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It took hours longer than usual to chop the fruits and vegetables for tomorrow’s ingredients. The sugar-to-egg ratio was off in the custard cream, and the mushrooms for the fougasse topping kept crumbling so they were far too small to stand up to the heat of the oven. Aisling spent the whole evening swearing to herself in her lonely little stall, until finally she put the last of tomorrow’s crusts into the oven. It was already dark, and she still hadn’t had a chance to start tinkering with the oven…

Her stomach rumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten today, and she was exhausted and cranky and should probably do that. But she emerged from her shut-up stall only to find the other food vendors equally shut-up—everyone who wanted dinner had gotten it already or would take it back at the inn after whatever event was happening tonight. Or would it be an event with food?

She turned northward, and sure enough, the Ceremonial Pavilion was lit up and glittering in the dark, swarming with elves. False stars gave the impression of the night sky beneath its roof—that’s right, the Dun Steorra Cultural Dance was tonight. And if it was anything like the Gearwick one, plenty of food and drink would be on offer.

Actually, a drink sounded even better than a meal, now she thought about it. Aisling stalked through a few groups of elves and directly toward the drinks table. Pointedly not looking around to see if Brook and her noble Emberleigh family were present. Because of course they were.

The moment Aisling had the thought, she couldn’t stop having it. She rushed the drinks table to try and drown it out, tail lashing, not caring that she was in her plain work clothes and covered in flour and charcoal. The table spread out before her, carafes and jugs of ale and tapped barrels of wine, plus ewers of water and nectar of all sorts. Had she even had anything to drink yet, today? Aisling couldn’t remember, so—

She drew up short as she noticed a solidly built elf with ginger hair—lighter than hers—staring into his mug morosely just behind the table. She looked at the ale—which was the closest thing to him—and then the mug again. Then finally asked, “Is something wrong with it?”

The ginger elf looked up suddenly, as if he’d forgotten where he was. “What?”

“The ale. Or is it cider? Is something wrong with it?”

His face screwed up into some expression she didn’t recognize. “Uh, no. I’m– it’s just.”

Well, that wasn’t much to go on. Still, if there was nothing wrong with the ale, “Oh! Good. Because I need a drink.” She started pouring herself one. “Badly.”

The ginger elf watched her blankly; she vaguely recognized him from previous years, possibly from the games? She hadn’t gotten to any of them this year, she’d been so busy vending and baking and chasing after beautiful elves who made her feel helpless and stupid and lonely and lovely all at once. But she was aware enough to know that he looked as badly in need of a drink as she, so when she finished her own pour, she stepped nearer and held out the carafe to pour him some too. “Sorry, what were you saying? It’s just–what?”

“Um. Thanks.” He hesitated but then offered his mug.

Which was still half-full. Strange, but it was that kind of night, clearly. Aisling refilled it, then set down the carafe and took a long drink of her own. It fizzed on her tongue and warmed her throat, then belly. “Oh. Actually it’s quite good. Can’t say I blame you for hiding behind the ale table. What with all the…” She waved her mug at the swirling company in the pavilion. Elves were laughing, dancing, and most of all flirting—it was the season, of course, but they didn’t have to look so smug about it. She finished with, “Annoyingly happy couples. Ugh. I'm Aisling, by the way.”

For a moment, they both watched said couples flirt and dance and frolic under the starry décor of Dun Steorra. And then, just when Aisling was starting to think he'd never introduce himself, the ginger elf said, “The couples are annoying.”

Aisling was in the middle of a long gulp, but she said, “I know.” And then coughed a little. Funny how ale hit harder when you had an empty stomach. “You’d think everyone would’ve calmed down a little by now that new-market shine has worn off, but they’re just getting more… couple-y.” She took another long swig, nearly draining it. “No wonder you look like someone pissed in your mug, sitting here watching this all night. Wait–is that why?”

“No.” He seemed to waver slightly but then said, “My husband is avoiding me.”

“Oh!” Aisling took a step nearer so she could lower her voice. “That would do it. What happened?”

Again, the ginger elf hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Aisling nodded seriously. “That’s the worst kind. I bet that’s what Brook thinks about me right now. She doesn’t know why I’m avoiding her.” Ugh. As if this was Aisling’s fault. Brook was the one who went through lovers every summer. She was just mad that Aisling had beat her to the punch, this time.

Aisling snagged the carafe again with her tail. Then she realized that this ginger elf had no idea who “Brook” was, so she added, “My fiancée. My fake fiancée, I mean.”

“Fake fiancée?” His gaze snagged on her tail, though.

She was used to that and never minded curiosity. It was a very interesting tail. “Yes, she’s—incredibly gorgeous.” She passed the carafe into her hand and filled her mug again. “I know, not many tails around, but I think they’ll be the next big thing. It’s so convenient.”

“I, I know. My husband has a–“ He straightened, as if suddenly struck by lightning, sloshing ale over one of his large, pale hands.

“A tail?” She guessed. “Did he get it from Laurel Lushroot?”

“He– No. Yes. I have to go.” The ginger elf sat down his mug and bolted, disappearing into the night just like that.

Definitely an athlete of some kind, to move that quickly. Someone called a name after him, Beacon something-or-other. Or maybe the ale was affecting her already.

Aisling shrugged and picked up the mug he’d left behind. Two was better than one, after all.

Her head hurt.

Actually, so did her back.

And her tail.