At twenty-four winters, Everna had the sense and maturity to know drinking herself into a stupor with Shroud lurking about was not the brightest idea. At twenty-four, she also had enough adolescent impulse left to throw all caution to the wind and down the first bottle she got her hands on. That was the intention, at least. She made it halfway through before an elderly woman stumbled past her and knocked the bottle from her hand.

Damn that old coot; that was the last bottle of whiskey.

The festival was in full swing despite the bone-numbing chill and sudden snow flurry that tumbled from the starless heavens. A pair of bards stumbled through several local folksongs, drunk and swaying wildly in their chairs as their fingers fumbled with their instruments. Children ran through the square, hollering and shrieking in delight, green streamers and flowered garlands trailing behind them. On the far side of the square, her mother sat perched on the keg table, cackling at the tangled heap of drunken men laid out before her. Her father wasn't far from joining them. He leaned heavily against the table, his head cradled in his hands.

Her mother won the drinking contest every year, yet people still insisted on challenging her.

As Everna pulled a mug of ale from the table in front of her, Lazy Eye Earl waltzed past with an entire turkey cradled in his arms, muttering and cursing under his breath. A pair of guards hurried after him, laughing as they tried to convince him to relinquish his stolen prize. Every year, Earl liberated a fowl or hog from its plate and tried to scurry off with it before the Guard noticed. During the last festival she attended, he nearly made it halfway across town with half a boar shoved down his shirt before the Guard apprehended him.

"It never ceases to amaze me how some towns can hold such large gatherings with so few issues," Wil said from beside her, the corners of his lips quirked slightly as he watched Earl stumble out of reach of his pursuers, the turkey held high above his head. "In the capital, there'd be three dead in a back alley and far too many fights breaking out."

He'd understated it. The last time the capital held a major event — a Yuletide festival in the central market square — they called it off three hours after it started. Three buildings caught fire after someone, in their drunken stupor, had gotten ahold of a wand and lobbed motes of fire into the air in celebration. It came as no surprise when the capital announced that not only would there be no more festivals, but that all artifacts not of the mundane variety were no longer permitted within the city limits.

That was the fourth year in a row that something of that nature had happened.

"Welcome to civilization that's actually civilized," Everna said, shoving a mug into his hands. "The worst you'll see tonight is a couple scuffles over a girl who isn't worth the hassle and a tugging match over a turkey no one wants anymore because the gods know Earl's probably going to shove it down his pants so the Guard won't reach for it. If you're really unfortunate and wander too far in the wrong direction, you'll see the depravity going on in the back alleys. Stick to the main streets tonight or you'll see things you can't unsee."

Wil eyed the nearest alley, then turned his attention to the mug, frowning. "Seeing as how you're drinking yourself stupid, I'll pass. Someone has to—"

"Ew. Gods, since when were you Mr. Responsible? Trust me, sweetheart, the longer the night drags on, the drunker you'll wish you were.” The ground suddenly tilted, and she wobbled into him, nearly spilling her drink down the front of her dress. "Besides, we're in the middle of the square, and there's no less than an army of guards keeping watch."

"That's still not—"

She reached out to shush him, though she missed his mouth completely and instead shoved her entire hand in his face. "Loosen up, would you? Your face is too pretty for all that frowning. You're going to get lines and then you'll really look like a gremlin."

Wil rolled his eyes, muttering as he brought the mug to his lips. Satisfied with her achievement, she threw back her own drink. The ale tasted like water as it slid down her throat. Pursing her lips, she peered into the empty mug. Either the quality left more to be desired or she was intoxicated enough that everything tasted the same; she wasn't sure, and as she reached for a second mug, she found she didn't care.

The night turned out to be much better than she expected. She was properly drunk, her fingers tingling, and her worries were a distant concern buried beneath half a bottle of quality whiskey and whatever dish water they filled the mugs with. Even better, she had a rather attractive man practically pressed against her — though not by either of their designs. There were so many people packed into the square that personal space was a luxury.

She'd take what she could get.

Adela streaked past with a small ball clutched under her arms, laughing, as a gaggle of children trailed after her. Halfway across the square, she spun on her heels and lobbed the ball at the boy closest to her. He tried to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers, bouncing once before it fell into his hands. The children immediately changed targets and tore off after him.

