At the stroke of midnight, Quentin felt the great whirring inside him again. The inn wanted to move. He braced himself for the familiar howling of winds that coursed through him. He gritted his teeth. The floorboards and the stones of the fireplace rattled and shook, and in a blink, he knew even before opening the curtains that the inn had moved. Looking outside, he saw a clear view of a large street leading to the town square, close enough to see the lanterns, their warm lights pooling against the dark blue of the night.

Finn showed no awareness that the inn had materialized in another place. He greeted the innkeeper cheerfully, delighting in the porridge waiting for him at the bar. What did strike him was the late sun about to set. The young apprentice blinked at the window. “By the gods! I slept that long?! I have to go!” He waved a hasty farewell to Quentin and sprinted out the doors to set up his stall.

“Good luck, friend,” Quentin called after him.

Ophelia came into the inn breathlessly not long after. She looked at the inn wildly. “When?”

“Midnight.”

Ophelia was with Lyke, the lad towering over almost everyone walking in the street. He was carrying boxes and satchels that clinked together. She showed them to Quentin: jars of jam and other preserves they made at Gorrimer Hill. She gave one to Quentin.

“Quick, bake some cookies and wrap them with your thickest cloth," Ophelia said. "I think it’ll sell well on the market. You can lock up for a day.” She held out her hand. She was smiling wide, excited for Quentin to accompany her.

“I can’t leave the inn, Ophelia. I’m… I think I’m part of it.” Quentin motioned to the entirety of the inn.

Ophelia dropped her hand. She looked thoughtful. “I can sell your cookies for you, then. Not to the red guards, of course.”

When Quentin had finished baking, he said, “I’ll gladly buy some cream, milk, sugar, eggs, and other crops from you or the other stalls there.” He handed her a pouch of coins. She weighed it on her hand, gave Quentin a sad smile, and whisked Lyke away into the source of merriment.

When old Tom and young Gilbert poked briefly inside for warm stew and cookies, they, too, did not bat an eye that the inn was not in its usual place. They ate fast; no guests arrived after them after they left,

The sounds from outside carried faintly throughout the inn. The sky turned orange, the lanterns brightened. Quentin brought the already clean mugs and bowl to the table nearest the window and wiped them anew. The streets were packed with excited shoppers holding baskets and brightly colored parchment. They held the arms of their partners or the hands of their children. The sun was falling pleasantly on the town square. He saw other people dining in and out of the other establishments, with wooden signs of foaming tankards and boars with huge tusks.

He had a trickle of customers compared to the other inns. Quentin didn’t mind at all. He knew that this was an inn for those who needed it. Besides, he had no food for all of Brikkenbale. When the sky was the color of bruised grapes and the lanterns glowed a bright, welcoming yellow, he saw more of the richer folks from Brewlithe glide through the thoroughfares leading to the town square. There was even a lady, hair as wide as a house, who had hired red soldiers to accompany her. Little candles encased in red glass were hung on wires on the streets, illuminating the path. The young innkeeper stayed there for quite some time, humming to himself.

Quentin pressed his ears to the doorframe and listened to the incoherent babble of villagers, interspersed with bits of laughter. He walked back when he heard Ophelia’s familiar steps. She rapped her knuckles on the door and stepped inside, her basket full of small empty jars and boxes. Her first night of selling her wares at the night festival was a success. She handed him the pouch of coins he gave her, considerably lighter, along with warm buns with butter and garlic spread on a glazed brown surface. They enjoyed each other’s company in the silence, smiling as the pastry softened inside their mouths.

“I have something else,” she said as she brought out many-colored pouches of seeds. “There are turnips there, and cabbage, and carrots. Oh! And here’s what you made from your cookies. They didn’t sell as well as the bakers’ but you still made a profit.”

Quentin checked the pouch. There were copper coins enough to make one whole silver. “This much?”

Ophelia shrugged. “The night market is known to either overprice or go on sale. The richer folks I sold high, the common folk like us get free taste tests and discounts.”

Quentin pocketed the money. He arranged his new ingredients inside the pantry as Ophelia finished her butter-garlic buns, the glass sliding pleasantly against the wood. Ophelia started to say something when Quentin heard a lad’s voice from the fireplace.

“What’s wrong?” Ophelia said when she saw Quentin’s face.

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“Danger,” he said.

Ophelia brought her staff that evening. She stood and directed it at the door, the crystal charging for a blinding spell. The voice from last night sounded pained. It grunted and winced and spat.

“Someone needs our help. Outside!”

Quentin cracked the door open, even though he wanted to bolt straight out and confront the chaos. Under the low candlelit alley not far from where he stood, Quentin saw red soldiers kicking what looked like a common street urchin. Three grown men attacking a defenseless kid.

