Once a year, the world around us dies - and we call it beautiful, or somber, or something similar. No matter what words you use, it’s always sad. The leaves of trees suffocate and shrivel, the birds flee, and the warm-blooded animals of the forest prepare to tuck themselves into the earth for the winter. My autumns used to be filled with the smell of pumpkin spice, the threat of carols hanging on the air, and a constant inner craving for the taste of turkey and cranberries. This year, since the first flecks of red and brown appeared, the air has only smelled sharp and cold. Each crisp breeze on my shoulder contains whispers, accusations, and conjecture. Some of it’s in my head, some isn’t. I’ve stopped trying to tell the difference.

People around here don’t talk much of their dead, except on Samhain. But they never speak honestly of anyone at ceremonies. Words are cleansed and purified, presenting only the whitewashed version of anyone, of any problem. I witnessed a healing where Brighid was asked to ‘place her fires in the cold chest’ of a child. The healer, a small and comely woman, spoke every pristine word of her prayers with perfect calm. Meanwhile, the child at her feet shivered and coughed, his pneumonia more far gone than I’d ever seen in any hospital. I’ve seen a rain dance performed when there was no need for rain, and I’ve seen men swear away their vices only to watch them succumb weeks later. But the gods must love lies, because they always respond.

A weight falls onto my stomach, pushing the air out of me in the form of a verbal, “Oof!” My eyes open and stare at the curved ceiling of the mud hut that I call home. Grey light streams in through the half-moon window that peers out just over the ground line, and it illuminates the blue-tipped black hairs of a fat cat. He spins around to face me, paws kneading in my flesh with every step, revealing the lone white diamond etched onto his forehead.

Sticking his nose in my face, You really oughtn’t let the weather get you down so much. His whiskers twitch just as he nips the top of my own nose. You’re cooped up too much. It doesn’t do a bit of good for anyone, especially this time of year, he says.

Sitting up, I pick Anubis off of me and throw him towards the floor. He rebounds and swishes his tail as he prances away from my bed. “I had plans,” I correct him.

Yes, with Councilman Daft. I remember.

“But Alexandr had to run off to have a tea party in CV.”

Anubis sits himself down prettily upon the polished stone floor - the only luxury that the structure came with. He settles his gaze on me squarely and states: Well, that is part of his job, Valencia. To be ready to convene at a moment’s notice for the people of Lake Earen. And since when has it become fashionable to hate Councilor’s Village? You speak quite often about how you miss your big, old room at -

“I miss the space,” I say. “I don’t miss the place.” Then, I correct myself. “The society.”

In an unseen bound, Anubis flies onto my bed, landing at my feet and crawling up to my face. He looks at me with the same intensity as before as he approaches. Once his back feet are on my shoulder, he lets his right side fall and he folds in upon himself lazily.

Alexandr is part of that… society. What makes him any different than the rest of them?

I look at him silently as he waits for my reply. My lips curl up and around words I don’t want to have to say, so I swallow them, push myself off of the bed, and peer out of the window. A gust of wind picks up leaves that had been sitting against the glass and sends them flying. The morose sky grows darker by the minute, the sunsets coming earlier and earlier these days. Disembodied voices chirp in the distance, the sound of the day’s business slowly winding down. Even under the inches of mud, clay, and stone, the windchill still seeps into the hut. Pressing my fingers on the glass as I lean up to get a better look out, outlines form around them on the frosted window. A school of what look like fireflies zip by, weaving in and out of the foot traffic.

What are you doing? Anubis asks me.

Looking at him for a second, before turning back to the window. “I’m waiting for Xandr.”

Anubis strolls behind me, a tiny bell tinkling with each step. At the sound, Anubis sighs, but carries on. Proceeding to a dark section of the hut, tucked underneath a low shelf, Anubis disappears. He rifles around underneath, the tip of his tail licking out into the open once or twice. Then, one paw at a time, Anubis saunters out. He approaches me. It’s only when he’s about a foot or two away from me that I notice the tail hanging out of his mouth. Anubis lowers his head and spits out a small, crumpled, bloody mess onto the scuffed agate.

There you are, he says, looking pleased with himself.

“Nube, what in hades are you doing?”

I just thought I ought to catch you dinner. Seeing as how you’ve become such shit at doing anything for yourself.

