We made two short stops on our way to the Cabbage Bar to meet my father.

  The first was brief and strange—a craft stall tucked between two fruit vendors. The woman behind it said nothing as Mother approached, only handing her a small parcel wrapped delicately in parchment and twine. Mother accepted it with a nod, muttering only a quiet, “Thank you,” before guiding us away again with unusual haste.

  The second stop was far less mysterious. Sandra Lynn spotted her prize—a bowl of marbles glittering in the sunlight, each one swirling with color like captured rainbows. The stallkeeper was selling toys, simple and charming, and my friend leaned so far over the table that I feared she’d fall in.

  My mother sighed in defeat. “Fine,” she said, handing over a few coins.

  Sandy beamed, scooping a small handful—each a different color, some cloudy, some bright. Marbles were a game we’d played often, flicking them across floors and dirt paths until our fingers were sore. Yet when I saw the sly grin on her face, I had a suspicion they wouldn’t be used for just games this time… not with her sling absent but her imagination intact.

  We wound our way out of the stalls and into the quieter streets where the vines began to thicken along the walls. The Cabbage Bar revealed itself at the corner—a large brick building with creeping ivy crawling up its sides and a weathered wooden sign jutting through the green: The Cabbage Bar.

  My father was waiting near the entrance, hands folded behind his back in that same sentinel stance he always adopted when watching for us. The moment he saw us, his posture softened.

  “There’s my girls,” he said warmly, his gaze flicking toward Sandra Lynn. “And company, I see. Our table’s ready—hope you three are hungry.”

  I was. In fact, I was surprised at how much room I still had. I’d already eaten two full meals today, but somehow the thought of food made my stomach stir again.

  “I could eat a horse,” Sandra Lynn announced.

  Without missing a beat, Father said, “You’ll have to catch it first.”

  Mother rolled her eyes affectionately. Of all my father’s talents, humor was certainly the least polished. It wasn’t for lack of trying—he admired traveling jesters and performers, often attempting to mimic their wit. His timing, however, was perpetually off, and the results landed somewhere between charming and dreadful.

  The restaurant door was enormous, as though carved from the trunk of an ancient tree. A handle thick as my arm jutted from its center. Father grasped it and swung the door open with a mock bow.

  “Ladies.”

  Even before we stepped inside, the scent met us. The unmistakable tang of steamed cabbage hit our noses, and then—somehow—vanished. Whether by enchantment or trick of the air, the smell dissipated almost instantly, leaving only the faintest hint of spice and hearth smoke.

  The Cabbage Bar, despite its name, was no bar at all. It was a restaurant, refined yet rustic, with stone walls adorned in portraits of dukes, performers, and diplomats. Laughter hummed through the space, blending with the clink of dishes and the soft shuffle of servers weaving through tables like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet.

  I craned my neck, scanning the portraits. I knew that somewhere among them hung faces I recognized—my father, Uncle Zain, and even Grandpa Prosic had each earned a place here in their youth.

  A young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, stood at the host’s station. Her apron was crisp and her hair tied back neatly.

  “Welcome,” she said with a professional brightness. “Your family all here, Mr. Plad?”

  “Yes,” Father replied, “all accounted for.”

  She gave a quick count of us with her eyes, then gathered four glasses and a pitcher of water. With a practiced sweep of her arm, she gestured for us to follow.

  “Right this way.”

  We wove through the maze of tables until we reached a half booth nestled against the wall. Mother and I slid into one side while Father and Sandy took the other. The hostess poured water for us and set the pitcher in the middle.

  “Your waiter will be with you shortly,” she said, then disappeared into the bustle.

  Father leaned back, surveying the room. I knew that look—his mind was already racing, calculating, analyzing. Every tablecloth, every aroma, every smiling customer was being quietly cataloged as potential inspiration. Expanding the bakery into a full café or restaurant was one of his oldest dreams, though he never admitted how seriously he thought about it.

