She had lead him back to her place first, where they had hung up the washing, before it went mouldy in the sun. She had sent a message to her friend that she would be missing work, and then they had borrowed two bikes from one of her neighbours and headed out of town.
Brightfeather had been going to take her back to the circus, but she knew the local area better than he did, and they had ended up in a field of flowers, near where they were digging a new canal. There was the buzzing of insects in the air and the smell of flowers on the wind and the smell of her hair in the flowers and everything was bright and good and amazing and they had actually talked!
She lived alone, on an estate built for the fishery workers. It was a square of tiny houses, barely two rooms each and all terraced together, with a big courtyard in the middle where people hung out either themselves or their washing. Brightfeather had stood and looked around with mooncalf eyes while she had dealt with things. It was like a village, but in the center of the city!
Technically, she said, hanging up the washing, you were only supposed to hang your washing out on Tuesdays, but everyone knew that she worked Tuesdays, so they allowed it with only a bit of tutting.
Brightfeather took all this in with stars in his eyes. They had picked up a jug of tea on the way, his failure to procure drinks forgiven and forgotten, and lying there, full of bread and sugar, life was good.
Her mother had worked on the fishing boats, but one day her boat had never come back, and Moorheather had inherited the rent. She was older than he was, probably, but not by much. She worked down by the Canals on Tuesdays, and did domestic work the rest of the week. Sundays were her day off, just an hour shift cleaning the flower shop.
As the afternoon wore on, he told her his own stories, of the circus and the Lumpox and all about the goats, and she seemed very impressed. He had been worried at first, but she seemed to find magic even in the mundane things. By the time they were done, the sun was going down in the sky, and on the wind he could hear the happy shouts of children. In the distance he could hear the ringing of bells, and the music of the show, and he realised he had forgotten to go home.
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Over the next few days they met up again and again. On Monday they met up after her morning shift cleaning houses. Tuesday, he sat in the corner of the Lock and Quay and simply soaked in the atmosphere, nursing a thick beer. Wednesday he waited for her on the greenway, above her kitchen shift, and so on and so forth, until before he knew it, almost a week had passed, and tomorrow the circus was due to leave.
It was the closest he had ever come to understanding both mages and drunks, and he felt lightheaded and happy, even when drinking water, hurrying through his morning chores in the circus and leaving the moment they were done. Together they huddled in the green places and talked about their childhoods, so different yet similar in many ways.
He had never wanted to talk about it with anyone else before, had never felt the need, but with Moorheather it was easy.
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Brightfeather was in love. Or at least that’s what her friend in the flower shop had said, when Moorheather asked them for their advice. In-between snapping the thorns off the rose stems and wrapping the carnations, they had chatted. She only did an hour here a week, and she had missed Sunday, so she was making up for it today, working doubly hard to get the floor scrubbed clean, the buckets emptied and the shipping baskets stacked out back, ready to be taken away in the morning.
"He's in love." Her neighbour had agreed, nodding sagely when she described him, offering no advice, but several of her partners old shirts. Her partner didn’t need them anymore, may she be one with the earth.
"But how do you feel?" asked her boss in the pub, leaning heavily on the bar. "It's obvious he's in love, mooning over you in the corner over there, but what about you?"
Moorheather thought about this as she mopped the floor later that night. Brightfeather was gone, needing to be back for the final show, and the room was dim and quiet, the doors locked.
Squeezing the water out of the mop, she stared out of the window into the dim night.
With a nod, she decided. Moorheather was pretty sure she was in love.