Jane was ready long before Allen showed up the next morning. Her reflection looked like a different person, even to her. She had always thought of herself as relatively plain, but the girl in the mirror was so different that Jane felt like she was getting a glimpse of how other people saw her.

  She found, to her shock, that she was anything but plain.

  The hair she had always thought of as troublesome and tangly was full, curly, and vibrant. Her eyes were bright with curiosity, playfulness, and what she would have deemed intelligence in anyone but herself. With a new dress and shiny around-town shoes, she felt ready to go.

  There was one thing left, though: the small package Allen had handed her, which she had not yet worked up the courage to open.

  She did so now, carefully unwrapping the paper to reveal what looked like a forged flower about the width of a jug cork. It was made out of some silvery alloy Jane hadn’t encountered before. Whatever the metal was, it was surprisingly light.

  At first, she was mystified about the object’s purpose. The flower itself was flatter and shallower than the real flower it was imitating. From one side of it came thin, long strips of metal that curled back in on themselves with a bit of spring tension, creating something like a long, thin U shape. Those strips, combined with the minimal weight, gave her a clue as to what the thing probably was. She was just testing her theory when the tinker knocked on her door.

  So he saw you in your robe and underthings, Jane thought. It wasn’t on purpose, and you know he won’t make you feel bad about it. Best to try and not make him feel bad, either.

  She walked to the door and opened it to find a very bashful and worried-looking Allen. She had already decided to have mercy on both of them by moving past last night’s events as quickly as possible. His gift gave her an easy way to accomplish this.

  “Allen. How on earth did you make something like this?” Somehow, Jane could tell that he had made it, rather than bought it. She knew precious little of his maker’s style for delicate, pretty things, but something about the flower reminded her of the simple decorations she had seen on the side of his work-in-progress puzzle box. “It’s amazing. Am I wearing it right?”

  “Yes. Wow.” Allen’s hand followed his eyes up to the flower, which was now confirmed to be a hairpin. His fingers brushed lightly over Jane’s cheek as he reached past her temple to the pin. “It’s not uncomfortable? I’ve never done those little hair-hooks before. I was worried they would hurt.”

  “Of course not. It’s much too light for that. How did you do that, by the way? I don’t think I’m familiar with a metal like this one.”

  “It’s not normally used for jewelry,” Allen said. “Folks are traditional. They like silver and gold for that kind of thing. I thought about that, but… well, do you like it? As it is? I could always remake it with actual silver.”

  Jane’s hand leapt to the pin and cradled it possessively. “Don’t even think about it. I love it, Allen. Now, should I make breakfast for us before we go?”

  “Breakfast? No, not at all. That’s most of the fun of a day like today. Trust me, you’ll see.”

  Jane let Allen lead her out into the street, which was already bursting with activity. Everywhere she looked, she saw tables set up in front of houses. People were covering the tables with cloths and loading them with food of every description.

  "This is how it works," Allen said, noticing her expression. "Everyone makes something. Everyone shares. You just walk around and eat whatever looks good."

  "Everyone? The whole town?"

  "Pretty much. Some people can't cook, so they contribute other things. Wine, or flowers for the tables, or they help set up the fireworks for tonight. But most folks make food. It's tradition."

  They approached the first table, which was manned by an elderly couple Jane recognized vaguely. The spread in front of them was simple but beautifully arranged, just a wheel of soft cheese and a basket of rolls that smelled of rosemary.

  "Allen!" The old woman's face lit up. "Look at you, all dressed up. And who is this lovely girl?"

  "This is Jane. She runs the bakery nearby. I’m surprised you haven’t met."

  "The one who makes that wonderful keln? I've been meaning to stop by." The woman took a roll, smeared it with cheese spread, and handed it to Jane. "Try this, dear. My grandmother's recipe. The buns aren’t up to bakery standards, of course, but we like them."

  Jane took a bite and found it excellent, flaky and sweet and with just the right hint of rosemary. She said so, and the woman beamed.

  "You should come by my shop sometime," Jane found herself saying. "I'd love to trade recipes."

  They moved on, Allen's hand finding hers as they walked. The next table was larger, having been set up by what appeared to be an entire extended family. The spread was impressive: sliced meats arranged in careful patterns, three different kinds of bread, pickled vegetables in glass jars, and what looked like a whole roasted bird.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Allen!" A barrel-chested man with a thick beard stepped around the table to clap Allen on the shoulder. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that hinge mechanism you fixed for me. It's working perfectly."

  "Glad to hear it, Marcus. This is Jane."

  "The baker! The dragon girl!" Marcus pumped her hand enthusiastically. "My wife hasn't stopped talking about your burnt-top bread. Says it's the best she's had since Shelby passed."

  Jane felt her cheeks warm. "That's very kind of her."

  "Kind nothing. It's the truth. Here, try some of this." He carved off a portion of the bird and presented it to Jane on a small wooden plate. "My own recipe. Smoked nice and slow."

