Why did I do that? It’s not my place to police his habits. I drop my hand as I realize I’m still touching his.

As twilight paints the sky an inky lavender, the faire takes on new life. More of the stalls begin to serve food and drinks, and the mood shifts to one of feasting and dancing.

“Ada! Honor a Maker!” Kaylie passes our table, and she pulls me up into a hug. We invite her to sit with us, and Michael gets more drinks and a platter of scroll pastries (dough rolled up with chocolate, cinnamon, and jam into flaky spirals of deliciousness).

A young Valkyrie runs over to Kaylie. I thought I was used to seeing humans with wings, but this little girl—with her rosy cheeks, blond locks, and wings spread wide—looks exactly like a cherub from a painting. Kaylie dances with her and some of the other children, and Michael makes them all giggle by playing a silly song on a borrowed lute.

Soon a band—Simon’s band, the rest of the members in town for Quorum—starts to play, and Kaylie pulls Michael into a dance. They twirl in happy circles.

I spot Rafe among the dancing bodies. He’s with a gorgeous girl in a teal sari—though dancing might not be the right word for their slow-moving, sensual embrace. Rafe looks up, and our eyes meet for an instant before I quickly turn away, only to catch Michael’s eye. He smiles at me before turning his attention back to Kaylie, who he theatrically dips toward the ground, both of their faces shining.

I get up from the table and walk over to where the fence looks out at the view of the cove. I gaze down to where the water roils in its own ferocious dance, years of crashing waves carving a beautiful sculpture from the cliffs.

Michael follows me over a few minutes later and pulls out his packet of fudge. “It’s time,” he says dramatically. He carefully unfolds the linen and hands me a small square.

I take a bite; it’s pure bliss. “They definitely don’t make fudge like this where I come from,” I say.

Michael licks chocolate off his thumb in a way that really shouldn’t be so appealing. “They’ve got some pretty good food over there too.”

Michael is the only Maker I’ve met who has anything positive to say about provincial society. “What made you want to work as the provincial liaison?” I ask.

“I’m only a third-generation Maker,” Michael says. “My mother’s mother—my bubbe—came to the Makers as a teenager on a Kindertransport that was diverted to Avant during the Holocaust. Many of those children were sent back after the war, never really knowing the truth of who their caretakers had been. But my bubbe had met my grandfather and stayed to marry him.”