Compiled from Summer Bingo ficlets on Goldenlake. The Gorse and Berenene snippet is set in the same universe as Wish For a Full Moon. The unnamed woman in the second-to-last snippet is the villainess from Street Magic.

When one of his apprentices asked Kol how he could stand keeping the peace in the Goldsmith's Guild, his answer was a surprise: "I follow my wife's example."

Kol certainly couldn't imagine running the Banacor Household: cleaning up the twins' magic-spills, Peigi and Eidart's fighting, servants' melodramas...

"You're just too kind-hearted," Matazi informed him solemnly. "Either that," she added, gesturing at the soft woolen blanket, spread with delicacies, "or you've been indiscreet." She arched an eyebrow.

"My dear," Kol said, equally grave, "Frostpine set such an inspirational example, it guides me even now." He held up a sweetmeat, sticky from the burst of summer heat; it was warmer than any summer in living memory.

Laughing, Matazi accepted the offer, guiding it to her mouth. She was still grinning when she relaxed against him, eyes drifting shut against a gentle breeze blowing, salty, from the Syth.

"Your hand tastes like candy," she mumbled, pressing his fingers - strong from long years of goldsmith-work - to her lips.

When Keth was very young, he had lived for the hours spent wading through the Syth's shallows, water lapping at his ankles (then his knees, thighs, waist) and a hint of salt in the crisp, cold breeze that raised goose bumps on his arms.

The past three years had dulled the excitement of even that hobby. But no longer. Niko and Tris were trapped in their vision conference, but he was on holiday. For a few moments, he watched Glaki running happily on the sun-soaked island coast, Little Bear a white blur as they played fetch.

Then he waded in. It was something like being born anew: watching the world with fresh eyes.

It started as a game: cruel and heartless, because Yazmin could be that in an instant, but a game nonetheless, and it wasn't just Pasco who had to avoid the marbles on the floor as he practiced. He exchanged mournful muttering with his new friends: OUT of Yazmin's hearing.

He quickly discovered the reason for the training; as the dancing troupe fanned out, light as air, and began to MOVE, small balls scattered from the surrounding trees. Pasco, twisting so lithely he looked natural when scooping one up, nearly dropped it again when he realized it was, of all things, CANDY.

His eyes snapped up to spot the girls who'd cheerfully clambered up the trees, or sat at their bases, for shade. They waved; one blew a kiss. And Lady Sandry thought HE was strange...

He arrived with the sound of the Hub's clock striking midday's end. That was all right. Crane and Rosethorn would both appreciate the privacy, because they were certainly not friends.

(Crane's arms were loaded with fruit of the Endless Islands; yes, Rosethorn, he had successfully cultivated them in his greenhouse. Rosethorn carried a basket of her tomatoes, as if to question the fate of the plant she'd exchanged for Briar's sake.)

Lark's tablecloth, pure white cotton that would never stain, was perfect, both assured her. It whispered in the breeze, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass.

Lark propped her elbows on it, watching them idly. Clouds, so white they nearly hurt the eyes in the bright daylight, crawled across the sky; the colors of the world were surreal in their vividness. She could almost drift asleep in the lazy afternoon heat.

Flowers were opening in the grass around them.

His Emperor disliked him enough to order him into a land of ice and snow. (And so much mud. How he longed for the spices and oils of the kitchen.)

But Namorn had proved... welcoming. Courtiers no longer whispered in Kurchali (which would never fall easily from his tongue). The youngest princess had even become a friend.

"Not so much mud in summer," she murmured, dark eyes twinkling, for he had not voiced his complaints. She lifted the hem of her gown out of the way as she hopped over a fallen log: the unessential princess. A mask she'd shattered during their chess matches. "Because yes, Ambassador, despite your fears, we do have summer too."

He had never previously walked the paths of her father's garden, so followed. Birdsong fluttered from the surrounding trees. Despite the shade cast by their long boughs, he found he was sweating.

The emperor, he thought with satisfaction, had once again miscalculated.

Evvy didn't like new horizons. They tended to promise joy and freedom, only to breach the bargain; it only took one power-hungry, deluded, maniacal...

"Evvy. You coming down or not?" Briar rattled the basket of food. Further ahead, Rosethorn had already begun spreading the blanket.