I feel my jaw as it falls open without my prior consent. Anubis tucks his feet underneath himself. The wind whistles outside of the window behind me. My tongue clicks against my teeth before I tighten my jaw and straighten my spine. Anubis stares at me, his lids hanging heavily above the narrowing green spotlights. A bewitched clock to my right ticks away at the seconds. Every few ticks, Anubis’ tail flits sharply from one side to the other. My hands clinch into fists, unseen, as I spin to look out of the window again.

Now behind me, Anubis sighs, but I don’t see him move in to my peripheral. The sky, now darkened a few shades since I last looked out, is speckled in a few sparse places with stars. The clouds allow only a handful to break through their cover, but the few that do glitter amidst the dawning darkness.

I turn and step over the heap on the floor, which I’ve now deemed to be a rather unfortunate field mouse. Shoving my hand under the pillow on my hanging cot of a bed, I pull out a leather-bound notebook with a white ribbon wrapped around it. Undoing them, I sit with my back against the wall. Opening the book, I flip past thirty pages or so of scribble, most of it struck through or scratched into the margins and in-between other lines. The pages are heavy with ink, still unused to their new employment after a year of being freed from its previous enchantment. As the sheets slide past my fingers, the hint of a hushed whisper still lingers on them. Tucked between the last page that’s been written on and a fresh one is an unassuming fountain pen. During my round of spring-cleaning, I came across it swimming around the bottom of my trunk. The quill I had been using before then recently began spitting pools of ink - Anubis said that the magic in it had “gone sour” after Mercury…

Pressing the pen to the blank page, I drag it across, but nothing follows the pens path except a shallow indention. I pick it up, give it a quick shake and try again. Drag - nothing. “Dammit.”

You need to refill it, Anubis scoffs.

Ignoring him, I reach under the bed and pull out a hand-carved wooden box about the size of Anubis. Burned into the top is the design of a vine-covered tree. On the back is carved the sun, on either side, rays of sunshine. Rattling around inside is the half-empty bottle of ink, purchased in March. Removing the small, rounded bottle, I unscrew the cap. With the bottle in my left hand and the pen in my right, I raise the pen over the ink.

Inhale.

Slowly, I begin drawing tight circles in the air.

I hold the breath in -

The pen lowers into the opening of the bottle, just touching the surface of the ink.

I exhale, and I pull up on the pen, spinning circles as I do. The ink follows in ribbons, flawlessly flowing into the pen. Defying gravity. As I raise the pen higher, the circles become wider, until all of the ink has been drawn into it. Recapping the bottle, I place it back into the box, which goes right back under the bed. Finally, picking up the notebook again, I place the pen to paper. A small smile of satisfaction spreads across my face when I notice the well of ink forming where the tip touches the page. Scrawling quickly, I jot down a list of what to pick up at market when I go out tomorrow:

Catnip

Wine

Onyx

Eagle’s feathers

Damiana

My pen taps on the page when I finish, lost for what to do. I slouch down, resting my chin in my open hand. My eyes wander towards Anubis, now drinking water. He laps up a few good times before turning towards me and sauntering over. So, he says, how has the job been, lately?

“Decent,” I grunt from my crumpled position. “We finally got the phoenix to stop hiccuping. Poor thing,” I sigh, sitting up again and stretching my arms above my head. “It set its own bedding on fire six times.”

Phoenix, eh? They’re quite needy - what with their only being one at a time in existence. Or, well, that’s what they say. I’ve a friend who claims he say two of them whilst traveling back in ‘69. Though, I do take all of his accounts from that time period with a grain of salt.

“You can read minds,” I say. “How can you lie to each other?”
Oh, quite easily. We just don’t bother looking in each others’ heads, as we’re all quite vain. It’s obnoxious, really. Anubis stretches out his paws in front of himself and lays down comfortably. His breathing slowly becomes rhythmic, but he continues, softly. Miss Valencia, do be careful tonight.

“Careful with wh-” I begin to ask, but a sharp knock at the door cuts me off. I shoot a concerned look to Anubis before throwing my feet over the side of the bed and onto the floor. As I pass the window, I manage a glance out and see nothing but dark blue and, still, one or two solitary stars. Approaching the door, I ask, “Who is it?”

