Author's Note: This is in the same vein as what Rites of Spring was supposed to be. I like the direction the original took, but when I was looking through prompts and one of the keywords was 'rain', I immediately had this plot in my head. Hope you enjoy!

It looked like rain.

However, a little shower wasn't to deter the determined denizens of Labyrinthia. Nothing save a hurricane could stop them from enjoying Midsummer Day, one of the few holidays scheduled purely for outdoor enjoyment. Everyone from the oldest gramps to the tiniest toddler crowded in the fields that had been left unfurrowed to eat, drink, and make merry.

The town had been preparing all week. The men worked together to find the flattest piece of ground, donating wood from their own stores to build the crude tables and benches. Even as they scratched their heads beneath their caps and pointed to the 'horsetails and fish scales' in the sky, they waved to the young lads that ran to the Eldwitch woods in search of the perfect maypole.

The wives were busy as well, and for days before Midsummer every street was filled with the delicious scent of a thousand delicacies. Children ran here, there, everywhere in search for greenery to decorate the doorframes or picking up wood for the bonfires. Sons wrestled, preparing for the roughhousing games and determined to carry home a prize and the pride of having been the best racer, the best fighter, the best jumper in town. Daughters searched the fields and beyond for flowers to weave into garlands and crowns, the elder ones putting them beneath their pillows to dream of future husbands.

"Midsummer night isn't long, but it sets the cradles to rock," Grannies said with a wry smile, as they had every year for generations past. Mothers watched and warned, pretending they wouldn't look the other way when shyly blushing Jane slipped through the (conveniently unlocked) door in the wee hours of the morning; Fathers hemmed and hawed as though they hadn't done the same at that age with their own sweethearts.

Even Eve was affected. Normally, holidays weren't the most relaxing times for her. As High Inquisitor, it was her job to keep peace in Labyrinthia: a task much harder when even her Knights were boozed and running rampant. And though she'd always eaten at the ceremonious Inquisitor's Table, she hadn't been able to spend time with her family—no one could know that only a few tables down, her father was savoring the cold pasties he'd looked forward to every year. Sir Barnham had attempted to engage her in conversation when he'd became an Inquisitor, but every time he'd also attempt to befriend her and she wouldn't—no, couldn't—have that.

This year was different. Now, she had the freedom to befriend others, and with pleasant consequences. She even had those who were like a family to her: Espella and her father—a man she'd learned to forgive even as he learned to reform himself—Mrs. Eclaire, to whose house and food she was always a most welcome guest, and even Zacharias Barnham, who had gladly became one of her closest acquaintances once she'd stopped pushing him away. If only her father was here… then she might have said that life was nearly perfect.

As it was, she could enjoy the festivities as a spectator today. The Storyteller had taken it upon himself and a smaller committee of knights to conduct festivities, and she was politely, yet firmly told that she would be relaxing today, not working. She didn't have to dress to the nines in her hottest, stuffiest uniform. She didn't even have to police the drunken anymore, though she thought it might be harder to break that habit when she saw them staggering around where they weren't meant to be.

She walked the short distance from her home to the fields, keeping her eyes peeled for Espella. Already the summer sun was beaming with full force, a light breeze and puffy clouds warring against it to offer some relief, however scant. She wore her lightest cotton tunic to help keep cool, and had strung her corset over it loosely enough to hold it in place, but not press the fabric too tightly against her body and cause chafing. Espella had asked her to wear her mother's pendant and she had obliged, the small shape sitting flush against her collarbone and tickling the bared skin. Her calves felt free without the thick boots encasing them, her toes unused to the whisper of grass against them through her sandals. She had intended to put her hair in its usual bun/braid combination, but the sticky heat of the morning had her pulling it back in a modest bun, stray hair from her bangs floating around her forehead.

Most of the town was already in the fields, and she could hear the kinetic clamor of voices and plates before she reached the dirt cart path leading to the land set aside for farmers. As she rounded the bend and began to filter past groups of people taking advantage of the shade trees, she heard her coworker—or rather, his continuous entourage.

"Oh, Zacky! You're so athletic!"

"Please, Sir Barnham, won't you allow me the honor of—"

"Mr. Barnham, however do you do it?"

"Move aside, clumsy! I'll be the one to—"

"Ladies, ladies! I am bested!" Passing around a group of older women fanning themselves in the shade, she found him trying—rather unsuccessfully—to detangle himself from the tight ring of young ladies that had formed around him. "A true knight knows when to throw in the towel, and even I cannot do more than a hundred—" He saw her and reached out over Muffet's parasol, eyes lighting up. "Miss Eve! I—augh!" He'd stepped between furrows on accident, or been knocked off-balance by one or more of the ladies. Either way, he went down like a stone, landing face-first in the dust and scattering women on either side with shocked gasps.

"Oh! Oh, Sir Barnham!"

"Are you injured? Do we need to send for Jean?"

"Zach, speak to us!"

"Look what you've made him do!"

Now their eyes were on her, condemning and merciless. They reformed around him protectively, arms crossed and mouths pouting. She stared back unaffected, more puzzled about how she was the guilty party here. Was it her fault that his foolish body refused to obey him? He leapt to his feet, cheeks red and flustered as he tried to dust himself off and walk towards her at the same time.

"Are you alright?" she asked, reaching out and brushing some missed dirt from his sleeve.

"I—yes, I am well, only…" he trailed off, turning a shade darker. "I wish that you hadn't seen that," he muttered. "But—erm, how are you?" She looked around his shoulder to the women, still trying to freeze her with the force of their eyes alone.

"Well enough," she answered wryly, shifting weight to her other foot and hiding the majority of their icy gazes. "I'm enjoying this pleasant weather. The sun is hot, but I think the clouds might cover it soon. A perfect day for Midsummer's, don't you agree?"

"Ah, yes, a more pleasant day couldn't have been written—I meant forecast." His mouth worked and his hand moved nervously to his hair. "M-m-might I ask you something, Miss Eve?" She blinked, surprised that he would feel the need to ask permission for a question. Certainly he knew her better than that.

