Golden light sparkles off the Destiny’s varnish from another caravan’s bonfire, which is still surrounded by masked people of every age and background talking and laughing, their voices ringing to the distant mountains.

“Think we have time for cake before we make a run for it?” I lean against the sleek, smooth wood and watch Isolde pick the lock. After three years, you’d think we would have found time to buy a new lock, or at the very least have a key made. We keep telling ourselves we’ll get around to it someday.

Someday is starting to look more like never.

Finally, her thoughtful look loosens up into a smile. “There’s always time for cake.” One thing we do have in common: a monstrous sweet tooth.

The lock clicks, and the door swings open, as if the wagon is welcoming us home.

I reach for the closest lantern, twisting the dial that sparks a small flame onto its wick. I probably would have lost my mind in a claustrophobic fit long ago if not for the abundant light let in by the windows during the day. We don’t have an inch to spare. Two stacked bunks, partly hidden by a bookshelf, butt up against the back wall. A tiny wood stove and what I can only call the suggestion of a kitchen line one side. On the other, a heavy wooden chest secures our possessions and doubles as a bench.

Home.

I let out a sigh as my fingers scramble with my mask’s ties. Isolde stretches, shrugging off her carefully curated streetwise persona like an itchy coat. She kicks off her boots and tears her mask off her face, plopping down cross-legged on the floor next to the bench. I catch the look she gives my hand and bury it surreptitiously in my skirt, out of sight. But she doesn’t bring it up again. She knows there’s no point trying to talk to me about something before I’m ready. And I’m not... I can’t—

Focus. One thing at a time.

It’s a relief to take my mask off. I’d almost gotten used to its itch, but the sudden breath of fresh air on the upper half of my face is a relief. I hope it won’t leave a lasting rash. I toss the cheap, ugly thing next to Isolde’s in the corner.

A distressed meow splits the dim atmosphere, followed by the scuffling of footsteps.

Of course, we don’t have a cat.

One cold night, just a few months after we claimed the wagon, I found a tiny, injured kitten, the color of fuzzy midnight. We took it in to nurse it back to health and only discovered later that it wasn’t actually a cat. It never had been.

“Don’t be like that, Birch,” I scold. “We’ll pick them up later.”

I go to work quickly, swaying on my toes as I reach for our battered tin plates. The shelves are stacked to the ceiling to take advantage of every possible inch of space, and I get the sneaking feeling that Birch put the plates up where I’d struggle to reach them for his own amusement.