“It’s me!” calls a tinkling voice from the other side. I recognize the caller but hesitate to open the door. I look from the empty bed and the notebook that would be my evening’s entertainment otherwise back to the door, sigh, and finally pull the knob. Standing in the doorway is a small, pale girl with frizzy brown locks and lavender eyes. At first, her expression is neutral, but quickly rises into a genuine (if meek) smile. “Valencia,” she says to me. “It’s good to see you well. It’s been quite a little while…” She beams, then searches my face for signs of something.

Nervously, my mouth twitches into a smile. “It has been. How are you these days, Aedri?”

Aedrialda rolls her head around dramatically as she replies. “Dandy, I suppose. Things just sort of keep happening around me, and I do my best to keep up.” She laughs to herself.

“Yeah, same here,” I say, wishing I could mirror her sense of optimism.

Aedrialda bobs up and down, lost briefly for where next to take the conversation. Her eyes flit around the entrance to the hut, then, curiously, examine all of the inside that was available to her sight. Absentmindedly, “May I have a look around -?” I stop her as she begins to inch in.

“No, I -” hesitating, I take a breath. “It’s just that, this place is so tiny and dark. It’s not exactly the kind of place I’d want to entertain in.” My mouth twists up into an awkward smile and I shrug.

“Right,” Aedrialda says. She shrinks back, but loses none of her energy. “That’s okay, then. I’d come to take you away from here for a night, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yes!” she answers. “The Samhain festival is just starting. I thought you might like to come out. There’s a feast, dancing, quite a large bonfire and -” She stops, catching her breath and looking at me, as if she’d said something wrong. “Anyway, it’s just that a good deal of the village, even some Puca, will be out there. And I thought you should come. I haven’t seen you out at a public event since the f-” Again, she stops, looking guilty and her face turning a deep purple with the addition of blood in her cheeks.

“Since the funeral,” I finish for her. Her large eyes look at me sheepishly. “No, you’re right. I’ve been sort of… closed off for a while. Just haven’t much felt like going out with people…”

At that, Aedrialda nodded to herself, but keeping her lips pressed tightly together. For a moment, she looks as if she’s thinking about what to say next, weighing her words heavily. “If - if you wanted to, you could come back with me to Flaitheas, stay the night. We could catch up. We could even get some pumpkin meade and -”

“Sure, Aedri,” I say, reaching just inside the door for my shawl. She grins at me, hesitant but hopeful. I throw it over my shoulders, it’s red tassles drooping below the seat of my pants, and tie the top corners in front of my chest. Before I close the door, I look in for Anubis. Laying on the bed, he simply blinks at me, purring loudly. He stares at me until the door comes in between us.

“Will you be needing to grab any other garments, for tonight?” She asks me as the door clicks shut. Her fingers play tiddly-winks around the small clutch purse in her hands.

Locking the door, and without even looking up, I respond: “No. I am perfectly used to waking up in the same clothes I wore the night previously.” It’s only when I meet her gaze do I notice she’s standing on pins. She smiles at me, widely - oddly sincere, a sense of pity behind her teeth. Looking back down to her purse, I ask, “I may need money, though -” turning to unlock the door and retreat inside to gather my thoughts.

“No,” she says, stopping me with my dirty amethyst crystal hanging just inches from the door. “Anything you find at the festival that you need, I’m happy to oblige.” She offers me her hand, her teal beaded sleeve dangling beneath. I inhale and, in spite of my own reluctance, I take it and walk toward the fields.

Aedrialda, with our hands still clasped, raises her free hand and cups mine between them. “I’ve missed you so,” she says to me.

After a tiny pause, “I missed you too.” Aedrialda grins and lets my hand fall, landing at my side.

There is a strong scent of pine and smoke in the air tonight. Each of the surrounding huts have candles in the window, some are outlined by garlands of red and yellow leaves, frozen in their state of decay for a few weeks only. In the nearly bare farming fields behind the string of huts, tents, and houses sit a few raggedy scarecrows. As I pass, one raises its arm to wave at me. My hand stays planted at my side and my mouth pulled taut as I watch it go back and forth until it is blocked from my view by a neighboring home. Above us, a moon just shy of being full emerges from behind the curtain of clouds. Rays of moonlight illuminate the blades of grass at our feet, turning them into a rich blue-green.