"Ask away." He nodded, swallowed, licked his lips, and… nothing. She waited, feeling a bead of sweat roll past her collar and down her back. Any day now, Zacharias…. She felt her smile drying in the sun, tightening until it was stuck in place more for civility than true pleasure. "Erm—"

"Right then." He took another quick breath. Their eyes locked and he stared at her almost helplessly, asking for some sort of aid. She had no idea what was wrong, or what he meant by such an anxious look, and could only smile. "I… wanted to ask you… if you… would like… for…." He stopped and she unconsciously leaned forward, spurring him on with raised eyebrows. "For me to help you. Today. With your duties." That was it?

"I actually am not performing any official business today. I've been given strict orders to keep out of formal affairs for once, and enjoy the day as a citizen rather than an organizer." She smiled. "I'm here for relaxation."

"Oh... I mean, good! Good, you should relax, you work too hard, you—" He licked his lips again. "Have you perchance seen the decorations this year?"

"No, I haven't had the pleasure."

"Oh, I've heard the Vigilantes were in charge, and truly they've gone all out with the décor. And the maypole is the biggest to date within our borders, at least. And the bonfire piles are nearing the treetops in some parts."

"I… I'm pleased to hear it." Unsure of what else to say, she merely added, "I should go and see for myself." Again she looked over his shoulder, seeing the angry women nearly in tears, for some odd reason. Was she missing something here? "Um, I think you're being—" She pointed at them uncomfortably. He half-turned, barely taking in the scene with a dismissive, yet amicable wave before putting his attention back on her.

"O-oh, indeed! I will accompany you—that is, if you'd like—"

"Actually, I meant to find Espella. I told her that I'd spend the morning with her." It was only after the words left her mouth that she realized they sounded like a complete rejection. "You're more than welcome to join us, if you—" Damnit, now she was the one unable to get a full sentence out. She crossed her arms, looking down at her toes with mounting confusion.

"Oh, no," he said hastily, hands rising. "N-not that it doesn't sound like a pleasant time, but I wouldn't intrude—" Something in his voice had her looking back and he laughed uncertainly, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. "Yeah, I mean I've got… you know… I've got my own things that… um… yeah." He looked about as lost as she felt.

"I'll suppose I'll see you at the Inquisitor's Table—oh." She bit her lip. "But I guess there won't be an Inquisitor's Table this year, will there?"

"Correct, I'm sure since neither of us are proper Inquisitors any longer, there's no need to separate ourselves… but that doesn't mean we cannot sit together." Suddenly he was a rush of words, her brain barely able to pick them apart. "If you like, when 'tis time to dine we might find seats near each other—if you want to, I mean."

"I—yes, I'd like that." Why was she so hot all of a sudden? Was it because the sun was out from behind the clouds? "Come and find me later."

"Good. Later." He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "When the bell rings."

"Yes, that's fine." They stood together a moment longer, neither moving. "I'm—I'll just go now. Espella should be waiting for me." She took a step backwards. "See you… later."

"Later." He stared after her, hands clenching at his sides. "See you then."

"Alright."

"Alright," she repeated, her face continuing to burn after she turned and hurried away. She heard the women behind her, but her ears couldn't pick out words among their whispers as she passed a hand over her face, trying not to run into anyone.

What the hell was that?! She shook her head, rubbing the back of her neck as she scanned the crowds for Espella. Every time they'd spoken lately—barring work related conversations—it always ended up with that same awkward banter! And he kept looking at her so strangely, his mannerisms bleeding into her like a miasma until she too was stumbling over simple words and fidgeting in place. And that strange, prickling sensation all over her body, making her blush and clouding her mind!

It wasn't always like this with him. They used to be perfectly fine. Was it because they spoke more now, and about more than just work? No, that couldn't be it. All this year, ever since the final witch trial, they'd spoken of more than work. They'd spent entire evenings laughing in the bakery, swapping stories over lunch, and having a pleasant time together. What changed? They'd been fine all through the early reconstruction periods, through the changing of the Courthouse, even through her birthday—her birthday!

That was the first day he'd been strange, making her stand for such a long time in their office. But the éclair was just… an éclair. It had been good, a little stale but still good, and he'd only blushed slightly when she'd thanked him again the next day. But hadn't things gotten back to normal after that? Surely she could think of nothing that happened between that incident and now; besides, it had been nearly two weeks!

"Mew?" Looking down, she saw Espella's black cat watching her with large, careful eyes.

"Well, hello there." Bending to one knee, she held out her hand and allowed the animal to sniff it. A scratchy pink tongue licked her fingertips and then rubbed her furred cheeks along the offered hand.

"Meow." Eve scratched 'other' Eve behind the ears and down her back, the animal's rump rising at the end to catch the last bit of affection as it began to purr.

"'Tis almost too hot for you to be about in that black coat," Eve murmured, running her finger along the silky fur beneath the cat's chin. Her tail swished languidly, eyes half closing. "Be careful and find yourself a cool tree to rest beneath, so long as no one will tread on you."

"Woof! Ruff!" An energetic ball of white slammed into the side of her leg, tail wagging wildly. Looking down, she found Barnham's mutt staring up at her as if to say, "If milady is giving away pets, I consider myself next in line!"

"And what are you doing?" she muttered, picking up the puppy and standing. "You need to be speaking with your master, and finding out what the matter with him is." The dog stared steadily at her, and for a moment she couldn't help but foolishly feel as though he truly understood what she said. She turned him over in her arms, scratching the squirming belly until he stilled and began to pant happily. "Silly dog." She rubbed the soft ears and wet nose, listening to his little grunts of happiness.

"Eve, there you are!" Looking up to see which Eve was meant—a constant process around Espella—she found that this time, the name was all-encompassing. Espella picked up her pet and smiled at her friend. "Looks like you've got yourself a happy boy!" she said, reaching out to tickle Constantine's back paw and giggling when he jerked it away.