Everna gave it another ten minutes before they came flying past with an angry drunk on their tail. That always happened to her and Corden. It was usually their father, as Corden had a terrible habit of throwing the ball in his face for the sake of being impish.

"I see you're enjoying yourself."

She turned, nearly stumbling into the table, to find Witt and Andryll behind her. They were an odd pair, a human and a full-blooded elf.

Andryll hummed and glanced past her. Beside her, Wil tensed; the hand holding her steady tightened on her waist. Witt sighed.

"Andryll, stop staring at him. You're making him uncomfortable," he said.

"I'm just curious," Andryll defended. He squinted further. "Half-elves usually bear clear signs of their elvish parent, but this one's quite the conundrum."

"I wouldn't know," Wil snapped. "I've never met my mother."

Everna glanced between them — as much as she could as her gaze kept drifting. Though Andryll was unusually open and forthcoming for an elf, his presence clearly set Wil on edge. Given the prevalent tensions between their races, it wasn't surprising. Wil didn't know Andryll; he likely expected something other than genuine curiosity. Had it been any other elf, he might have gotten anything but.

Andryll, not at all bothered by his hostility, shrugged. "I don't suppose you would've." He turned his attention back to her and said, "I doubt you'd remember, but you haven't seen Lyra about, have you? Gyles said she went to check on something earlier in the night and he hasn't seen her since."

"Last I saw her, she and Gyles were on their way to the festival," Everna said, staggering a bit. "It's odd that I haven't seen her, now that you mention it. I thought for sure she'd have sought me out to complain by now."

"Even more odd is that Gyles is completely sober tonight," Witt said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the liquor table, his brows drawn. "He said Lyra's been acting strange since you returned. She keeps disappearing without warning. No one knows where she is, and when she comes back, she won't say where she's gone."

There were only a handful of places Lyra went. As she lived in the farther reaches of the town's farmlands, she only came into town on the days she worked in the tavern. If she wasn't in town, she was back home or at Gyles's family's farmstead.

"If that's not unusual enough," Andryll added, "she was near the prisons this morning. When the Guard questioned her, her reason for being in the area was a bit... lacking, so to speak."

Too muddled beneath the heavenly daze of intoxication, Everna waved them off. "I'm far too drunk for this conversation. You'll have to continue with sober me. In two days when I'm not hungover."

The corner of Witt's lips twitched; it was the closest thing to a smile she'd seen since Mayor Ashburn's death. It was the first time she'd seen him since, now that she thought of it. "Yes, that was quite obvious. If your eyes drifted anymore, they'd leave their sockets. We're talking to your..."

"Friend," she said. "I think. That doesn't matter. Carry on and I'll continue my night free of Shroud's bullshit."

The tiny flicker of reason yet to be snuffed out beneath the thick fog clouding her mind begged attention — she should be concerned about Lyra's recent change in behavior — but the disconnect between rational thought and drunken simplicity was far too wide to overcome. She wanted one night — one damned night — where the Courts, Shroud, and all other unpleasant things weren't her concern.

Maybe if she played her cards right, she could run Andryll and Witt off, then if she got a couple more drinks in him, she could convince Wil to slip off into one of the nearby alleyways with her and —

"You think Lyra killed him?" Wil asked.

Damn it all. Even in her drunken stupor, she couldn't ignore that accusation.

"It's Lyra," she said, again fumbling with her words. "There's no way she killed him, even if she is involved. I killed a rat in the tavern once and she called me a horrible human being and broke down sobbing."

"You crushed its head beneath your heel," Andryll pointed out.

"It bit me!" she cried, flinging her hands up. Her knuckles caught Wil in the chin.

Andryll snorted.

"I have to admit, Lyra is the last person I would think capable, but the more we learn, the more likely it seems," Witt said, bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand. "I'm more surprised you're not outraged. This is your friend we're talking about."

"I'm at the point where I'm just going with the motions," she admitted. "If I stop and try to think about any of this, I'll just stop altogether."

Shroud's assassins nearly killed Pala and her mother. Their assassins killed Windmore. Lyra was possibly involved. Half of what Everna thought she knew about her family and her home was a lie. A prince was babysitting her. Her brother was engaged to Leah.

If she paused long enough to give any of those revelations more than a superficial observation, she'd lose what little will she had left. When it was over, there would be time to make sense of it. For the moment, it was best she shelve her confusion and treat everything as if it were common knowledge.