In the distance, the hoots and hollers of children are underlined by the steady buzz of adult conversations. Fiddles, banjos, flutes and hand drums punctuate the atmosphere. To our right, in the middle of the field where I was once put to public jury, my neighbors celebrate the dying of the light in the only fashion they know how: with food, drink, and merriment. Reverence is reserved for personal altars, silent prayers and offerings to be made following the festivities. The children play in the light of the bonfire with dolls made from corn husks. The adults drink meades and whiskeys they’ve drawn out of this year’s harvest. Near the top of the hill, usually operating out of the comfort of her own home, Alise proudly displays her freshest batch of hard cider and pumpkin meade.

Aedrialda, following my gaze towards Alise, laughs. “Hold your horses, une petite sorcière. We should start with something chilled and served, first.” She skips ahead of me and towards Hannigan’s Hearth, the only proper establishment still open. Once inside, Aedrialda rushes off to the bar, letting me hang out by a three-seat table. The candle-powered chandelier burns brighter than ever, the entire room is painted in a faint orange glow. An old, tinny piano seated in the far corner is being beaten away on by a rather sloshed patron. To the right of me, a table of fresh-faced young men snicker at me. Probably the first night they are allowed to drink on their own, I try hard to smile meekly when one of them catches me staring. Instead of the usual nod and raised pint that normally is the response in such situations, the boy whispers something to this companions and stands up. He is tall, of athletic build, and squares his shoulders a little bit too much for my liking. His ash-blond hair is combed back, a job done more than likely with his fingers rather than a comb. Wearing a dark emerald green dress coat, the young daredevil tugs on his lapel as he approaches me. Pulling out the seat directly to my right and sitting down, “What a fancy to find you here tonight,” he slurs.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, managing a courtesy smile. “Do I know you?”

Grinning like a cat, he straightens his spine and says “My name is… is… Randy Daniels… I mean, Danny Randall.” He extends his hand for me to shake it, but I just stare at it instead. In an attempt to save face, the boy lifts his hand and passes it over his hair. “And anyways… I know who you are, and that’s all that matters.”

He turns his mouth into a pitiful snear. Danny takes a long swig from his pint, swallows hard, then slams the mug onto the table. Wiping his mouth from nearly his elbow down to his hand, he smiles again. I hear Aedrialda approaching behind me, her steps slowing as she must have noticed the addition to our table.

“Now,” Danny says, in a half-whisper, “I have heard that you’re the kind of lass that enjoys a good time. And that you have a rather specific appetite for vir-”

Before he can even finish, I’ve grabbed the pint out of Aedri’s hands that was meant for me and throw the beverage in Danny’s face. Behind him, his table of chums bust into uproarious laughter. From the corner of my eye, I see Aedrialda go wide-eyed, then chug as much of her pint as she can manage before setting it on the table. Danny wipes off his eyes, shakes out his hair, and then looks at me with a crooked smile. A knot forms in my stomach.Off to the left, Old Man Hannigan emerges from his spot behind the bar and starts making his way for us, a soured look on his face.

Danny laughs. “I like a girl who plays hard to get,” he says. His smile cocks up even more when he laughs, and the knot in my stomach twists, sending me jolting forward in rage. Aedrialda restrains me, though, grabbing my wrists and pulling me towards the exit. The table of boys laughs again, a mix of jibes and congratulations to Danny for his stunt. As the door slams shut behind us, a low growl escapes my lips.

Now that we’re outside, Aedrialda huffs and shakes her head, her bouncy curls trembling around her. The smell of burning wood and leaves fills the air, mixed with the scent of cinnamon, apples, and of a lingering hint of sweat. All around, people traipse from here to there, shouting across the yard at neighbors and children. Straight ahead of us, two handmade puppets burst through a miniature red theater curtain. The booth itself is decorated in antiquated illustrations advertising an act titled, “Patty McDaid’s Travelling Circus.” Below the title is an enthused puppet riding on a wooden elephant. In the distance, another puppet is show balancing a tight-rope. The cart itself is faded and beginning to rot in the corners.

Before I can assess the state of deterioration any further, one of the puppets clears it’s throat. “Pardon, ladies and gentlemen,” the puppet begins. It bows its head, cloaked in a red paupers cap. As it stands, it wears a patch-work vest over a dingy white top. The unseen puppeteer takes a second to pause for effect before beginning again. “I do hope you can forgive the intrusion, but it has been tasked to me this Hallow’s Eve (as the locals call it,) to share, with all who will listen, the tale of Barbara Allen.”

Whispers slipped between the few adults who had gathered to watch the show. One older man chuckles quietly, jibing an elbow at a neighbor’s side. The few children who have come to sit upon the lawn watch with cocked heads.

