The day of the festival crept up on them one lazy Saturday morning. It was unusually chilly for late spring. Ben had awoken earlier than usual because of his excitement, and still huddled in his blanket, he made his way to the dining room for a cup of hot yarrow tea.

Much to his surprise, he found Sybil already sitting there by the fireplace, wherein stacked logs burned in an orderly blaze. Sybil held an old tome at face level while hugging her knees. It was most likely a text from Sweeney’s ample library, and she didn’t notice his approach.

“You couldn’t go back to bed, either?” Ben asked.

Sybil turned around, startled by the sudden question. She met him with a serene smile. “Morning! Of course not. We haven’t left the Hanging Gardens in ages.”

Ben nodded as he sat on the adjacent couch. They hadn’t returned to Dool Proper since they received his rat-mail message and had retrieved him from the Undercity. A tea cup floated out of the kitchen and placed itself on the circular side table next to him.

The pleasant, earthy aroma revitalized him even before he took his first sip. He shifted comfortably within the blanket, his eyes fixed on the hearth as he drifted to more agreeable thoughts.

Orangier entered the dining room and felt astonished by how early they were. “Good morning, young Grigori! I see you are eager to experience the festival. We can be on our way as soon as we’re done with breakfast and you get appropriately dressed.”

Sybil raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “What about Wil and Mr. Sweeney?”

“Wilhelm will join us there once he’s done with some personal business. As for the master,” Orangier waved her off with a chuckle. “Let us say he rarely leaves the premises of the manor. Even the Council of Three has stopped summoning him to its ordinary sessions, occupied as he is with his… Experiments.”

Ever au courant, a floating runway of platters emerged from the kitchen. Strips of thick-cut bacon, eggs scrambled, fried, and poached; grilled tomatoes cut into halves, sliced cremini mushrooms, a tower of buttered toast and sausages; black pudding wheels, baked beans and a mixture of potatoes, sour cream, and cabbage.

Ben sank his teeth into the food, grateful as always for the daily feasts provided by their hosts. Once they were done, cups of black coffee replaced the empty plates. He added a touch of fresh milk to his coffee and felt his stomach relax into a sated state.

Orangier, being an early bird, had already dressed for the occasion. He would be waiting for them to get ready in the foyer. Ben and Sybil thundered their way upstairs and made for their respective bedrooms, and ten minutes hadn’t passed before they were both joining the butler.

With his hair still slightly wet and buttoning his sleeves as he went, Ben followed Sybil and Orangier out of the arched gateway and into the streets of Ochrefriars. They walked to the entrance and hitched a ride with the first passing snail-coach toward Nebuchadnezzar Avenue.

⦶⦶⦶

Ben sighed in resignation. They stood about a block away from the splendor of Nebuchadnezzar Avenue, staring at an ordinary brick wall—although it was far from that, and everyone present knew it.

“Don’t tell me we’re riding the beanstalk again.” Ben pleaded.

“We’re obviously riding the beanstalk. What’s wrong with it?” Orangier asked.

Sybil couldn’t contain her laughter. “You should’ve seen him last time! Gods, he was spilling his guts all over the place.”

Orangier gave his student a look of distaste. “Ah, I see. Still, the normal means of transport twixt the Hanging Gardens and Dool Proper is akin to a Hengeway Terminal, and the Circle gathers magical data from every wayfarer that passes therein,” he turned his attention to Sybil. “We can’t expose Lady Blake to such scrutiny. We must maintain her fake persona at all costs.”

Ben nodded in understanding and surrendered to Orangier’s choice. Orangier stepped forward deliberately until he stood just a hair’s breadth away from the wall. He tapped the bricks in a rhythmic pattern with practiced precision, indicating a specific sequence to his chosen targets. Tap-tap-tap.

A faint click echoed through the air, followed by a low rumble as the bricks of the wall rearranged themselves and parted ways for them. A magical rune glowed brightly on their surface, basking them in its cerulean light. With a soft hiss, the bricks finished their reshuffling and revealed the interior of the beanstalk pod. It was just as Ben remembered it: a single, circular window, sparsely furnished.