Despite years of traveling, Evvy didn't like riding any more than she liked new horizons, or her horse liked her. (She was stone, heavy and unyielding.) She scrambled from her perch.

As Briar ambled over to set out the food, Rosethorn returned, watching her thoughtfully. "Duke Vedris is fairer than any other ruler I've ever met. If you really hate it, you can leave."

Evvy bit her lip to keep from laughing. But Ludo's presence was warm in her hands, and if she followed Briar's hands, the riot of shifting color, she could see him laying out fruit.

She did like peaches.

"Do you think we will be happy?" Nia asked, at the tail end of their conversation.

Jory slipped off her shoes, grinning as cool waves - tolerable only because of the summer sun - lapped against her bare toes. "What? Us?"

She sensed, rather than saw, her twin sigh softly. "You know who I'm talking about."

Jory shrugged. "I still don't understand why you want to marry. We can look after ourselves."

"You think I'm tying myself down," Nia interpreted. She seemed startled.

Jory spread her hands.

"You're wrong." That made Jory turn and stare. "When I learned about my magic, I thought no one would want a bride covered in - in sawdust. But he wouldn't care if I arrived at the wedding covered in wood shavings, if I was smiling." She gained strength as she spoke. "And he's always happy to mind Eidart, or speak with Mother, or - or - why are you smiling?"

"He'd probably be happy if you turned up in wood shavings, a smile, and nothing else."

"Jory!"

Jory relented. "I don't need to convince you, Nia. You just needed to convince yourself. And that's how it should be, for something this important." Nia stared, cheeks flushed. Jory just grinned, hooking their arms together. "No need to thank me."

"Is this just a game to you?" There was a hint of frustration in Nia's voice.

"Your happiness?" Jory said softly, abandoning all guile. "Never."

"I'm worried about her."

It did Yazmin credit - their relationship credit - that she knew instantly to whom he referred. She nudged her horse closer to his, a hand at her brow to shade her eyes from the glaring sun.

"She still hasn't come out of her room, your Grace?"

He shook his head. "Even in the summer heat, she stays. She has not written to her friends or family. Servants deliver her meals, and take them away again."

"Sometimes, barely touched," said Yazmin shrewdly. "Even OFTEN untouched." After a moment, she laid small fingers on arm. She was a tight ball of controlled energy, and when they touched, he could almost feel that energy quickening his old, tired body. "But I think you already know what to do."

"Knowing does not make it easier," Vedris said, wry. "To do nothing-"

"To give her time, your Grace," she corrected. She only removed her fingers when he had acknowledged her reply.

A smile flickered across his face. Sometimes, watching Yazmin - light, quick, graceful - made him feel old. Often, it did not.

She knew through experience that corpses could not be left in desert heat, if she didn't want every single visitor to learn the... disciplinary strategies of her household.

That did not mean she was required to supervise every facet of the headless body's burial. Besides, she rather thought she deserved a holiday after that unpleasantness.

When she did finally leave her mansion, on horseback, it was under a shaded canopy held up by servants. Condensation clung to the glass of lemonade in her hand. Dark eyes watched, not without satisfaction, as the little street urchins, sweltering, eyed her drink enviously.

She loved summer.

Making a gang her playthings would not be difficult, she decided, as long as summer heat continued to parch their wells.

If he did nothing to occupy his mind, the darkness, the dampness, the sheer proximity of other people similarly chained... they would drive him insane. Maybe it would even be a mercy.

Row, row, row your boat...

But his betrothed had once told him he had a core of steel (and heart of gold, darling, come back to bed?), and she'd been right. He was a survivor.

So he made it a game, like his fisherman older brother had taught him in the distant past.

Gently down the stream...

If he rowed one hundred strokes without faltering, he would sleep well that night. Two hundred, and he would be allowed a break. Maybe even a full holiday, if Runog was kind. A thousand, and he'd have soft cotton sheets, like those decorating his marriage bed. He'd be allowed time above deck, where the summer breeze could touch him.

(It was still summer, surely? He had not been a prisoner for very long.)

A voice, as sharp as the whip its pirate owner loved, snapped him out of the past.

"Tonight we sail for Winding Circle." Soft laughter. "After that, one way or another, you'll be free of us."

Listen to her scream...