  Then, from behind the counter, a booming voice carried over the chatter.

  “So you’ve come to awe some more, have you?”

  A grin split across Father’s face. He rose instantly to shake the man’s hand.

  “Obbie,” he said, laughing, “admiring and awe are one and the same, my friend.”

  Obadiah Tosh—“Obbie” to everyone in Melrose—was my father’s oldest and dearest friend. They had met decades ago, as boys at a summer retreat, and had remained inseparable since. It was Obbie who convinced Father to move to Melrose, who found him a storefront for his bakery, who cheered every success as if it were his own.

  Obbie was a large man—broad, round, and perpetually smiling. His black hair gleamed with a slick shine, and a pencil-thin mustache perched above lips that always seemed on the verge of laughter. His chef’s vest was spotless, white as parchment, and his brown cap sat low over his forehead.

  He leaned in and gave my mother a gentle side hug. “Martha, you look beautiful as ever.”

  Mother smiled politely, but there was tension in her eyes—a flicker of unease, as though she feared every friendly pause risked some delay only she understood.

  Obadiah Tosh looked down at us with his ever-beaming grin.

  “And look at these two young lassies,” he said warmly, “here to eat your fill, eh?”

  He chuckled as he wiped his hands on his apron. “Dannie’s around here somewhere. Most of the kids are down with a cold, but I thought it’d be safer to keep him nearby while the others fight it off.”

  At that, my heart lifted. Dannie was one of Mr. Tosh’s younger sons—only a few months apart from me in age. Our families had mingled countless times, trading suppers between homes, filling long afternoons with flour fights and laughter that made Mother sigh and Father pretend not to smile. Despite Obbie’s round frame and booming laugh, the man was a small miracle of energy and fatherhood—twelve children in total, each already drafted into one of his kitchens or his second establishment, Tosh’s Bar. Father often joked that in Obbie’s home, “being born came with an application form.”

  Sandra Lynn’s grin turned wicked at the mention of Dannie. We both liked him, though not in the same way. I admired his quiet nature—his patience and kindness, the way he seemed to listen to everything and everyone. Sandy, on the other hand, enjoyed tormenting him for those very traits. Her teasing never earned a retort, which only made her try harder.

  My eyes wandered the bustling restaurant until they found him.

  There—standing on a wooden step stool behind a barrel taller than himself, filling pitchers from a spout. His clothes were neatly pressed, a black vest over a crisp white shirt, his hair dark like his father’s but kept far tidier. And there, tucked into his back pocket, was the thing that made me smile.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A harmonica.

  Dannie’s secret.

  He was already a prodigy on the piano, fiddle, and harp—his tiny fingers dancing over strings and keys like he’d been born with the knowledge. But the harmonica was different. He once told me it was considered a “gutter instrument,” unfit for proper musicians, but he didn’t care. He’d played for me once, shyly, his notes clumsy yet filled with something raw and aching. Even unfinished, it sounded like truth.

  Before I could watch longer, Mr. Tosh turned back to us, flipping open his notepad.

  “So, what will it be tonight? Local? Fjordlyn? We just got a shipment from Gerdelli this morning.”

  Father rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a little ritual he always did before ordering food, even when he already knew his answer.

  “I think local will be the safe option, Obbie.”

  “Tried and true,” Obbie said with a wink. “As it should be. I’ll have it right out.”

  He clapped Father on the shoulder, then vanished into the kitchen’s symphony of clattering pans and rising steam.

  Father leaned back in his seat, his stoic expression returning—the quiet patriarch once more. “So, ladies,” he began in his teasing tone, “how were the shops? Get into any trouble?”

  “Tons!” Sandra Lynn blurted out before either Mother or I could breathe. “I got lost in the crowd, allied myself with a giant, was drenched in Worg Repellant, and saved Benson and Mrs. Plad from a Growl Beast!”

  Father raised his brows, feigning shock. “A Growl Beast, you say? I’ll wager you uncovered a dungeon of treasure it was guarding, too?”