“Barbara Allen was the most beautiful girl on the mountain side,” the narrator begins, sweeping his cotton arms to stage right just as a strawberry-haired maiden puppet enters through the veneer. Dressed in a flowing, midnight blue gown, she flounces around on stage, letting the crowd take her in. A few shy giggles erupt from the crowd, but quickly die out.

“One day, as she strew through the village, a messenger boy runs up the fair lady,” and a third puppet appears center stage, kneeling. “‘Barbara Allen! Barbara Allen! Come quick!’ the boy said. ‘Johnny Graham lies dying and has called for you, fair lady.’”

Barbara Allen’s puppet turns away from the boy’s, throwing her hand dramatically to her forehead. “’Dear Johnny - on his deathbed and calling for me? After leaving me alone in that early autumn glenn,’ Barbara says in shock. ‘Yes, I shall go to him. Lead me, messenger.’ And the two set off for the ill Johnny Graham’s.”

The pair flounced around on the stage as the narrator puppet disappears. As Barbara approaches the bed-ridden Johnny, so too does the messenger leave.

“As Barbara approached Johnny’s bed, she sees that his face lights up at her presence. ‘My dearest Barbara,’ he sighs, ‘you have come to me.’

Barbara, weary of the boy who had broken her heart, says ‘Johnny Graham, I regret to see you in such a state. But why call on me, you who cut me so.’

At this, Johnny sits up, gathering his energy for his speech. ‘Barbara, my love, it was my own ignorance that kept me from you that night. And it was that night that gave me the chill that slows my breathing this night. As I can see death nearing me, I know the only chance for my soul to rest after I leave this world is for it to know that my one true love knows…’” Barbara approaches Johnny’s bed in the pause. “’I have loved you all along, and if I should die, I would like to die knowing you love me, too.’ Johnny sits back, awaiting Barbara’s response.

Torn, Barbara Allen fights back tears at the sight of the wasting Johnny, and at the thought of the love that could have been, but was now never meant to be, lashes out at him. ‘Johnny Graham, your poor soul is out of my reach, as I have cut thee, from my society and my heart, from the day you left me standing alone in that field.’”

A chill creeps up from the trees a few meters behind me. My nerves, still unquieted from the flirt with a barroom brawl, churns and knots. In my head, the image of an empty field with nothing but a pile of smoldering ashes in the middle burns itself into my retinas.

Barbara walks towards the opposite end of the stage, the other two puppets fading off stage. The puppeteer continues. “Having said her part, Barbara quickly rushes home, distraught the rest of the night. At midnight, when the messenger boy calls on Barbara Allen’s at home, he brings news of Johnny’s lonesome passing.” Barbara kneels at center stage, burying her face in her hands. “Barbara calls out in the night, ‘The cruel boy, to have gone and left me here, my name the last on his lips.’ Crumpling upon herself, Barbara feels the mortal pain of heart-break wash over her. There, in the middle of a full-moon in autumn, Barbara cries, ‘As he died today, I shall die for him tomorrow…’ There, Barbara lay until the next morning, where she was found, her hands clutching at her heart.” Barbara Allen drops to the floor of the stage, looking out over the audience. Over to the side, an assistant starts playing an outro diddy on a fiddle. A few parents clap, the children slowly weaseling up off of the ground.

Turning to Aedrialda, whose eyes are now slightly glazed, I say, “That was quite a kid-friendly story.”

Aedrailda snickers at me. “You’ve never heard the ballad of Barbara Allen?” she asks.

Starting off towards the corner of the grounds containing Alise’s tent, I shrug. “I think I may head read it in an English class once, or something. Either way, wasn’t too cheery.”

Even with the chill in the air, the atmosphere surrounding us gets exponentially warmer as we near the bonfire at the center of the festivities. The smell of scorched pine and oak scratches at my nostrils and makes my eyes water slightly. As I go to rub my eyes, I swear I see a lick of the fire reach towards me. Soon, though, my vision is half-blurred and I write it off as imagined.

Once around the fire, Alise sees me and perks up, showing her spotted smile. Waving us over, she calls out heartily: “Good to see you out’n’round, Miss Valencia. Thought you mighta went and run off.”

I smile widely, embracing Alise over the table. “Nope, I’ve been holed up in this valley, same as everyone else. And I told you, it’s just Valencia. Val, even.”