"Yes," she agreed, turning him back over and adjusting the scarf around his neck. If only his master was as easy to understand. He wiggled and she put him down, allowing him to run off through the crowd. Eve jumped from Espella's arms as well, rubbing around the girls' legs once more before following him. "I think Eve must act as his babysitter," she pointed out.

"I'm glad they've become such good friends," Espella admitted. "It was one of the few worries I had when Sir Barnham first came to live at the bakery. I was afraid they wouldn't get along and he'd chase her, or she'd scratch him. But they've become really close."

"That's good." Espella shook her head.

"No, it's not!" she laughed. "They work together to get pastries off the shelves like little demons!"

"Then that is the fault of their masters."

"I guess so." Espella tilted her head. "Speaking of which, where is Sir Barnham? I haven't seen him since we all came together to the grounds this morning."

"He's… occupied." It wasn't a true lie, but Eve still felt guilty for saying it. To tell the truth, she just wanted to have some time between now and lunch to forget about those strange emotions, and his oddly anxious behavior. "We don't need him to have fun," she said, pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind with a practiced motion.

"Right!" Espella took her hand in a strong grip. "Besides, they're almost ready for the three-legged race, and you only need two for that!"

"Three-legged—Espella, wait!"

The morning passed quickly once she joined the festivities. Espella managed to rope her as a participant in the three-legged race, which they came in second place behind Servius and Treddon. They received the ribbons, pinned to their shirtfronts, but Eve thought they were much happier with the celebratory heel stomp Foxy oh-so-graciously gave out. She offered them one as well, and Eve refused, though Espella agreed only if she could be gentle with it.

Aside from the relative humiliation of watching her best friend happily lay on the ground while a salacious woman carefully ground her boot in the middle of her back—though she was amazed that Foxy didn't leave a single grass stain—the rest of the morning was almost uneventful. They tried the confectioner's hand-cranked ice cream, and Espella received her first brain freeze in nearly a decade. They made up for it with warm cookies from Mrs. Eclaire's table, then Eve managed to best Ridelle in an impromptu puzzle session. Then they watched the children circling around the maypole with the long trains of green leaves and flowers, clapped along as Bardly and Birdly sang a rare duet, and let Kira teach them how to weave posies into a crown that wouldn't fall apart.

Just as they were trying to decide between another try at the ice cream or joining in a tug of war between the boys and the girls, the bell began to ring with long, slow peals.

"Lunchtime!" Espella cheered, forgetting her argument that they may be the two bodies needed to help the girls win. "That'll be Dad ringing the bell," she continued, putting a hand over her eyes and peering up at the faraway tower. "I promised that I'd eat lunch with Lettie and Jean, though. You'll join us, right?"

"I would," she excused herself. "But I gave Zacharias my word that I'd eat lunch with him."

"Oh, that's right," Espella nodded knowingly. "I remember you two always ate at the Inquisitor's Table. I guess some traditions are hard to break and—but Eve! You're all red!"

"What? What do you mean?!" No, no! That sounded too defensive! What on earth was happening to her?

"You're blushing!" Eve felt her face grow hotter, but turned away stubbornly.

"It's all in your head," she declared. "It's… my face is sunburnt. That's all."

"It is not. You're blushing." She had nearly forgotten that Espella was even more hardheaded than she. "Is it that sort of meeting, then?"

"I have no idea what 'that sort of meeting' even implies, Espella Cantabella. You get those cockamamie ideas out of your head right now."

"You know," she felt an elbow prodding her ribs, "I always had an idea. Eve, you sly thing! Especially after the birthday gift!" She winked. "Okay; you go and eat with Zacharias."

"E-Espella! Wait!" She called after her friend, who was already flouncing away. "Espella, get back here this instant!"

"Do you want that I should go after her?" She spun on her heel and found Barnham standing behind her; a new wave of heat ran across her face. I hope he didn't overhear anything she was saying! He seemed to be oblivious to Espella's insulations, however, and even back to his normal self.

"N-no! No, that won't be necessary." He looked down at her uncomprehendingly, hair rustling in the wind that had built up over the course of the morning. "I was—that is—Espella was only teasing me. 'Tis nothing of true importance." His face fell.

"Aye, she is surprisingly good at that sort of thing," he agreed dryly. "I cannot begin to say where she gets such talent from." They stood together and she felt the tension rising between them once more. "Ahem… shall we?" he asked, pointing her towards the growing line in front of the food tables.

"Oh, of course." She meant to let him lead the way, but he seemed content to trail behind her. Her foot slid between two old furrows and he steadied her, his hand encircling her wrist and holding it until they reached the line. She tugged at her arm with a small laugh, trying to be subtle.

"Ah, forgive me." He released her, rubbing his palm on his thigh and looking away.

"'Tis fine." She ran her fingertips across her wrist, trying to dispel the tingling on her skin. That couldn't be from him alone, could it? H-heatstroke. It's just that I'm getting too hot, being in full sun. I'll make sure we sit in the shade and cool off.

The line grew longer behind them, and they found themselves reaching the tables relatively quickly. Women stood on sentry duty, dishing out food with one hand and keeping insects away with a fan in the other. He grabbed two plates from the stack before she could reach for one.

"I'll carry these. You can get the tableware and the drinks."

"O-oh. Alright." Looking down the line, she was relieved to find that this wasn't uncommon. Mothers were holding their children's plates, knights helping each other to juggle the heavy loads while getting their ale from Rouge at the end. Ahead of her, Lettie had an impressive three plates spread out on her arm at the dessert table, women loading them up as fast as Jean and Espella could point. Maybe I'm the only one reading too far into this. No one else will notice.

When they were out of the line, she pointed out a thankfully untaken spot of table beneath the shade of a towering oak. He nodded and she went ahead, walking quickly to secure the spot before someone else slipped in and took it away. He carefully followed, balancing the two heavy plates before sitting down across from her with a sigh of relief. He leaned back on the bench, taking one of the tumblers of ale and drinking several mouthfuls.

"Good," he murmured happily before digging in with a roll in one hand and his fork in the other. "I'm starved."

