It is not an unusual sight at the beginning of spring for Bluebill Square to be crowded with visitors from various regions. Whether it be farmers from neighbouring villages arriving in muddy boots, merchants from neighbouring towns dismounting from horse-drawn carriages, or perhaps a visitor from the capital city driving a luxurious four-wheeled vehicle.

Spring in Bluebill means Primavera Féte—a festival marking the beginning of spring—which symbolises birth, hope and good fortune for the people of Bluebill. Not only does the festival celebrate spring, it also honours the gods or spirits of the earth, which the people of Bluebill have believed in for generations.

Today, as in previous years, the Flower Blessing opens the festival. Young children throw rose and lavender petals into the crowd below from the town hall balcony, while women in pastel dresses with woven flower crowns on their heads catch the falling strands of colour like spring rain.

But amidst the bustle, inside a bookshop with windows full of wildflower paintings, a young woman stands half-dreaming. Her pale red dress fluttered in the breeze, while the notebook in her hand, its corners curled from being opened too often, was clutched tightly.

“If you keep staring at that book with such affection, I'll start to get jealous, Jo.” The voice came from behind the cash register, accompanied by a warm yet teasing laugh.

Josie Everhart turned her face away, smiling mockingly at the large man with super thick eyebrows that seemed to suit her sweet face. “It's too late to warn me, Ed. My relationship with these books has already passed the stage of extraordinary love.”

Ed Harrington, the bookshop owner and Josie's trusted confidant who always listened patiently to all her imaginative ramblings, crossed his muscular arms behind the desk. “So, who's next? Which handsome man will you make the victim of your imagination?”

Josie's face immediately scrunched up like someone who had just smelled something foul. “Don't call them victims! I'm just looking for my source of inspiration, okay? Unfortunately, I still haven't found the right one.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Indeed,” she sighed.

“Aren't your novels already full of perfect men with beautiful heads?” asked Ed.

It was true that her novels were filled with handsome male characters. Each one had emotional complexity, such as past wounds or dark secrets that made readers fall in love and feel frustrated at the same time. Josie had created many types of characters in her writing. Some told the story of a young nobleman involved in a political marriage with a woman he never loved, or the story of a young man from a village who was caught up in a murder case for helping a woman in a narrow alley, or the story of a knight and a princess.

Of course, the characters in her stories are not limited to these three categories. The characters she writes about are not solely focused on the main characters. The supporting characters are just as important as the main characters. Josie Everhart is not a writer who is satisfied with repetitive characters. There is nothing more boring to her than creating main characters who feel like shadows of the past. She believes that every story must come alive with fresh characters—new characters who can challenge her, disturb her, and force her to think more deeply when writing.

And that is the problem now.

“It's still not enough. Do you know what the world needs right now?” Her blue eyes, as clear as the ocean, looked at the young man across from her with eyes sparkling like a child telling a story about her imaginary fairy. “The world needs more deadly men with eyes that can melt ice and deep charm.” Her hand reached out into the air as if describing her ideal man before she finally laughed out loud. “And I will find him. Soon.”

“At The Blooming Waltz tomorrow?” Ed raised an eyebrow, seemingly interested in her answer. Seeing her enthusiastic nod, the fine lines between Ed's eyebrows deepened. “Are you sure that's the right place? Aren't most of the guests old officials and ladies who prefer gossiping to dancing?”

“Not all the guests are old officials and ladies who like to gossip, Ed.”

Of course, that was just a figure of speech among young people of Ed and Josie's age. After all, who here didn't know The Blooming Waltz? The highlight of Bluebill's spring celebrations. A dance held in the city hall gardens, opened by the mayor himself, Baron Kingsley.

The dance was the finale of the Primavera Fête. For one night only, all levels of Bluebill society stood shoulder to shoulder in a crowd without any social class distinctions. From the nobles dressed in luxurious robes, to the merchants in their finest clothes, to the farmers who came with dusty shoes from the fields.

And Josie Everhart, with her notebook and pen in hand, was determined that on the night of the ball, she would find her muse. Perhaps behind the masks and fake smiles, there was one man who had a story to tell. Someone with a firm jaw, sharp eyes, and a calm demeanour that could be considered ordinary.

