Author's Note:

Fun Fact: I knew I'd love Barnham only because when you first meet him he cracks bread puns. I love puns, so he was instantly A+ to me.

On with the story based off something I don't own!

"You know, this was supposed to be a solemn vigil in honor of the Storyteller's death and everything that happened after it. I don't know how in the world you young'uns changed it into a nightlong drunken rout." Patty Eclaire shook her head as she wrung the juice out of nine lemons and then began to grate the zest into a small dish. The bakery, like most stores, was closed today so that they could all prepare and get some sleep before staying up all night. However, they weren't tired at all with the sun shining down through the windows, and Mrs. Eclaire still had to make lemon meringue pies for the banquet supper.

Barnham had managed to doze off at the table for an hour before being woken up by Espella's loud chatter; the young woman was preparing her own cake to bring, and her excitement for the night was building by the hour. The Town Anniversary, despite being only five years old as a Labyrinthian holiday, was already just as popular as the Fire Festival.

The first festival was more conservative: a symbolic Parade, staying up all night in the town square, a small speech from the Storyteller on the significance of what happened in the Witch Trials, and concluding with the ringing in the 'new dawn' with the bell as the sun rose. But as years passed, it changed until now it was a loud party where the whole town ate and drank to their hearts content. The Storyteller still made a speech and they still rang the bell, but the solemnity was gone and in its place was something more like a large family reunion mixed with a carnival.

"Well it's not as though anyone actually died," Espella argued as she mixed her batter and poured it into a spare mold. "Besides, shouldn't we celebrate the happy ending?" she asked, tilting her head in concentration as she settled the air bubbles from the batter. "I'm only disappointed that Professor Layton and Mr. Wright couldn't be here this time. Last year was so fun, getting to meet up with everyone again."

"They have obligations, the same as the rest of us," Barnham pointed out as he pressed crusts down into pie tins for Patty. "I'm sure they're just as disappointed that they couldn't be here as you are." He smoothed out the crumbled crust into a flat sheet on the bottom, ready for baking. His fingers made small indents in the crust as he pressed the edges in place and filled in tears the way the baker had taught him long ago. "I just can't believe 'tis been five years already."

"Me either," Patty agreed, mixing the thick meringue with a strong arm. "Time goes by so quickly nowadays. I mean, just look at you," she said affectionately, flicking the spoon at Espella. "I was worried to death that you'd be burnt up then, but you're alive and now you've filled out into such a pretty young lady." The girl reddened, but smiled at the compliment. "Why, you've—" A knock on the door stopped her from continuing, and she looked up in surprise. "Whoever could that be?" she murmured before calling out "Come in! The door's unlocked!"

It was one of the knights, a pale, freckled lad with shaggy hair hanging all in his face. He was only half-dressed in his armor, keeping most of it off until having to don the heavy, hot gear for the Parade. He half-bowed to the women before turning to Barnham, sticking his helmet under his arm so that he could salute properly.

"Sir! They told me to come see if you were busy, sir!" He stood at attention, chest puffed out to the point of absurdity. Barnham turned in his chair, placing the final pie tin to the side and wiping his graham cracker-dusted hands on a dishcloth.

"What is it?"

"Sir! We need another hand to help with the preparations at the bell tower, sir!" Barnham arched a brow; the kid must have been nervous, to be "Sir"ing more than Lettie Mailer on a cheerful day. It wasn't unusual; most people wanted to treat him like some sort of untouchable celebrity and got flustered when in close proximity. "Originally we had Shakey to help, but…" the boy trailed off, scratching his head. "After his accident last week, you can understand why we can't rely on his assistance today."

"Of course I'll come and help. Go on ahead and tell them I'm on my way; just allow me enough time to change clothing." The knight saluted again and turned on his metal heel, running out the door and down the street. He came back to offer another polite bow to the women through the window before running off again. Espella stared after him before giggling as she squatted to push the cake into the oven, shaking her head at the boy's antics.

"Well, it can't be helped," Patty clucked her tongue. "That Shakey's been bruising himself up from the day he was born." She shook her head again, the very picture of motherly exasperation. "Go on, child. If those crusts are ready, I can do the rest myself." She waved him on before swiping a finger of meringue. Espella crept around her like a cat and got a taste as well. Both women cringed, mouths puckering when the mixture hit their taste buds.

"T-tart," the baker managed to wheeze when her tongue untied, her young ward nodding vigorously in agreement.

Barnham stood in the lavatory, staring at himself in the mirror. He was dressed in his armor, polished and gleaming in preparation for the Parade. His hair was brushed, face washed, freshly shaved, teeth gleaming. He always had taken Parades seriously in earlier years: after all, it was the future of the town he loved to serve and protect.