"It's delicious," she declared, cutting measured bites of Boistrum's signature barbecued chicken along with small sips of ale. "I have to say, so far I've enjoyed myself today."

"They told me," He said around his food, "that you and Espella were victorious in the race."

"Second place, if you can call that victorious. And it was only because Espella was determined to place. It's… harder than it looks."

"True." He finished the ale and almost immediately, Rouge's scarred comrade wandered by.

"More, Sir Barnham?" he asked politely, pocketing the half-carved chunk of wood in his hand. The knight nodded and he topped him off. "And you, High Inq—Lady?" he amended shyly. "After all, 'tis the day to enjoy oneself."

"I—well, I suppose it's alright." She handed her tumbler over the table and he filled it as well. "Though you shouldn't drink so much," she advised Barnham.

"Makes you thirstier, but refreshing while it lasts," he admitted, downing another few gulps. "And Cutter is right; there are only a few days of the year where 'tis appropriate to be in excess, and today is one of them. Make merry and live, Miss Eve."

"If I find you stumbling around and nearly falling into the fires tonight, I'll throw you in the dungeon myself," she warned, voice going flat with a signature Darklaw tone.

"Have you ever?" he retorted, and for a moment they might have been superior and subordinate again.

"No," she agreed, "but only because I never looked. I always assumed my Inquisitor would know his own limits."

"The Barnham family has stomachs of iron. We can hold our drinks and then some."

"Then they must also have empty heads." His brow crinkled, but then smoothed back out as he laughed.

"Maybe!" They fell silent again, continuing to fill their stomachs. He mopped the last drop of gravy on his plate with a hot bun, and then finished it off with the last of his (fourth) tumbler. "Miss Eve, I…. If you don't mind, I have a confession to make," he said quickly, his cheeks barely pink as he pushed his empty plate aside.

"Go on."

"Well… what I asked you this morning? 'Twas not really what I meant to ask you." Oh, here we go again. So much for a peaceful lunch. He tapped the table absently with his fork. "Might I be honest with you?"

"Please do."

"I, erm… lost my nerve." Lost his…. She wrapped both her hands around her tumbler, looking down at the remains of her second round. What does that mean?

"Then what did you mean to ask me?" Oh—for the Story's sake! She mentally slapped herself. Why ask that? Why not just say 'ah, forget the whole thing' and move on? You're a fool!

"What I meant to ask?" He nearly drained the tumbler, slamming it back on the table with a solid thunk. "What I meant to ask was—was—"

"Zach!" A slender brunette walked up to him; she knew his face from the garrison, but the name escaped her. "We're getting together a group to play Spades. Do you want to be my partner?"

"I—" He looked at her with a hint of frustration. "I was actually—"

"Eve!" She looked across the field to see the Storyteller waving at her. "Eve, can you come here a moment?"

"And I suppose that's my cue," she said, rising and taking her plate. "Perhaps you should play here in the shade, where you won't all die of dehydration before nightfall," she half-teased.

"Well—yes, tell the others to bring the game here," Barnham told the youth. "And bring some more ale while you're at it."

"Yessir!"

"Eve?" She turned back to look at him.

"Yes?"

"What—I'll talk to you about it later." He ducked his head, scratching at the nape of his neck and avoiding her eyes. "'Tis not a matter of great importance."

"If you like." She waited for a reply, but when none came she moved on. She dropped the plate and empty tumbler off at the food tables to be washed, and then walked to where the Storyteller waited.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but Espella told me that you were wearing your pendant today." She saw that he had his daughter's matching jewelry in his hand. "I need it."

"What for?" He looked around at the crowds and she followed his eyes over the citizens, some laughing too loudly, some merely bright eyed and red faced as the ale—and stronger—continued to flow for the afternoon.

"Tonight is the night some fool will decide to scale the bell tower after one too many," he sighed. "I'd like to lock everything up now, so that no one faces tragedy come the morning." It was a good idea, and she was glad he'd thought of it. She could just see some youth getting the idea to go ring the bell and falling over the fretwork.

"I'll come with you." He looked puzzled.

"But you were—"

"No, they're preparing to…" she tried to think of a kinder way to say it, but nothing came. "Gamble," she admitted with a shrug. "And I'd rather not watch four men lose their life savings to each other." To her surprise, the old man laughed.

"Well…" He eyed a young pair of lovebirds giggling near the dessert table. "Youth changes nothing but their faces."

"I'm sorry?" He looked at her a moment before motioning for her to follow.

"I mean only that children today will do the same things that their parents did, and grandparents, and great-grandparents. It's the course of human nature." They walked slowly towards the town, keeping in the shade of the wall as the dirt road bent and twisted. "You know, even Newton began courting your mother on Midsummer's. Did he ever tell you the story?"

"No, I don't think—"

"I don't doubt it," Arthur chuckled, rubbing his chin. "He was always mortified by it, even past the point where old men usually laugh at the things they used to do. I believe it was the single most embarrassing moment of his life."

"Really?" She tried to think back, but couldn't remember a time her father had ever shown embarrassment. Even during 'the talk' that all parents must give their offspring, he'd only been focused on the scientific aspects of growing up and the making of children. Perhaps that was the way he had avoided the embarrassment, by putting himself in an entirely professional mindset, even with his daughter.

"Oh, yes. You see, we were all… perhaps seventeen or eighteen. It was our last year of official schooling, I remember. Espella's mother and I had already begun courting that spring, and as you know, her mother and your mother were very close. As such, the four of us spent a great deal of time together.

Newton was head over heels in love with her; he thought she put the stars in the sky. And he was, as you recall, a brilliant man. I think of him as one of the most intelligent men of my acquaintance, to be honest. But when it came to your mother, he was the biggest fool on the island."

"F-fool?" She couldn't imagine it…. Father?

"You see," he continued, as they passed beneath one of the great arches leading to the deserted Square, "Everyone knew your mother only had eyes for him. Everyone except Newton, that was. She could have stood in front of him with a sign that said 'I love you, Newton Belduke', and he'd have been just as clueless about it as ever. He was utterly convinced that she didn't even know he existed."

