“It’s always been my favorite holiday,” he tells me. “There’s a freedom to it—where everyone gets dressed up and pretends to be someone else and it’s not because you’re hiding or you’re deceiving, it’s because on that day we all seem to acknowledge that it’s good to put on a mask once in a while.”

He takes a long drink of his apple cider. I’m content to let it warm my hands for now, though the rich smell of apples and butter and cinnamon is just as intoxicating as the splash of whisky we added to our mugs before we came outside.

“Fortification,” Oliver told me.

We both know why I’m here, but I’m not about to rush him, because if I know anything about Oliver Matthias, it’s that he knows how to tell a story.

“I’d bet a lot of actors have an affinity for Halloween,” he says. “Though, we do it a little differently in Britain.”

I nod as if I know—I don’t. I’ve lived in the United States my entire life. My only trip abroad was to Amsterdam to visit Anne Frank’s house with my temple youth group.

Oliver has been all over the world, but has recently settled in Los Angeles, buying a house in Brentwood, up in the hills.

“It’s a good neighborhood for trick-or-treating,” he says. “Or so I’ve been told.”

This will be his first Halloween here.

“Every year I would go all in,” he says. “And that year, I wanted to go as Xena.”

He smiles, remembering.

“My mum had always made my costumes and she went all out that year. I’m one of four boys, you see, and the whole thing about a mother wanting a daughter was quite applicable.”

“Are you still close with your mother?”

He nods. “There I am, in full Xena regalia, marching down Piccadilly with my brothers, who were, of course, dressed as soldiers. They were always dressed as soldiers.”

“Technically,” I interject, “you were a soldier too.”

Oliver laughs. “Not quite,” he says. “I was a warrior.”

I stand corrected.

“There I am, full warrior mode, strutting my little heart out when—bam—I walk right into someone else. Another Xena.”

It’s easy to picture this. A young, adorable Oliver Matthias, his blue eyes glinting, his chin lifted high, too high for him to realize that he’s about to collide with someone else dressed exactly like him.

“I’m furious, of course,” Oliver says. “How dare this other Xena—this imposter—ruin my walk?”

“Of course.”

“I look up—because this person is much taller than me—and I see that this Xena is also a boy. Well, a man, really. He looks down at me, smiles, and gives me a wink. And then he’s gone.”

Oliver puts his hand to his chest.

“And I was in love.”