  The meat was tender and rich, with a subtle sweetness from the wood smoke. Jane made appreciative noises while Allen helped himself to some of the pickled vegetables, exchanging easy conversation with Marcus about the details of some mechanical project. Marcus must have been pretty knowledgeable himself, since Jane couldn't quite follow the specifics of the talk. Even so, it seemed Allen was the senior of the two as far as mechanical things went, and was teaching more than he was learning. Jane felt a bit of pride at that, somehow.

  As they continued down the street, Jane began to notice a pattern. Allen seemed to know everyone, and not just in the way a longtime resident might recognize faces. He genuinely knew them. He knew their names, their families, their work. He asked about sick relatives and ongoing projects and children who had recently learned to walk. People lit up with simple, uncomplicated warmth when they saw him, like he was an old friend.

  "You know a lot of people," she observed after the sixth or seventh of such encounters.

  Allen shrugged. "I've lived here my whole life. And I fix things. You meet a lot of folks when you're the person who can make their stuck doors unstick."

  "It's more than that, though. They really like you."

  "Do they?" His brow furrowed in sincere uncertainty. "I don't know. I just try to be helpful."

  They walked for a long time after that, just taking in the sights. Eventually, they turned a corner and found themselves on a street Jane had never walked down before. It was lined with smaller houses that backed up against the river.

  The tables here were more modest, but no less carefully prepared. A young mother with a baby on her hip was offering slices of a dense, dark cake. An old man with gnarled hands had set out rows of tiny meat pies. A group of children had been given charge of a table of sweets. They took their responsibility with military seriousness, ensuring each visitor received exactly one piece of taffy and one small cookie.

  "This is where a lot of the mill workers live," Allen explained. "My mom used to bring me here when I was little. She knew a lot of people from the early days, before the restaurant got really busy."

  “She’s remarkable. How did she find herself running a restaurant, anyway?”

  Allen was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

  "She moved here when I was just a baby," he said finally. "After my father died. She'd been running a smaller place in Harper, but she wanted a fresh start. Somewhere that didn't have so many memories."

  "I'm sorry. About your father, I mean."

  "I don't really remember him. I was too young." Allen's voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something careful in it, too. "Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like, having him around. But it's hard to miss something you never really had."

  "Still. It must have been difficult for her. For both of you."

  "For her, definitely. She's never really talked about it much, but I know the first few years were rough. She had to build everything from nothing." He paused, accepting a cup of punch from a smiling woman. "But people have always liked my mom. She's easy to be around. She makes you feel welcome. The restaurant was successful from the start because people just wanted to be where she was."

  Jane thought about the way Ashley had stepped in to advocate for her without hesitation. She could see how that natural warmth would draw people in. It was there in Allen too, she realized: that same quality of making others feel comfortable. Of creating spaces where people wanted to be.

  "She raised you well, anyway. Like I said, a remarkable woman.”

  Allen's ears went red. "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  They continued walking as the sun climbed higher, burning off the early chill and warming the cobblestones beneath their feet. More people were out now. Whole families drifted from table to table, children darting between adult legs as laughter echoed off the buildings.

  Jane found herself relaxing in a way she hadn't expected. The festival had seemed like it might be overwhelming, with too many people and too much attention for someone still getting used to being known. Instead, it felt almost intimate.

  Yes, some people recognized her. Yes, they mentioned the dragon or her keln or her aunt. But they did it in passing, the way they might mention the weather, before moving on to more important matters: whether she had tried the honey cakes three streets over, or if she was planning to stay for the fireworks.

  She was just another person at the festival. A newcomer, perhaps, but welcomed without fuss.

  "Come on," Allen said, tugging her hand. "I want to show you something."

  He led her down toward the water, where the character of the celebration changed. The docks were busier than Jane had ever seen them, not with the purposeful activity of commerce, but with the relaxed chaos of recreation. Colorful pennants fluttering from masts and railings turned the water into a garden of movement and light. Boats of every size dotted the lake, from tiny rowboats carrying couples to larger craft packed with extended families.

  "I've never seen so many boats out at once," Jane marveled.

  "Nobody works during the festival. Not really. So everyone who has a boat takes it out." Allen pointed to a cluster of vessels near the shore. "See those? The fishermen set up over there. They catch fish fresh and cook them right on the spot."

  Jane could smell it now. The rich scent of frying fish cut through the general aroma of food and lake water. Her stomach was already getting full, but she decided she could still make room for something that smelled as good as that fish did.

  The fishermen had set up a proper operation near the water's edge. Several small boats were pulled up on the shore, and even more were anchored just offshore, their crews pulling in lines with practiced efficiency. On the beach itself, a row of large flat stones had been arranged over beds of coals. Fish sizzled and popped on the stones, filling the air with their savory perfume.

  Frank was there. Jane saw him working one of the cooking stations with the same calm competence he brought to everything. He spotted her and waved his spatula in greeting.

  "Jane! Allen! Come, come. The catch is good today."

  .

  !