He stared at his reflection thoughtfully. People in the town called him gallant; the older women said he was charming, the younger said he was handsome. He even had a little fan club that used to show up to all of his Court proceedings and called out to him when they saw him in the streets. But did he really look gallant and charming? The knights in the bard's songs that were called gallant made women swoon and men jealous. He didn't think that he'd ever made any lady swoon, and none of the knights ever acted jealous around him. I look like myself, he finally decided. Nothing more, nothing less.

The sun shone brightly down on him as he left the bakery and walked in the direction of the bell tower. It had been raining the past three days without end, and the gullies besides the streets were muddy. Puddles glimmered in the bright light, the sky above a brilliant shade of clear blue without a cloud in sight. A warm breeze blew between the buildings, ruffling his hair and causing the alleys to echo with a low sound that sounded more like groaning old men than any wind.

The streets were nearly empty, only those who had to be awake to keep the town running and prepare for the festival wandering the winding roads. Most were knights, putting up roadblocks for the Parade and clearing the streets of debris. Some were citizens charged with preparing the banquet and decorating the square. The only other ones out and about were stray animals and a goat, mostly likely wandering away from Mary's farm unchecked.

The square was more lively, people running around in all directions. Kira—who, despite all her whining and griping, had gone back to her job as a flower seller—was helping her boss hang large garlands of every wildflower imaginable all over the torchlights and bell tower. Labyrinthian women were spreading white tablecloths over long tables where, in a few hours, nearly every household would have at least one dish on display for consumption.

There was a shout of panic that sounded like Cutter, of all people. A second later he saw why as a carved stone bust of the Storyteller flew over everyone's heads in a beautiful arc. He could already see the exquisite craftsmanship crushed to gravel on the ground and winced. Thankfully, the Vigilantes were standing near the Ground Zero; Foxy looked up, her lipsticked mouth open in a little 'O' of surprise. She reached out, leaning over her seat on the edge of a lumber pile to catch the bust with surprising deftness. Leaning forward as she was, the bustier of her armor was on full display; some, like Barnham, politely looked away while others gawked. Servius fainted in a swoon, Treddon following him in a slump to his knees.

"Y-you clods!" Cutter looked on the verge of passing out himself, though at the sight of the saved bust everyone let out a long sigh of relief. He turned, the force of his angry face forcing Muggs and Briggs back at least three paces. "Why don't you watch where you're going?!"

"H-hey! Don't get mad at us!" Briggs shouted, hopping up and down angrily. "You big oaf!"

"Oaf!?" This was Rouge, stepping between the pair and the scary-looking stonemason with her arms crossed. "This guy is the most precise man I've ever met in my life. You two are the oafs, you klutzes." She tossed her head. "Don't you two know that the drinking doesn't start until tonight?"

"Oi! That's fighting words, you witch!" Muggs spat the Labyrinthian slur—potent as any curse—as he stepped forward. There was a flash of silver and Rouge's dagger was twirled between her fingers, ready to slice at the first ne'er-do-well to dare challenge her.

"Stop this." The calm, firm order had them all looking up at the platform where the Storyteller would give his speech later that evening. The former High Inquisitor stood there, dressed in her most imposing Court outfit, complete with cape and claws. "What you're doing is the very reason we even have this celebration; it's a reminder that accusations and name-calling leads to nothing but trouble, as a certain schoolmistress might say. That's no way to act any day, but especially not today."

Rouge put her dagger back where it came from with a nod of obedience, but the two delinquents weren't so cooperative. Muggs grumbled something under his breath, Briggs stepping towards the platform in what was meant to be a threatening manner.

"So what?" He said, turning his head aside and spitting in the dirt. "Just what are yougonna do about it?" He seemed to have forgotten just who he was speaking to. "You oughta be thanking your lucky stars that I haven't come up there and sliced you open yet, Milady."

Barnham's hand clenched into a fist involuntarily, his entire being quaking with the effort of holding himself back. He wanted nothing more than to march over there and slam that bucktoothed head of his into the dirt for daring to threaten his…friend. Really, he wanted to knock both their heads together and put them in the stockades for a day or two, just to get in in their thick skulls that they shouldn't speak to any woman in that way, no matter who it was. But for them to speak in that tone to Eve—He took one step forward, throat constricting as he reached automatically for his blade.