  I laughed, but Mother didn’t. Her face went pale, her lips tightening, as though even the word “Beast” pressed on something she didn’t want to touch.

  “Actually, yes!” Sandy continued proudly. “That’s where we got Benson’s Dream Squirrel!”

  The air shifted. Father turned toward me, his expression now genuinely puzzled. His eyes dropped to the plush toy I held snug beneath my arm—the little red squirrel with its too-real tail and stitched scowl.

  “What’s a Dream Squirrel?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

  I opened my mouth to explain, but Mother spoke first, her tone clipped and careful.

  “We bought it from Senad’s private collection,” she said, her words measured. “She asked for a gift, and requested a magical one.”

  Father inhaled as though to question further, but again, Mother cut him off, sharper this time. “I wasn’t about to disappoint her today. She wanted a magical gift, and she found one. Senad keeps trinkets of every kind—but my daughter chose a ragdoll squirrel with a harmless enchantment, and I couldn’t be happier for her.”

  Her words hit the table like the final notes of a sermon. The kind that leaves no space for argument.

  Silence fell. The kind that hums just under the sound of your heartbeat.

  Finally, Father exhaled and asked gently, “And what does it do?”

  I lifted the squirrel for him to see, smiling as bright as I could manage.

  “When I sleep with it tonight,” I said proudly, “it’ll give me good dreams!”

  Father’s eyes flicked toward Mother. The two exchanged a look—something subtle and wordless passed between them. Then both smiled softly and turned back to me.

  “A Dream Squirrel it is, then,” Father said, his voice lighter now. “Next you’ll tell me you petted the Growl Beast.”

  “I did,” Sandra Lynn blurted, “but no one caught me!”

  Mother’s eyes shot daggers across the table. Father stared at Sandy, then at Mother, then back at me, piecing it all together. My nervous laugh escaped before I could stop it.

  Father slowly leaned over Sandy’s head and inhaled. His eyes widened instantly.

  He drew back, coughing into his hand. “Worg Repellant?” he asked, half-laughing, half-choking.

  Mother covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh. Composing herself and letting go. “One week,” she muttered.

  Sandy beamed proudly, as though she’d won a contest none of us had entered.

  The laughter that followed was quiet but warm, echoing softly beneath the stone walls of the Cabbage Bar.

  The room was thick with the scent of comfort—and cabbage. What should have been an overpowering smell instead wrapped the restaurant in an odd sense of belonging. Father always swore magic must be involved, but Obbie insisted it was “tricks of the culinary trade,” though he would never elaborate.

  Sandy continued animatedly describing how she had snuck up to the Growl Beast, complete with wild gestures and sound effects. My mother listened with a fixed, tight smile—half relief, half resignation.

  I let my gaze wander. Every table was full.

  A family of half-elves sat quietly nearby, their expressions serene. The mother cut small pieces of meat for the youngest, who ate without speaking.

  A group of trappers sat at another table, draped in pelts of hunts long past, boasting in loud voices of trophy trails and secret clearings known only to them.

  And just a few arm-lengths away, three women in their middle years gossiped with passionate fury.

  “Harold didn’t even look at the new doormat,” one complained, stabbing a fork into her meal like it had personally betrayed her. “Walks over it three times a day. I married a boulder with legs, I swear.”

  The others cackled in agreement.

  I scanned again for Dannie, but my attention snapped instead to Obbie, approaching with a tray carried expertly on his shoulder.

  My stomach growled softly.

  He lowered the tray with a showman’s flourish. Steam curled from it like mist from a hot spring.

  Spread across the wooden board were parcels wrapped in pale cabbage leaves—some as small as my palm, others long and neatly tied, and one large, thick cylinder resting at the center like a treasure waiting to be revealed.

  “A smorgasbord,” Father breathed.

  Obbie nodded, pleased. “Eat your fill. If you’re not full after this, I’ll fetch more.”