"S-surely not." Her father couldn't have been so blind as that… could he? But Mr. Cantabella had no reason to lie, either. "W-what did he do?"

"Well, every day he'd try to ask her if he could walk her home after school. We'd stand in front of the schoolyard, me with Espella's mother on my arm and her books in my hand, him floundering like a landed fish trying to get the words out. And your mother would always stand there so patiently. I'm sure she knew what he wanted to ask her, but she wanted him to askit."

"Did he?" They were climbing the bell tower steps now, the floorboards creaking beneath their shoes.

"Well, every morning he'd beat himself up on the way to school, saying that today was the day. But every afternoon he'd end up asking some paltry question that had nothing to do with her or him. And this went on for months, mind you. So the weekend before Midsummer's, he ends up asking what her favorite flower was."

"Carnations…"

"Yes, carnations." He smiled. "They were my late wife's favorite as well. So, nothing doing but we had to go to ever flower seller in town, looking for the perfect carnation to give to your mother on Midsummer's Night."

"Did you find it?" She fixed the puzzle lock effortlessly and the stairs retracted into the top of the tower. "The carnation."

"Yes, we found a beautiful dark red one and if he'd had the money, your father would have bought the whole bouquet. In any case, Midsummer came and all day he tried to give her that damned flower." He was chuckling again. "And every time he failed, he'd go get himself another drink. He kept saying "If I'm inebriated enough, I'll be able to tell her without fear." But he kept choking up, and every time your mother would just stand there with the same longsuffering expression."

"But he had to have succeeded once!" They were down the tower again, and she waited while he locked the lower door.

"Yes, but Eve… it was night at that time." He caught her uncomprehending stare. "He had gotten himself stone drunk."

"F-Father?!" she exclaimed. "Drunk?" She remembered him liking a little nightcap now and again to help him get to sleep, but never in all her life had he drank to excess.

"I told you it was his most humiliating moment," Arthur shrugged. "He had been so eager to get himself prepared mentally for his task that he forgot all about moderation. And I was, of course, with Espella's mother at the time…" he trailed off, blushing, before clearing his throat quickly. "Erm, so no one was paying any attention to him. The next thing I know, not only has he given her the flower, but declared his love for her before the entire town and managed to belt out a poem or two in her honor."

"Oh… Father." Her gentle, timid father. What an utter humiliation that must have been! "Whatever did he do?"

"Well, he was too drunk to care about the town laughing at him, and thankfully for him your mother was as sharp as a tack. She put two and two together and laughed as well, but didn't think the worse of him for it. I managed to run in and drag him off, and we spent the remainder of the night at his house." He frowned. "It wasn't in my original plans, but he was my best friend."

"You weren't planning on running off into the woods with Mrs. Cantabella, were you?" she teased, shocked when he turned a darker red.

"As I said before, only the faces of youth change," he mumbled, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "A-anyway, the next day he woke up with a terrible headache, as you can well imagine. Not to mention his mortification at learning about what he'd done. Your grandmother told him that it was the most beautiful poem she'd ever heard, and that was the icing on the cake. He wasn't going to leave his bedroom ever again."

"But my mother?"

"Your mother brought by some black coffee and chocolate, and managed to sneak into the room by pretending she was me. Your grandparents and I couldn't hear what they spoke of… the doors were too thick." He seemed less ashamed of this admission. "But she managed to get him to come out and join everyone in the kitchen, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Well… he should have known not to drink so much."

"We're all just imbeciles in love." The old man's hand fell onto her shoulder. "I suppose you could say his feelings for her ended up greater than any humiliation could have been. And after all, it was only a few days before some other fool did something even worse, and all the town talked of him instead."

"Who?"

"You're looking at him." He mopped his brow again. "I fell off the trellis trying to climb to my love's window and broke my leg. Her father found me there." He covered his eyes with one hand. "They told that story at our wedding… talk of embarrassment." At that, she couldn't help but grin. "Yes, you do well to laugh. Though, in hindsight, I suppose it might have been worse."

"Worse?"

"She might have remembered that I was an idiot and chosen to call off the wedding."

"Mummy, Daddy! Make the crops grow big this year!" Children cheered as their parents lined up to take part in old superstition. Cecil cried in terror as his parents linked hands and, picking up speed, leapt easily over one of the lower fires.

"See, I told you they could do it. You're not going to be an orphan. Now quit crying!" Petal yelled, her face reddening as the adults smiled on. Even though the clouds had obscured the moon and stars, the bonfires the town had lit made the fields look eerily similar to a London downtown side street, especially with the torches and lanterns scattered along every surface. People were easily able to see where they were going, though the amount of liquor ingested—and being ingested still—had made their movements less sure then they'd been that morning.

It was getting late, and the wind was bad enough that some of the men—the Storyteller among them—had volunteered sobriety to make sure there wasn't another Legendary Fire on their hands. Eve, who had been feeling a pleasant buzz since the last glass of something that Rouge had pressed into her hand, had opted out and was sitting backwards at one of the tables, watching a chain dance growing around the maypole.

"Eve, hi." She looked up to see Barnham standing before her, swaying slightly. "Can we talk now?"

"I don't see why not." She motioned for him to sit. "No 'Miss' this time?"

"I've missed my chance twice today. I don't plan to do it again," he huffed, letting himself fall to the table with a thump and sprawling out, his face to the sky.

"What?" There was something about him different, and not just the drink. She'd seen him drunken before, staggering with others back to the barracks before dawn and then trying to subtly sleep it off behind the mountains of paper on his desk. But this was… strange. Watching him, she wondered if it was the stance, the easygoing way he held himself that was different.

"I said I've missed my chance twice. It's not going to happen again. Just lemme…" He ran a hand over his face. "Let catch my breath a minute," he mumbled into his chalice. His voice, too… something about his voice…. The inflection, she realized. He was missing that Old English inflection everyone in town carried, even into 'Labyrinthia 2.0'. Good grief; how many glasses have you actually had, Sir Iron Stomach? He worked his jaw, staring down at the dregs of his whiskey before catching her eyes on him. Giving her a toothy grin, he raised the cup.