His armor clinked, though no one but Rouge seemed to notice. The bartender turned her head, eyeing him curiously. She looked at him, his hand on the sword, then at the two boys, at Eve standing over them, and then back to his face again. Her lips curved in a wry smile, but it faded just as quickly and she gave her head the smallest of shakes. He caught her silent message, straightening up and taking his hand off the sword with a deep breath. Rouge was right; rushing in his with hot head might just make things worse. But if one of those insolent children placed a single hand on that platform, he was going to tackle him to the ground and rip every tooth out of his head one by one.

Despite the threats and sarcasm, Eve only arched a brow and smiled coldly.

"I suggest that you two boys get back home where you can stay out of trouble. That is, unless you want to play the part of Sir Barnham on this night, and pass the evening in one of my underground dungeons." She pointed at him, but something caught her off guard; her eyes widened, finger faltering. The two 'reformed bandits' didn't see her expression; they turned to see him standing there within easy catching distance. He affixed his best glare and Muggs eyes also widened, but in fear. Briggs laughed nervously before waving them away dismissively.

"They—heh—they're not worth our time, Muggs." He turned, walking away with his hands in his pockets. "C-c-come on, let's get outta here."

"R-right." Muggs seemed to be frozen in place, but thawed all at once and ran after his partner quickly, looking behind him as if afraid that Barnham would be following him. He did follow him, but only with his eyes until they'd turned the corner and were out of sight. Rouge looked up at the ex-Inquisitor.

"You didn't need to do that. I can handle myself." Eve blinked twice before tearing her eyes from Barnham to look down at the redhead.

"I know that. That's why I stopped it before it went that far." Everyone chuckled, even Rouge. She shrugged and then turned, heading back to her previous job of ordering her men around as she got ready for the ale and wine that would soon flow in abundance all night. The event was over, everyone dispersing to their duties.

Barnham looked down at his boots, frowning. It wasn't like him to sit out and let everyone else handle things, but this time it worked out alright. It was probably for the best; he had a temper—his arguments with Eve as an Inquisitor used to shake the Courthouse rafters when they were both in a bad enough mood. But never before had he felt such a rage before, not even with the witches. Not even when she'd accused him of treason. He'd never wanted to really hurt someone before this moment.

"Zacharias? Are you alright?" He looked up to see Eve standing in front of him, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she looked him over. He must have still had some of his glare left, because she looked concerned. "Zacharias?" she repeated, reaching out for him. He stepped back, out of arm's length.

"I'm fine, Miss Eve." He bent his head and moved past her. "I'll speak to you later; right now, I have to go help the knights. They're waiting on me." He heard her sputter something in protest. "I'll see you at the Parade!" he called over his shoulder, trying to inject some carefreeness into his tone. She stood there, watching as her hand fell back to her side.

He faced forward, striding towards where the other knights were trying to life more of the platform in place so that they could hang the banner. The confused look on her face made his heart clench, but he didn't dare turn back around now. This was happening too often to count…how disconcerting.

His and the High Inquisitor's professional relationship had been all but severed after she'd thrown him into the dungeon. He'd fallen into a restless slumber after a while, and had woken up with the dawn. Something else had dawned over him, something he couldn't figure out. It wasn't until the Storyteller had come to get him that he had learned of what had transpired. That had been a sight; he thought that he'd cracked, seeing a dead man standing in front of him.

But the Storyteller wasn't dead. The witches weren't dead. And while everyone else had all forgotten about him alone in the dungeon, the Storyteller had informed him that Eve had told the old man where to find him. Arthur had divulged the High Inquisitor's—now ex-Inquisitor—embarrassment and guilt for having to treat him in such a way, but he had been too close to finding the truth and ruining her plans. She'd felt so bad that she hadn't been able to face up to coming down here herself and trying to explain it so that he could understand.

"She thought you'd actually listen if you heard it from me," he had said, sitting next to him on the tiny wooden bench in the cell. He wrung his hands in his lap. "Please don't think badly of her." But he had…at first. Then she'd invited him to help her rebuild the town. And she'd apologized, on her own time, looking down at her desk with red cheeks and sad eyes. She was different than she was before, but then again, so was everyone. It was as if a giant weight was off the town. It really was a new chapter for them all.

So as they'd worked together, they'd regained their working relationship, and then they'd become something more akin to friends as she reformed her bonds with Espella. He found himself walking her to the gate, lost in conversation about the town, the citizens, or just talking about old times. He'd started work at the bakery, learning how to make pastries so that on her birthday he could give her something nice to show how much he appreciated her. It had been a fiasco, and everyone had joked about him having a 'soft spot' for her.