  Father reached first, taking a knife and slicing down the central roll. The cabbage fell away like petals, revealing a gleaming meatloaf studded with flecks of peppers. Steam rose with the scent of hickory and sweet glaze.

  Father shook his head in admiration. “How does he do this?” he murmured—not expecting an answer.

  “Dig in, ladies,” he said.

  We began with the smallest parcels.

  One held vegetable croquettes—breadcrumbs, cheese, pepper, onion, and zucchini—warm and crisp despite being wrapped. Not a hint of sog.

  Another held diced chicken, butter-soft and seasoned to perfection.

  The last contained cubes of radish marinated in mint brine, surprisingly tender, almost melting.

  The longer rolls revealed sausages—some sweet, some rich with smoke, and some so fiery that Father slid them immediately toward Mother with reverence.

  She accepted them with the satisfied pride of a warrior reclaiming a weapon. Heat had never troubled her. Perhaps the fire in her blood still whispered somewhere deep.

  We ate until laughter replaced hunger.

  I battled Sandy for the croquettes, each of us snatching them playfully until only crumbs remained.

  Father finished the final slice of meatloaf, leaning back with a contented sigh.

  We looked at one another across the table, the kind of full that radiates warmth.

  Obbie returned, grinning from ear to ear, polishing a glass with a rag that probably hadn’t been clean since morning.

  “Ahh, had your fill, I see. Any room left for sweets? Or perhaps a Pop for the two of you?”

  Father chuckled, patting his stomach. “I believe we’ve had our fill, Obbie.”

  The two men exchanged a few pleasantries—old jokes and business talk—while Mother quietly scolded Sandra Lynn for trying to slip a fork into her belt.

  “Souvenirs are for visitors, not for thieves,” she whispered sharply.

  But my attention had already wandered.

  Across the room, a trio of Red Post officers was being led to a table. At first, they blended with the bustle—just another band of uniforms in a sea of chatter—but then I saw him.

  The young lieutenant from Zelda’s.

  Jupiter Nouns.

  He trailed behind the other two, his confidence from that morning replaced by unease. His shoulders hunched slightly, his steps careful, deferential. The men ahead of him were older and sloppier, their uniforms rumpled, medals crooked, boots scuffed. One’s hair was a brown, unkempt mess; the other’s black beard spilled past his collar like an untamed weed.

  They didn’t walk like Postmen—they swaggered, like tavern drunks dressed for parade.

  And yet Jupiter still followed them. Straight-backed, clean, proper—his uniform still too big, but worn with pride.

  The blond one turned, smirking.

  “You’re falling behind, boss. We’ve only got so much time to eat before your big night!”

  “Just… I don’t want to rush you,” Jupiter replied quickly, his voice too small for the room. “You’re entitled to your free time.”

  “Ha!” the dark-bearded one barked. “That’s right, Nounsy. You call the shots.”

  The two laughed, vanishing into the din, and Jupiter’s head dipped lower. I watched until he disappeared among the steam and crowd, and something in my chest ached—a strange flicker of sympathy I couldn’t yet name.

  A nudge to my shoulder startled me.

  “Benethasia,” Mother said with a grin that didn’t quite hide her weariness. “You have a visitor.”

  I turned and my face lit up.

  Standing at our table, shy but smiling, was Dannie Tosh.

  He bowed politely, his small hands clasped in front of him.

  “Hello, Benethasia. Sandra Lynn. Mrs. Plad.”

  “Daniel!” I cried, delighted. “I was hoping you’d come over!”

  “Me too,” Sandra added slyly, her tone dripping with mischief.

  Father and Obbie paused mid-conversation to look over.

  “Daniel, my boy!” Father greeted warmly, as though speaking to an old friend. “How are you?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Plad,” Dannie said, bowing again. “I hope your meal was to your liking.”

  “It was splendid,” Father said, smiling broadly. “Your father’s outdone himself again. I imagine he’ll be passing those secrets down to you soon enough.”