"Cheers." It took him a moment to comprehend that she had no drink, and put his down to offer her his fist. "Cheers," he repeated, waiting. She stared at him in confusion, and he sighed before gently punching her shoulder. "C'mon, Eve. At least humor me tonight."

"I have no idea what you're on about," she complained, crossing her arms. "I thought you meant to tell me what you couldn't earlier."

"Huh?" Now he looked perplexed. "What I… couldn't?"

"You've been trying to ask me something all day?" she prompted. "Or are you too drunk to recall?"

"Oh, that." He cleared his throat, draining the chalice before placing it sloppily on the edge of the table. "Erm, yeah. That."

"Yes? I'm all ears." He stood, stretched his arms behind him, and cracked his neck. "Zacharias?" A hand hit the table beside her shoulder; he leaned over her, eyes dark.

"I can't ask you that. It's pretty much impossible now."

"What? Why?"

"'Cause I gotta ask you something else first." His other hand boxed her in and he lowered his head to look her in the eyes. She leaned back until the table dug into her spine, glancing furtively at the partygoers. Everyone was watching the dance around the maypole or off in groups with their backs to the nearly deserted tables. No one was watching. "Listen to me, doll." His hand caught her chin, turned her head back to him. "It's important."

"D-doll?" She bristled at the term. "What am I, some girl on the street?"

"Pssh, I wish," he muttered, brow wrinkling in annoyance. "It'd be easier to ignore you that way."

"Ignore?!" He caught her growing ire and scowled.

"Listen, how come I can't get you out of my head, huh?" His forehead was nearly touching hers, and she was only a centimeter or two from slipping off the bench and onto the cool grass. The wind pushed at her hair, flapping the lapel of his unbuttoned shirt around his ears. "You're the… Grand Witch or Great Witch or whatever the hell it was. What kind of bloody spell have you done stuck me with?"

"None!" She pushed at his shoulders, forcing him back up. "I don't know what you're talking about. Magic doesn't exist."

"It's got to." He rested his weight on her hands. "Otherwise, why… why am I always thinking of you?"

"How is that my fault?" She ignored the heat in her cheeks, calling it a byproduct of anger. "Just—I don't know, just stop!"

"You don't think I've tried?" She managed, with a violent effort, to push him off of her completely. He stood in place, expression thrown into shadow by the bonfires behind him. "Every day I think about seeing you, and every night I think about the way you looked that day. And even when I try to avoid you, I can't help it—I just keep thinking 'one more time, just one more time, this time's the last, no, just once more'. It's driving me mad."

"I can't help that. What am I supposed to do? I don't make you think about me." She stood up from the bench, the splintery wood still pressing against her calves.

"Yes you do."

"I don't!"

"You do." He stepped forward. "You do, because you're beautiful and smart and you give me that look that makes me melt and I can't think of anything else all day." Another step. "You walk around town in your uniform with the tight boots and I see all the men looking at you and I just… just want to pick you up and…I don't know."

"Y-you're drunk." She could barely find her voice, her hand pressed against her chest.

"On you, maybe." Their toes were nearly touching again.

"Stop," she pleaded, and he obediently paused, standing just within arm's reach. She edged away, around the side of the table. "Zacharias, y-you're talking like a madman."

"I warned you that you were driving me mad," he pointed out, with what he must have assumed was reason. Now the table was between them, with a few extra paces for safety. He stood still, watching her almost sadly.

"What were you going to ask me?" she demanded, shaking hands balling into fists.

"I couldn't ask you, so I'll just tell you." His head tilted. "I wanted to take you home this evening. But I don't think that's very safe anymore."

"S-safe? You think…." She trailed off, trying to discern his meaning. Brigands, did he mean? Or his inebriated state? He nodded at the trees, a wry smile twisting his mouth. Even as she looked, two shadows slipped from the rest of the crowd and slid into the murky embrace of the wood. "Y-y-you mean—!" she squeaked, not even bothering to hide her timidity.

"Come now, Eve. You know. We're not children," he laughed softly. "But—I decided earlier that I want a chance to date you properly before it comes to that. That's what a pretty lady like you deserves. I can be patient. So all I want to ask for is a kiss."

"A kiss?!"

"Just one," he assured her, already inching around the table in her direction. "Just so I can stop wondering what you taste like. Something less for me to go crazy trying to figure out. I won't take advantage of it, I promise." He must have seen something in her eyes, as his own darkened further and his face became solemn. "It's dark, Eve. Don't run."

She ran anyway.

A part of her knew that he most likely wouldn't remember much, if anything in the morning. If he'd taken four glasses of ale just at lunchtime, she was surprised he was even still standing. But he had told her earlier that he knew his limits, and maybe he wasn't as drunk as she hoped he was. Maybe he was just telling her the truth with a little liquid courage.

She told herself that her heart thundered from running. From shock. Not from his confession.

Idiot! Like I asked you to think about me night and day! It's not my fault you're like this! You made it sound like you're obsessed! She crashed through the trees, trying to keep the dirt path before her and avoiding any limbs of the human variety that might be scattered around the wood. She was off-kilter as it was from her own drinks, and he was right—it was dark. Pitch black, really, and as she ran she felt one drop, two drops, and then a torrential downpour. Shouting in frustration, she pushed her wet bangs out of her face and trudged on at a staggered jog, heading for home. She'd had enough of this crazy night!

Her sandals, not built for rain, pushed and sunk down in the mud that quickly formed. Wrenching her foot free on a hill, her other shoe twisted and she felt her ankle pop before she was sliding down the slope, hitting her back on an exposed root at the bottom. She hissed in pain, sitting back up and finding that she couldn't scramble to her feet the way she intended. Well if this isn't just great! Undoing her shoes, she felt of her ankle with a wince. It didn't seem broken, but it was a bad sprain.

"You fell, poor thing." Freezing, she looked up to see a hand with an unmistakable band around the wrist.