“I'll find him, Ed,” she said confidently.

“You always say that.”

“This time it's different!” She was so excited that she unconsciously slapped the table, causing several books nearby to shake violently. “If not at this party, I'll find him somewhere else!”

“The theatre again?” Ed shook his head, amazed by Josie's determination to find her handsome man. “I thought you'd already gone through all the handsome men in Bluebill.”

“That's the problem. The supply of attractive men in this town is running out.”

Ed chuckled softly, his laughter somehow sounding like the growl of a large bear that strangely seemed friendly. “Don't give up. I always support you—I mean, your creative adventures. If you really fail, I'm always ready to help.”

Josie looked at him gently. She knew that Ed was a kind man who would never just listen without offering help. “Thank you, Ed. You're the only one who understands.”

Perhaps Ed didn't have the chiselled features of a famous god or the husky voice of a mysterious character in her novels. But in this small bookshop, among the shelves of books and stories that had not all been read, he was the only person who never refused to listen to her imagination, even when Josie didn't have a penny to pay for borrowed books.

“But don't worry,” Josie lifted her chin confidently, her eyes sparkling with determination, “the perfect man for my novel will definitely be waiting for me at the dance tomorrow.”

“Then I wish you the best, Josie,” said the man, sincerely wishing his friend well at the beginning of spring.

Not only were the people of Bluebill busy with a series of spring celebrations, Josie Everhart was also busy with her own problems. It was a bit of a shame that this year she couldn't enjoy the Primavera Fète like she had in previous years.

Josie looked out through the glass window of the bookshop, her eyes following the crowds filling the streets of Bluebill. They were wearing pastel-coloured clothes and floral headdresses. Everyone was carrying at least one flower, either tucked behind their ears or in their hands. Earlier, Josie had also been carrying a flower, but it had changed hands to Ed Harrington and now sat prettily in a small glass vase on the cash register.

In Bluebill, many people still believed in an old superstition. Whoever received the first flower from the Primavera Fête would, it was said, become the true love of the giver. That was why many young men and women carried flowers with simple or romantic hopes of giving them to someone they liked.

For Josie, who never believed in superstitions, giving Ed a flower was a trivial matter. But it was clearly not so for Ed Harrington, who looked confused when he received it.

“Look at that. They're running around like rats in the middle of a public festival,” she muttered, staring intently outside at a group of men in military uniforms walking among the crowd.

Ed, who was tidying up books behind the counter, also looked outside. On the main road, soldiers were marching in loose formation. Their uniforms looked neat as usual, with weapons slung over their shoulders like mere accessories.

“They should just stay in their barracks, not make the people feel like they're being watched,” Josie hissed a little fiercely.

“Lately, surveillance on the streets has been tightened, especially during curfew,” Ed said calmly. “There were reports of underground groups being arrested a few weeks ago. It looks like the spy rats are up to something.”

Josie snorted, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “The war ended a long time ago. Why are they still roaming around as if the world is still unsafe?”

“Haven't you read the newspaper?” Ed frowned in surprise. “The monarchy restoration group is starting to move again. There are rumours that they want to bring back imperial blood. That's why the military has become more active.”

“Ugh, how annoying!” Josie just clicked her tongue in annoyance. Both the military and the restoration group were equally annoying to her. Since the collapse of the Montclair Empire and the establishment of the Montreveille Republic on its ruins, the world had never been truly peaceful again. Both sides continued to fight for power in this country.

The collapse of the imperial family had happened long ago, but the war was still not over.

Josie began to tidy up her things. Starting from pens, notebooks, and some scraps of paper with ideas scribbled on them, she put them into the small bag she always carried with her.

“Are you going home now?”

The girl nodded quickly, her black hair swaying gently with her movement. “My sister will be angry if I'm late home and don't help out at home,” she said as she fastened her bag. “I'm going home first, Ed. Don't forget to find the book I asked for earlier.”

“Sure. Be careful, Jo,” Ed replied, waving his hand gently.