  He gave Obbie a playful jab to the arm, and the big man rolled his eyes with mock annoyance.

  “Yes, yes,” Obbie said, “one day, perhaps. Now back to the pitchers, boy—before the customers riot.”

  “Yes, Father.” Dannie turned to leave, but hesitated, his hand twisting the hem of his vest. “Would it be alright if I invited Benethasia over soon? After my brothers and sisters are well again? I’d like to… play some music for her.”

  Mother’s expression softened immediately. She glanced toward Father, and the two exchanged smiles that glimmered like nostalgia.

  “I don’t see why not,” she said gently. “Right, Arturo? Maybe we can make a night of it.”

  Father blinked, caught off guard by the directness. “Uh—yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Just let us know when everyone’s back on their feet.”

  Dannie nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Plad.”

  Obbie waved a hand dismissively. “Alright, lad, off you go.”

  As Dannie backed away, he gave me a tiny wave—half wave, half thought of a hug.

  Then, true to form, his shoelace betrayed him. He tripped, catching himself just in time.

  Sandy’s laughter rang out sharp and triumphant. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew she had something to do with it.

  His face red as an apple, bet scurried off in embarrassment as my Mother's eyes glared into Sandy. Sandy's laughter died as quickly as it came.

  Father left a small coin purse on the table, the quiet signal that our visit had come to its end. We gathered ourselves, wished Me. Tosh Well, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

  Behind us, the Cabbage Bar continued to hum with life—voices and clinking plates blending into a low, comforting roar. I turned back one last time, searching the crowd for both Jupiter and Dannie.

  But they were gone—swallowed by the haze of conversation and cabbage leaves.

  We hadn’t made it four paces from the restaurant before Mr. Thatcher came striding toward us through the thinning supper crowd.

  “Punctual as always, Calvin,” my mother said, greeting him with tired fondness.

  He shrugged, extending an arm down toward his daughter. “Don’t have a lot of wriggle room with this one,” he said, eyeing Sandy with a mock sternness.

  Sandra Lynn didn’t hesitate. She launched herself into him, squeezing tightly before pulling away with a grin.

  Mr. Thatcher extended a hand to my father.

  “Art.”

  Father nodded and shook it, silent but firm.

  “I’m hoping shopping for marbles is the worst she got into today,” Mr. Thatcher said, raising a brow.

  My mother inhaled sharply. For a heartbeat I thought she might finally reveal the whole day — the markets, the growl beast, the perfumed rescue, the disappearing act. But instead she softened her answer.

  “Nothing awful,” she said. “Though you might want to leave a window open in the barn for a few days.”

  Mr. Thatcher blinked. “Should I even ask?”

  Mother gave a brief retelling—neatly trimmed, gently rearranged—focusing heavily on the perfume shop and the unfortunate interaction with hunters’ repellent.

  Calvin Thatcher looked down at his daughter, lips pressed into a line, but his eyes warm. Sandy returned the stare with a sheepish smile.

  Their bond was strange to most—too loose, too chaotic—but to us it worked. They were a team of two against the world, mending their own wounds in their own way.

  “Well,” he said at last, patting Sandy’s shoulder, “we’ll chalk today up under the category of adventure. Come along.”

  He turned to us. “Enjoy your evening.”

  No lecture. No scolding. Just that.

  Sandra Lynn gave me a final wave—bright, wild, the kind that promised more stories to come—before disappearing into the crowd beside her father.

  Mother’s arm slipped around me, sudden and tight. Father’s hand rested on her back. They both felt rigid, like statues carved from worry.

  I looked from one to the other. Something about them was different now—more severe, more distant.

  And the confusion that had been building inside me for days finally spilled over.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  My voice came out smaller than I intended.

  They stopped walking.

  The busy street hummed around us—voices, footsteps, carriage wheels—but my parents didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

  The question hung in the air like cold breath.