At first he hadn't thought much of it (after all, it wasn't the firsttime he'd been the face of ridicule around the town, and it always passed soon enough and was forgotten by most) but as the years passed, he wondered if they were right. He wanted…he wanted… he wanted something more than what he already had. Just having her as his friend wasn't enough. He enjoyed her company and her smiles and when she touched his arm or when she laughed at something he said; he liked it almost too much.

But he wouldn't tell her. He couldn't even get out a simple happy birthday to her, much less a real confession. As far as he was concerned, she didn't even feel the same way. She never gave him any sort of indication that she even paid attention to his subtle hints, aside from a coy glance or two that he might have just misread. She was always calm, cool, and collected; it left him scratching his head and finally just accepting the fact that she'd probably never see him the same way he saw her.

Sighing, he reached the knights and grabbed the end of the platform's support beam, pushing his weight against it with the rest of the men and tucking his thoughts to the back of his mind; if he didn't concentrate now, he was liable to be killed by some accident. He was nowhere near as lucky as Shakey when it came to evading death.

What was the matter with him?

Eve stood on the Storyteller's float, her usual spot during the Parades. They were lining up now, the sun dropping lower in the sky. The Storyteller wasn't here yet and she was alone, watching as one of the Captains spoke to Barnham. He'd said that he'd come to speak with her, but the Captains had taken him aside the moment he'd arrived and were talking in tones too low for her to hear. He nodded, saying something more to them before mounting his horse and taking his place. She watched him with a frown, but he twisted around and let go of the reins in order to wave apologetically at her.

She waved back, forcing a smile on her face until he'd turned back around. Something about him was off, but she wasn't sure what. It worried her; she crossed her arms, chewing on her lip as she pondered it all over. She had noticed him earlier that day, and even heard one of the knights sending a lackey over to the bakery to ask for his help, but she hadn't been able to speak with him the moment he'd come.

Right before she had been about to greet him, those two wrongdoers had been doing some sort of unseen mischief that resulted in the Storyteller's bust (commissioned by her for the fifth anniversary) to be tossed into the air and narrowly caught by Foxy. They'd gotten into a spat first with the sculptor, then with Rouge. She knew that Rouge wouldn't hesitate to put them in their place in the wrong way, so she'd stepped in before anything bad could happen.

Of course the boys had turned and threatened her too, as if she'd be scared of a few sniveling, bratty young men who had once been her Shades. She'd made the offhand comment that they could play the part that Sir Barnham had played five years ago, sitting alone in the dungeons and waiting on her to come seal their fate. She'd pointed at the knight, but when looking up she'd been taken aback by the look of sheer fury in his eyes.

At first, she thought his anger was directed at her for her comment and had been confused. Surely he was over it by now; after all, she'd apologized five years ago and thought that they had moved on. They were good friends now, weren't they? But then she had realized that his rage was for the two little troublemakers that were threatening her. She'd never seen such a look on his face before, and had actually been scared that he would do something. But he'd stayed put, they'd left after seeing that the knight meant business.

She'd gone to him then, hopping off the platform and hurrying to his side. He'd been staring down at his shoes, looking almost afraid. He hadn't answered her with his usual goofy manner when she'd asked if he was alright, but then he'd avoided her and promptly left to go help the knights. His behavior was puzzling, and she was missing the piece that would connect the others and shed light on the mystery.

She watched a knight walk up and hand him his helmet; the way he moved in the armor was like an art form in and of itself. She stared at him, taking in his broad shoulders, the way the metal plating moved as he adjusted himself on the horse, tugging the checkered tunic up over his hair, tucking the distinct red down so that none of it would catch in the helmet. The way his hair moved made it look thick and soft; her fingers itched to run through it and see if her thoughts were correct. But she never would—to even ask permission would sound strange. Girls could freely touch one another's hair if they were close enough, and men could ruffle and tease one another's locks similarly, but for the sexes to mix indicated a certain level of intimacy. Besides, she was far too shy.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned back once more. She smiled again, unsure if she should call out over the heads of the knights. What would she say, even if she had the guts to do it? Their eyes locked and she felt her heart flutter; the color of his eyes was one of the first things she'd ever noticed about him when they were first introduced. Not many people in Labyrinthia had light colored eyes, and even then no one had such a strangely stormy, grayish color like his.

He looked away after a moment, putting on the helmet with a small frown as he turned to sit ramrod straight on his horse. Yes, something was most definitely not right with him this evening; usually he would have made a fool of himself by doing something silly. He usually acted that way at the bakery, but no matter how simple and ridiculous it was she found herself laughing at it.