He had grabbed a rock–he was always picking up rocks to fight off red soldiers–and threw it right at one of the soldier’s backs. The soldier grunted and crumpled to the ground just as Ophelia brought her staff out and whispered an incantation that summoned a cold blast of wind magic that threw them off their feet, rolling them away from their victim. Quentin hurried to the boy and dragged him back inside. The doors shut and the candles dimmed themselves. Quentin and Ophelia placed a hand on the boy’s mouth just in case he was still confused about what was happening and would shout for help. But the red soldiers didn’t even bother to look for him: Quentin heard them return to the plaza.

“You told me that only white mages can summon wind magic,” Quentin said to Ophelia. The cleric was glowing softly, like a candle about to light up.

Ophelia closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on her surroundings. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She was fighting against the rules of promotion set by the gods and ancient kings. She would not be bound to the red soldiers, but she was denying the progress destined for her. Quentin thought she would be a formidable white mage indeed. A moment later, she relaxed and blew out a breath. Nodding that she was all right, they turned their attention back to their new guest. Ophelia gently removed the hood covering half his face.

Ophelia sucked in a breath. “Those monsters.”

“I know him,” Quentin said.

He parted the boy’s long fair hair to reveal his blue and bloody face; one eye swollen, cheeks and lips cut. Ophelia recovered enough to raise her staff and hover it next to the fair-haired boy’s injuries.

As she began to heal, summoning cool wind around the boy, he said weakly, “I’m a thief, sister. Don’t waste your magic on me.”

“Did you hurt anyone?” When the thief shook his head, Ophelia said, “Didn’t think so.” The crystal glowed as she continued to heal him. Quentin was ready with another cookie to recharge her magic. Once she was done, Ophelia checked him over and smiled at him warmly. “Sit down by the bar, love."

The thief lost all his cockiness from last night and did what he was told. He touched his face and lips. He touched his ribs and checked his arms for bruises. “You’re good,” he said to Ophelia. Quentin rekindled the fireplace to warm the stew. He slid a warm bowl towards the boy.

“I don’t have any money to pay you–well” he winced, “I did have money but it wasn’t mine.”

“It’s all right,” Quentin said.

They turned away from him as he finished his meal. Ophelia smiled a little as she heard the rapid sound of a spoon dipping onto bowl and the soft slurping of stew. When he turned around, the boy asked Quentin softly, “Can I have more?”

Quentin served him a second round of stew. When he finished attacking that, Ophelia asked, “What happened, lad?”

“Theo,” the thief said, wiping his lips. “You can have my name. I stole from the red soldiers.”

Ophelia closed her eyes. “Theo, lad, that was a stupid thing to do.”

“I only steal from the crooks who stole from us,” he said defensively. “I’m usually careful. And just like you, I’m really good at what I do. They don’t notice me. Usually. It was just a bad night. They were drunk and I got careless.”

“Your bad night could have ended up killing you. You know what happens to prisoners.”

“We’re starving either way,” Theo said darkly.

Ophelia looked at him, and she looked outside the door. “Come to Gorrimer Hill. There’s–”

“No,” Theo said quickly. “I know how you barely scrape by. Thank you, Sister Ophelia, truly, but I’d rather take my chances out in the streets than be a drain on your resources.” Theo stood. Quentin did not remember Ophelia giving her name. Sensing this, Theo added, “I know who you are and the good you’re doing.” He turned to Quentin. “And thanks for the grub, Mister…?”

“Quentin. Just call me Quentin.”

“Quentin. I’ve got to go.” Theo showed them his spoils. “This is what I stole. Medicines they got from the potioneers. That’s also why I targeted the apothecary guy. I need it back home. There’s some people there that need it more than I do.” He looked at her staff. “It ain’t the kind of sickness that heals with your white magic, not even from a powerful mage like you.”

“I’m not a–”

“I know. In my mind… in a lot of our minds, you are, though. But it’s good thinking that you don’t promote here.”

“Theo, I know that–”

A distant explosion cut Ophelia mid-sentence. It sounded nastier than the splintering noises she summoned some nights past when she destroyed the red soldiers' supply storages. Quentin, Ophelia, and Theo looked at each other in alarm. The floorboards rattled mildly when another explosion came. Then another. Then another. Alarms and whistles blared.

The red soldiers shouted from the streets. “Stay in your cottages. The night market festival will continue tomorrow. We’ve apprehended the thieves in their hideout. Everything is safe. Go back to your cottages.”

Theo looked stricken. “No,” he whispered and slumped against the bar, shoulders low.