just started scanning the faces in the crowd for anyone familiar when a pair of small hands grabbed the leg of his trousers and piping voice yelled, “Surprise!”

Hand flying to his heart in a feint of shock, Gareth whirled to face the newcomer. “Ofelia! By the Three, how sneaky you are!”

A round-faced girl in a neat purple dress grinned up at him. She laughed as Gareth scooped her up. “Momma said you wouldn’t be fooled.”

“Your mother was wrong. You've grown so much since I left that I barely even recognized you!” Gareth said, looking up as Isobel joined them. “Hi, Bel.”

“It’s only been a week, Gareth,” Isobel said with a fondly exasperated smile. She leaned up for a kiss, then hesitated, drawing back to study her husband more closely. “Why are you out of breath? Darling, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. I just lost track of time on the island,” Gareth said. He wouldn't say any more. He'd made up his mind not to say any more. It wasn't his secret to share. But sharing secrets with his wife was like sharing secrets with himself, so surely she didn't count? He glanced around, noticed there was no one within earshot, and blurted, “Orean kidnapped Amos Nochdvor. Alfheimr wants to go to war.”

Isobel’s eyes widened. She clapped her hands over Ofelia’s ears and also looked around. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?” she hissed.

“I wasn’t even meant to hear it! It was an accident! Ah, well…mostly an accident.”

Isobel gasped. “You were eavesdropping, weren’t you? On who? Moira?”

“All three of them. And the alfar prince and princess,” Gareth said weakly.

“Oh dear,” Isobel said in a matching tone. “Tell me more.”

Quickly, quietly, Gareth brought Isobel to speed on everything he’d heard. In his arms, Ofelia wiggled to be put down, so he put her down. The entire time he talked, Isobel fiddled with the ribbons on her sleeve. “Something seems off about all this. Why are they so sure it was Orean?” she asked when he’d finished.

“Well,” Gareth hedged, thinking back, “It sounded like an orinian did it.”

“Just one? One orinian managed to kidnap a king?”

“Multiple orinians, must’ve been,” Gareth guessed. The mention of magic didn't seem worth repeating. It stuck with him, though — Leandros Nochdvor’s threats about secrets and poison. There was definitely more to the story.

“Must have,” Isobel said, also sounding unsure. “Leandros Nochdvor...isn't he the one who—”

“Yes. He's the one who killed Egil in Histrios.”

Isobel raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask him about it?”

“Believe me, I wanted to. It didn’t seem like the right time.”

Tired of being ignored, Ofelia tugged on Gareth’s sleeves. “Do you think that man will be here?” she asked loudly. “The one from last year? With the fire whip?”

“I’m sure he will be,” Gareth said. Smiling down at her, he felt himself begin to relax. Her presence — and Isobel’s — always had a grounding effect on him. Leaving them for Gallontea was the thing he hated most about fall, which was why this year, Isobel suggested she and Ofelia join him.

Ofelia nodded solemnly. She looked like her mother, with dark hair and round features, but she had Gareth’s smile. “Let’s go find him.”

“We have to get inside first, dear,” Isobel said. She and Gareth each took one of Ofelia's hands and they joined the short line curling out from the ticket booth. It was usually busier — maybe the darkening clouds had frightened away other would-be festival goers, but Gareth was willing to put up with a little rain for a break after the morning he had. He tried not to think about that, focusing on the present instead.

“You look beautiful today,” he said to his wife while they waited, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She wore an elegant blue day dress, recently altered to accommodate her pregnant belly, and an elegant hat to match. She smiled at the compliment and twined her free hand with Gareth’s, and they stayed that way until they reached the ticket booth. While Gareth fished out his pocketbook, the nympherai ticket-girl leaned over the counter and waved at Ofelia. Ofelia waved back, staring with wide eyes at the pinks and purples of the girl’s hair.

“You like them?” the girl asked.

Ofelia nodded and the girl laughed, the flowers swaying with the movement. She passed three tickets to Gareth, then plucked one of the flowers from her hair and tucked it behind Ofelia’s ear. Isobel thanked the girl as they continued through the archway, and there, the path widened and the cobblestone gave way to a dirt trail packed down by thousands of feet over hundreds of years. A wave of colors, sounds, noises and smells hit the Ranulfs at once. While Gareth and Isobel paused to adjust, Ofelia forged ahead, already pointing out all the things that caught her eye.

Gallontea, an amalgam of all the peoples under Unity’s banner, offered plenty of distractions, but none were so famous as the Rinehart Festival. It ran every fall, alongside Unity’s conferences, and attracted performers and artisans from all corners of the continent.

As they walked along, Ofelia tried to stop at every juggler, stilt-walker, and fire-breather that caught her fancy, only dissuaded by Gareth’s entreaties of, “Let’s see what they’ve got further along. The gentleman with the fire whip could be just around the corner.” Here, a maranet sat on the corner selling tapestries colored with vivid dyes. There, a pair of nympherai dancers whirled in tiered skirts on a platform, lending their hooves to the beat like a percussive force. Up ahead, a delicate half-alfar sold handmade lace and ribbon that fluttered into the path when the wind blew their way. Gareth even saw one orinian, though they were uncommon in Gallontea.

They played games, shopped, watched a puppet show, and bought toys and treats for Ofelia. After a while, when their feet started to drag and Gareth’s pocketbook was feeling thin, Gareth bought them all meat pies and hunted for an open place for them to sit. They ended up awkwardly perched on the fence separating the lawn from the paths.

“Gather round, gather round! This is a show you won’t want to miss!” a voice called. “Hey, you three! We have benches open if you’d like real seats, though far be it from me to critique where such a lovely family eats.” The speaker stepped into the Ranulfs’ path, silhouetted against stormy gray clouds. He was a young, pretty-faced man, sapien like Gareth and Isobel and dressed in a showy red suit and feather-plumed hat. He knelt in front of Ofelia and flashed a boyish, dimpled smile. “Do you like Egil stories, little one?”