"For not taking advantage, you felt the need to follow me?" she huffed, turning away. "Go back. I'm fine."

"Can you even stand up?" he asked, a smug edge to his tone. She felt her throat grow tight, but didn't respond. "Eve, I'm not planning to hurt you. I meant every word." He reached down, using a tree to steady himself and grabbed her hand, lifting her easily. She shivered when his next words were spoken right in her ear. "I'd never hurt you, not if I could help it."

"You know, I like you better sober. You don't talk as much." He chuckled, and then led her forward. She gasped when her ankle throbbed painfully, swaying more than he was. "Hang on, let me get my feet under me," she ordered, clenching the straps to her sandals more tightly as she tried again to put weight on her foot. He waited for a moment, and then grunted noncommittally, his hand sliding around her waist. She protested as he half picked her up, putting her arm over his shoulders and letting her achieve a hopping walk beside him on the path.

Thankfully, they weren't as far from her house as she'd thought. Still, by the time she unlocked the door and he'd helped her into the darkened front hall, her calf was burning with exertion and she felt a little nauseous from the pain.

"Light," he mumbled, reaching around on the wall for a sconce.

"Hang on, h—hang on! It's all electric here. The switch is on the—oh, but you won't—let me—" she meant to go to the wall, but he propped her up against the door.

"Never mind, luv. I'll get it."

"What?!" The light flicked on with a buzz and she squinted at it, bright after the darkness of the rainy forest. He stood in the middle of the hall, his hand on the switch and dripping water everywhere, hair plastered to his head. I can see why the ladies like him so much… even like this, he's not bad-looking. She immediately berated herself for the comment. That's just the liquor talking, Eve. Stop thinking those things, before you get him started back on that kissing and… other activities.

"Here, let me see now." He reached his hand for her, but she hobbled past him, using the wall as a crutch until she reached the kitchen. Turning on the light, she made her way slowly over the three squares of kitchen space before seating herself at the table.

"Thank you for seeing me home," she growled, voice tight. "But you can go now. Lock the door behind you, please." She heard footsteps, and then a hand on the back of her chair. Hunkering forward, she resisted the urge to hide her face in her arms. "Get out of my house, Zacharias Barnham."

"Where are your towels?" he asked kindly. "Let me at least get you one before I leave." Biting her lip, she faced the briefest, yet hardest inner turmoil of her life. Finally, she sighed. One towel wouldn't hurt, would it?

"In the closet under the staircase," she said, pointing in defeat. He left and she wrung out her hair, not caring that the tile around her was soaking. She'd mop it up tomorrow if she had to. When he came back to the kitchen, he had an old blue towel that he was currently wiping his face with. He handed it to her with a smile.

"I hope you don't mind me using it first." Here in the light, she could see the redness in his face, the bright glimmer to his eyes that matched his slightly disjointed movement. Yes, just like I thought. She wiped her face and arms, leaving her hair to drip down her back and rubbing her legs quickly. She couldn't stop the wince from crossing her face again when she reached her ankle. Before she could speak, he kneeled down and took the towel from her.

"Zacharias, I don't think you should be—" She trailed off when he smiled up at her. Despite what he said in the fields, that smile was surprisingly… innocent. She begged him with her eyes not to do anything they'd regret, unable to say it aloud. He rested the towel on his knee, gently taking her leg in both hands and raising it to look at the ankle in the light. Nimble fingers poked and prodded with the air of a physician, watching her face closely for signs of discomfort.

"I think you've just twisted it," he said at long last.

"It was these damned heels." She motioned to the muddy sandals on the table.

"I told you not to run." Just like that, the unbearable tension was back. It seemed, however, that she was the only one to notice. He picked a leaf off her foot that the towel didn't catch, his hand warm on the back of her calf. She shivered again and his fingers tightened. "You're trembling, Eve."

"I'm—I—"

"Do I frighten you? Are you scared of me?"

"No!" she exclaimed emphatically. "Of course I'm not!" He didn't meet her eyes, fingers still trailing lightly over her ankle.

"This will be fine tomorrow, I think." Without warning, he leaned down and kissed it lightly, almost playfully. "There, that should make it better." The moment his lips touched her skin, a currant ran through her, from her leg up to her stomach and through every nerve. Her hands tightened on her lap. W—what's this? The feelings from earlier, the confusion and shyness, the awkwardness: they were back, and yet… something was added too. Excitement. Unpredictability. She wanted him to get the hell out of her house but—despite everything, she wanted him to do it again. And again.

Come now, Eve. We're not children.

We certainly aren't.

His fingers on hers brought her out of her thoughts just in time for him to press another kiss to the scar on her right hand.

"I think I'm a little late to kiss this one better," he said ruefully, thumb tracing the fiery mark. "I wish there was a way to go back, to keep it from happening to you. To keep all this from hurting you so badly." She knew he didn't mean the scar itself.

"Then we'd have never met," she replied lightly, trying to switch focus. He paused, thinking.

"Would you regret it, if our paths were never to cross?" He pressed her fingers in his, resting his elbow on her knee. "If we never got the chance to meet?"

"Of course!" she insisted. "You're my friend, Zacharias." He let go of her hand, nodding to himself.

"Yes," he murmured. "Your friend." He withdrew, grabbing hold of the table to rise. She caught his shoulder and forced him back.

"You and I both know this isn't the right time to talk about this," she whispered, feeling exceptionally cold after the heat of his hands. "You're not yourself."

"I am myself. This is me." He shrugged. "I don't like… me. But sometimes I just have to let him out for a while. Make merry and live." He laughed again, this time icily. "Zach's got the balls to say these kinds of things where good old Sir Barnham would still be stuttering like an… an idiot." He kicked at the tile, his sandal squeaking loudly against the wet floor.

"You're not an idiot." She took his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her. He released a shuddering breath, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Listen. If you remember any of this tomorrow, we'll talk about it then." She didn't say what would happen if he didn't remember. She didn't really know herself. He said nothing, and she gathered her courage before leaning in and pressing her lips to his forehead. He was warm skin and cool raindrops and wet bangs.