“Oh, hush you fussin’ ‘bout that, Miss Valencia. Someone who put as much on the line as you did…” She pauses, sending a quick look from Aedri to me, “Unfortunate as the circumstances were, it’s just a matter of courtesy.” I nod quietly. Seeing that I won’t give any more protest, she brings out a bottle from beneath her table. “Besides, you’re my favorite customer. I’ve saved this one especially for you…” The bottle she hands to me is covered in a black wrap with the words “Strawberry - August.” It droops heavily in my hands.

“Oh, Alise… you shouldn’t have.” The liquid in the bottle sloshes around, its bright ruby contents making the inside of my mouth water while the back of my throat tightens.

“Nonsense. I held it just for you, and I’ll let you have it for free.” She smiles at me earnestly, her hands folding in front of her apron, clearly unwilling to hear any objections. “Oh, and if your friend wants something, half-off. Make merry, ladies, for the nights only get longer from here!” She guffaws to herself, then turns to Aedrialda to show her some of her offerings.

“I’m sure this will be enough-” I start to say, but Aedri cuts in.

“Is that a hazelnut liqueur?” she inquires excitedly.

“It is, it is. My own recipe,” Alise gloats, picking up the short, fat bottle and examining it. “I’ll warn ya, it’s a doozy. This isn’t a little girls liquor.”

Licking her lips, Aedrialda stares longingly at the liqueur, an animalistic grin coming over her. She smiles so widely, her teeth sharpen into their predatory state. Catching herself, Aedri shakes her head, covers her mouth with her hand. “Pardon,” she says. “How much do you want for it?”

“A tenner would be a fitting price.” Aedrialda quickly fumbles in her purse for a ten-piece coin. Aedri hands over the coin and Alise gladly swaps the bottle for it, grasping the ten-piece firmly. “I can see you’re one of good tastes, ma’am. Please, remember my name if you find the drink to your fancy, eh?” Alise winks before heading over to another man who had walked up next to us.

Turning from the table, Aedrialda and I face the bonfire, roaring away in the night. A half dozen people have already gathered, some sitting upon blankets, one man playing spoons absentmindedly, composing for the flames dancing before him. One child, a boy of about ten, sits at the very edge of the fire on its far side. Next to him lies a weaved satchel, splayed out and tucked close. He finishes polishing a stick when I see him reach him hand into the bag and pull out a small, white object. He looks around cautiously, making sure no one is paying attention to him. When his eyes land on me, I wink. The boy scans my face before moving on, sticking the foreign sweet onto the end of his stick. Contentedly, he lounges back as he spins his skewer.

This time, I take Aedrialda’s arm and tug her down the hill. When we’re just a few meters shy of the fire, I cross my feet beneath me and drop, plopping the bottle of wine in the middle of my indian-style pose. Aedrialda sets herself down, already starting to uncork her bottle. As she pops it open, she giggles and sniffs at the top.

“Mmmm, delicious. I just wish it were cold,” she pouts.

Shaking my head at her, I take the bottle from her. “Here,” I say. I inhale, thinking of the crisp winter weather that will begin in a few weeks, far shy of winter herself. As I exhale, I blow directly towards the bottle. A layer of frost forms around the outside of the bottle everywhere except where my fingers grasp it. Handing it back to Aedrialda, I smile from ear to ear. “Enjoy.”

“Do her talents ever cease?” Aedrialda asks, toasting to me before throwing her head back into a heartfelt swig.

Shaking my head, I look down at the bottle in my lap. The flames skip across the surface of the bottle, stretching and reaching for the spot where my hands now clutch it. Head up, I stare at the bonfire. I feel its heat on my face, even from here, and it does nothing except to remind me how cold everything feels on the inside. I grip the bottle between my hands, place my thumbs on either side of the cork sticking out of the top. With a little more effort than I had expected to give, the cork pops out and flies into the flames, sending up ash and a few lively sparks. I laugh to myself, caught off guard. The sweet scent of strawberries and bad decisions floats up from the now open bottle. Peering into the inside of the bottle, I think again of the cold to come, and exhale a chill.

I lift the bottle up to my mouth, but pause and lower it for a second, turning to Aedrialda, already giggling at my side. Tilting my head up and the bottle towards her, “Cheers,” I say. With one hand supporting the bottom of the bottle, I crane back my neck and welcome the warming sting of a cold drink.