Alcohol certainly helped with that endeavor.

Andryll threw her a sympathetic look. "I'm more impressed you're it holding together as well as you are."

Was she? Or had the stress of it all numbed her so much she couldn't find it in herself to care as much as she knew she should? Witt was right; she should be outraged, not just by Lyra's suspected involvement, but by the entire situation. Yet any time anyone mentioned it, all she wanted was a drink and a long nap.

"What am I supposed to do? Find a nice dark corner to cry in? That'll get me places."

"Better for your health than tossing back as many drinks as you can before you pass out," Andryll scolded.

"Probably going to get my head lopped off soon enough," she sighed, reaching for another mug. "Might as well indulge while I have the chance."

Andryll muttered something in elvish, then shook his head. "Well, I suppose we should see about locating Lyra. Gyles was getting agitated when we left him. I strongly suggest you head home for the night, preferably before you pass out and make yourself an easier target."

Everna waved him off. They were in the middle of the most crowded place in town on, perhaps, the busiest night of the year. Unless Shroud threw aside all inhibitions and let loose (which wasn't an impossibility), she was in the safest place she could be at the moment.

And there was nothing more liberating than the blissful ignorance of inebriation.

As the night dragged on, the effects of the alcohol became more pronounced. Her coherency slipped further beyond reach. The world spun and her legs wobbled. By the time she finally allowed herself to admit that maybe she had drunk a touch too much, she could barely keep her head up. The slightest movement made her stomach churn. The half of a blueberry pie she'd eaten earlier lingered in the back of her throat.

At some point, emboldened by liquid courage and too far gone to consider the implications of the words as they left her lips, she tried her luck with Wil. She hadn't a clue what she'd said; she'd forgotten the words as they left her lips. His response, however, had been a firm and sobering "No."

She promptly decided she'd never take Lisette's advice again.

Much later, well after midnight, the festival slowed. Most of the elderly and the children shuffled off to bed hours ago, leaving only drunken adults and the odd adolescent who wasn't quite ready to call it a night. Everna hadn't seen hide nor hair of Lyra, though she had spotted Gyles searching for her a few times.

As Wil guided her back to the main street, they passed her parents. Her father was utterly stewed, half bent at the waist and swaying wildly as he struggled to stand. Her mother staggered around him, her drink sloshing over his back as she prodded at him with her foot. She lost her balance and stumbled into the keg table, laughing.

The snow stopped sometime shortly before midnight, the sky overhead dark and starless. The alcohol numbed the bite of winter; though her breath escaped her lips in tufts of white, Everna felt warm — almost too warm. She fumbled with her cloak and nearly pulled it off her shoulders before Wil reached over and yanked it firmly into place.

"Quit babying me," she said, tugging at it once more.

"Fine, save Shroud the trouble and freeze to death."

"Maybe I will," she grumbled, though she retracted her hand and let it fall to her side.

Lamplight bathed the snow-covered streets in a muted orange glow. Every so often, they passed a staggering couple and small clusters of younger men loitering on the street corner as the last of the festival's participants returned home. Morning would be a quiet affair, most too hungover or ill to drag themselves out of bed. It would be the following morning before the town returned to normal. She planned to laze in bed until then. The gods knew she'd have one hell of a hangover come morning.

But plans, as Everna learned, never went as intended.

As if gripped by a sudden spell of exhaustion, Wil faltered. He lifted a hand to his head, his fingers pressing into his temples, as he swayed on his feet. His eyes fluttered. Then, without warning, they slid closed and his head dropped. Everna, who was leaning against him as she could hardly stand on her own, tumbled to the ground after him.

Head spinning, she pushed herself upright just as a robed figure emerged from the side street. This agent was tall, considerably so. In one hand, they held a sleek bow carved of dark wood, an arrow fletched with black feathers hung loosely between their fingers. A flicker of recognition broke through the muddled haze of her mind. She recognized that bow. Landen carried it — or at least one like it.

There were several things she should have said and several questions she should've asked, but only a single question stumbled from her lips.

"I don't suppose there's any way we could talk about this, is there?"

The agent laughed, and she knew suspicions were correct. "Not at the moment."

Something heavy collided with the back of her head, and she was out before she hit the ground.

Festival

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