"I could take this, if I knew it was all I'd get," he sighed under her. She pulled away and saw his eyes were closed, even though he could have gotten a fairly decent look at her chest. "I could take it and be happy. But… I want to kiss you so badly right now."

"Zacharias…."

"It's eating me alive."

"Go home and rest."

"Do you need me to help you upstairs?" She arched a brow at him.

"I don't trust you as far as the staircase, no offense." He rose slowly to his feet before smirking.

"Good girl. You're learning." His head tilted again. "You don't want me to stay here, just in case you need someth—"

"Go home, Zacharias. I'll talk to you later."

"Are you sure?"

"Leave, or that will be the last kiss you ever receive from me."

"Got it, right. Later, then."

"Goodnight."

"Don't knock so loud, Eve!" Espella moaned as she opened the door, looking like a veritable zombie. There were dark bags under each eye and her plaits were uneven. She staggered back and let her friend through the door, shutting it behind her and sneakily turning the 'We're Open!' sign to 'Closed'.

"Someone had too much fun last night," Mrs. Eclaire said smartly, none the worse for wear as she kneaded dough (perhaps a little more loudly than was needed). "Look at Eve, what a good example she makes." Eve wisely didn't mention the own throbbing in her head, instead lifting her thermos. "Is that for Espella, dear?"

"Um… It's actually some black coffee for Zacharias. Is he up?"

"No, but I won't be the one to complain if you go get him out of bed. He's awake." The baker slammed a bowl down on the counter, ignoring the shrill cry from her young charge.

"Please, Aunt Patty! I promise I won't do it again, just be quieter!"

"Are you sure he's awake?"

"How can he not be!" Espella bemoaned, rubbing at her temples. Eve arched a brow. "I wish I had a girlfriend to bring me coffee when I have a headache."

"When you've a hangover, you mean. Go to your father's house if it's so terrible here. Let him give you a good scolding, it's his job." Eve ignored the bickering women and climbed the staircase to the second story, wondering if this was indeed the act of a girlfriend. She knocked briskly on his door, unable to help but let a little of Mrs. Eclaire's well-meant malice get into her skin as she rapped loudly. She heard a muffled groan that sounded enough like 'Enter' for her.

"I promise I'll be awake soon, Mrs. Eclaire," the figured bundled beneath the blankets rumbled. Constantine rose to his feet, tail wagging at sonic speed. "Just allow me my bearings. 'Tis well-known that no one will rise before noon for their bread anyway."

"Rise and shine, Zacharias." At the sound of her voice, he threw back the covers from his face as quickly as a man with a terrible hangover can. He stared at her a full moment, mouth agape, before realizing that she was really there. She poured him some coffee, offering it to him with a slight smile. "Come now, you've yet to tell me if you remember last night or not." Everything from his collarbone up slowly turned a dark vermillion and he let out a rather cute little moan, covering his face with his hands. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

"M-M-M-Miss Eve, I do apologize… I'd never… I'm so—forgive me, a thousand pardons, a thousand thousand pardons," he babbled, absently taking the proffered coffee when she pressed it into his hands. "I didn't mean to… take it all as the ramblings of a drunken fool, M-Miss Eve. Don't worry yourself about it."

"So you don't want to kiss me after all?" she asked, pointing to him with a smirk. "And you don't think I'm beautiful, or even pretty? What a shame. And here I was, about to be flattered."

"'T-tis not that," he muttered, before his shoulders slumped. "I've made a right fool of myself. I ought to go stand in the stockades of my own volition."

"Why? I don't think you've committed any crime, other than speaking while out of your head."

"I—" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "I came onto you, even after you asked me to stop! I kissed your foot and…" His brow wrinkled as he recalled it, "your hand, and told you that—augh!" He drew up his knees, resting his forehead on them. "I'm surprised you didn't act on your word and throw me into the dungeon!"

"If you don't remember, my ankle was twisted." He looked up at her. "I couldn't have made it to the Courthouse, not in the rain."

"How is it today?" He craned his neck to see, the blanket slipping and showing his bare chest. She tried to keep her eyes from it, only to find them traveling there more than she'd like to admit.

"Fine, it's fine." She cleared her throat. "As for your words…." She rubbed at her neck, tracing the line of her blouse. "I suppose… I didn't really stop you… like I could have."

"Miss Eve?"

"Oh, come now!" She rubbed Constantine behind the ears. "We're far past the 'miss' now. After all, you were all set to take me into the wood last night if I was willing." He took a sip of the coffee, pursing his lips at the bitter taste.

"You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not for a long time," she admitted with a smile.

"Then you'll at least humor me?"

"What?" He threw back the coffee with a grimace and waved her away when she went to pour another cup. Picking at a thread on his blanket, he let out a low breath.

"The fact is… I wish to get to you know better as a suitor. Not a friend." She could see his feet fidgeting beneath the sheets. "I'd hope that you found this agreeable. I did mean what I said, as humiliating as it was. Before all that… in the future, I'd rather court you properly and treat you as a lady." He set his jaw. "In fact, I insist on it."

"So if I tried to get in bed with you right now, you'd throw me on the floor in a fit of chastity?"

"W-what?!" The vermilion hue redoubled and he looked around helplessly. "I'm not—I've not brushed my teeth, nor bathed since the day prior, and I'm certain I must smell of a wet dog. I'm not in any way prepared to—" He stopped, seeing her shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing at him. "Ah, 'tis a jest. Of course." She sat the thermos on his bedside table before leaning over him, hands behind her back, and kissing his forehead once more. He was still warm skin and matted bangs, but this time there wasn't any water to cool her blush.

"You may come around on Friday evening. What we do is up to you, but I will expect flowers." She straightened her back. "Lilies are my favorite, but I think it's only proper for you to have carnations this time." He nodded, his expression one of awe. It was clear he still wasn't processing the information correctly, but she had no doubt he'd replay it over and over all week, the same way she would. "Oh, and one more thing?"

"Y-yes?"

"If you behave, I might even let you walk me home."