Besides, the smile on his face when he managed to get her laughing at his jokes was enough to make her feel twice as happy, strangely enough. And then he'd stare at her a moment with that weird expression that made her warm and confused, but before she could read into it the he always turned around and began to make Espella fall over laughing with his impression of Emeer Punchenbaug. She never knew how to act around him anymore; it was a fact that simultaneously annoyed and excited her.

But now he was—what? Sad? Depressed? Still angry? No matter what it was, she didn't like it. She wanted to help him, but how? How could she help if she didn't even know what the matter was? She thought some more, but by the time the Storyteller arrived and climbed into his seat she still hadn't thought of anything.

And then… why not ask the man? After all, the Storyteller had always been good to her, even if he'd gotten lost from the right path and had to be 'gently' nudged back onto the straight and narrow. She had even gotten to the point that she had been able to forgive him for his actions, and now he was near and dear to her heart again—even if he was an eccentric old geezer sometimes.

"Mr. Cantabella," she murmured as the Captains ran up and down the lines, getting the orchestra ready and making sure everyone was in formation. "Have you noticed Zacharias's mood lately?" She peered at him from the corner of her eye.

"Mood? Can't say that I have," the old man replied, scratching his chin lightly with his quill. Though he didn't write the Story anymore, he still made books for the children and carrying his quill around was purely habitual to him now. "What's the matter?" Slowly, she explained everything that had happened that day, trying to skirt around the extent of her concerns; after all, she didn't want to sound too prying and—dare she say it?— infatuated.

"Ready the procession!" the Captain at the front called. The command echoed down the line and then with a jolt they all began to move. "Forward march!" Eve steadied herself as the float's wheels creaked into motion, bending her knees to keep from falling forward until the she grew used to the rocking.

"You pay very close attention to him, don't you, Eve?" the Storyteller asked matter-of-factly. "Tell me, are you so worried about his work performance that you feel the need to keep tabs?"

"Of course that's not it!" she protested. Did everyone really think she was that detached from her emotions? "I just don't want him to be so out of sorts, is all! I care about him!" The Storyteller chuckled knowingly, leaning back in his seat.

"Ah, so you have feelings for him," he murmured. "Why am I not surprised?" Eve felt her cheeks burn, but didn't try and correct him. If he pressed, she would tell him that her so-called 'feelings' were nothing more than friendly and innocent in nature… weren't they? Then again, she didn't feel the same way about him that she did for her other friends. Maybe…maybe this was what it felt like to have a crush on someone. But if so, then why, out of all the eligible men in Labyrinthia, did her heart have to settle on him?! After all, he was silly, overdramatic, loud, oftentimes sweaty—handsome, gentle, sweet, chivalrous, her mind continued for her.

"That doesn't matter right now," she finally retorted. "I just want to know how to help him." The Storyteller only chuckled, and she felt almost regretful of asking him. She pursed her lips, looking away. Of course she just had to make it hard on herself, didn't she? Instead of getting to stay good friends and coworkers, her stupid heart had to jump in and make things awkward. She wasn't blind to the new tension that had begun to crop up in some of their conversations, their words teetering on the line between friendly teasing and subtle innuendos.

But what could she do? She didn't know how to say anything, and besides, wasn't the man supposed to confess? That's how it was in the fairytales and songs sung by mothers all over town… was that not true? It was times like this that she wished she had a mother to pose these burning questions to.

"If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much about it," the Storyteller answered as the procession turned onto the main street. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the tumultuous cheering. "He'll come around on his own time. Until then, the fact that you're here for him will be enough. Young men have these spells of melancholy at times, too; it's not just for women," he laughed again, waving to Espella and Patty in the crowd.

"I understand," she said quietly, looking up at the evening sky through the confetti that floated in the air around her, tossed by eager citizens leaning out of upper story windows. I understand, but in the end I'll still worry. She swallowed, closing her eyes and blocking out anything other than the sounds of the crowd; she took a deep breath and when she opened them again, they were full of false joviality as her old mask slipped into place.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't see the old man's eyes narrow on her, frowning as he continued to scratch at his chin until there was a red welt. His gaze shifted from the young woman to the knight riding at the front of the procession, taking in the rigid posture. He had discerned from Eve's stilted speech that she hadn't told him the whole story of what happened that afternoon, or even what had caused her concern in the first place.

He'd seen the error of not keeping a close eye on problems; it had nearly cost his daughter her sanity, if not her life. He'd learned, and now he wondered if perhaps he should look deeper into the matter after all. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and continued to act pleasant and happy for the citizens of his town, but now his mind too was in unrest.

Afterword: I do apologize for starting another story when I've finished like, no other ones. But since finals are staring me in the face and writing is scarce, I wanted to give everyone a little something. This only has one other chapter so it'll be out soon enough.