“After you—and Ben, do keep your breakfast in place,” Orangier said with a wry smile, and he gestured for them to enter the pod.

Sybil went first, followed by Ben. They took the same seats as last time, with Sybil excitedly peeping out of the window while he nervously fidgeted in his corner. Orangier entered last, and the door slid shut behind them. The very instant he joined them, the pod started its descent down the beanstalk with a sudden jolt. They immediately dropped at breakneck speed.

Orangier remained calmly seated, glued to his seat with nonchalance. The movement of the pod caught Sybil unprepared and yanked her off her seat, but she quickly adjusted herself and sat back down without further complications. Ben, however, was less fortunate. He crashed against the ceiling, and once the pod came to a stop, he fell back down with a painful thud.

Sybil looked over at him with concern. “Are you alright?”

Ben lifted an arm and gestured his hand into a thumbs up while still sprawled on the floor. He breathed deeply and groaned in pain as he recovered from the impact.

“Look at the bright side, Mr. Umber. You didn’t throw up this time.” Orangier teased. “Come. Let us greet our gracious host.”

He rose to his feet and wobbled his way out of the pod. They found themselves back in the familiar, musty storage of the Bean and Stalk. Boxes and crates cluttered the room, with a fine film of dust covering every inch. They made their way through the narrow passages until they reached the front of the tavern and slipped unnoticed through the bar bridge and into the stools.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Their wereboar associate, Briggs, was busy attending to a group of patrons. Once done and on his way back to the bar, he saw them, and his face lit up in recognition. “Well, well, well! What do we have here? Reckon you’re down for the festival?”

Orangier bowed profoundly before replying. “You are spot-on as ever, Master Briggs. How are things faring in the city?”

The wereboar lifted a thick arm and scratched his porcine jowls. “It might as well be a madhouse, ‘s what I tell my patrons. What with those godsdamned cultists, and now we have ghosts stirrin’ the pot, too; from what I hear, even the turf lines in the Undercity are being redrawn. Uncertain times we’re livin’ in.”

“I hear you,” Orangier replied. “Say, would you like to join us?”

Briggs thanked them for the festival invitation but declined to join them. “I’ll stay and mind the joint. Who knows, we might even get a few extra customers, what with all the people swarmin’ around. You enjoy yourselves for me.” They thanked him back and bid their farewells, stepping out of the Bean and Stalk and back into the bustling thoroughfare of Dool Proper.

“Woah!” Ben exclaimed, awed by the vibrant scene that enveloped them. Festival preparations were in full swing and almost finished, with stalls and games lining the streets, each one more extravagant than the last. The air was alive with the aroma of exotic spices, and the crackle of magical fireworks lit the sky every few minutes.

Lost in the spectacle, Ben accidentally stumbled into someone, causing them to fall backward. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to—” He stopped short when he realized he knew this person. It was Sam, the plump boy he saw at the ice cream stall back on the day of the ghost strikes.

“Oh, don’t you worry, it’s my fault,” Sam said with an affable demeanor. “I’m clumsy, you see. It seems like I’m always on the floor these days!”

Ben arched an eyebrow at this strange, friendly fellow and offered him a hand up. He decided to introduce himself. “The name’s Ben. Benjamin Umber.”

Sam groaned as he struggled to his feet. “Thank you! I’m Samson Cairn. Um, you can call me Sam. Nice to meet you.”

Cairn. The name struck a chord with Ben; it was the same as the Grigori couple present during their induction ceremony not two days ago, Samborn and Deirdra Cairn. It all clicked into place now. Sam must have some connection to them. That’s why he found them to be oddly familiar. He wondered if Sam knew about the Grigori Society, but after exchanging a brief look with Sybil and Orangier, he decided not to broach the subject.

Nervously glancing around, Sam asked, “Are you here for the festival too?”

“That we are, young man.” Orangier interjected with a broad smile. It seemed to Ben that he recognized Sam, but not vice versa. As they spoke, throngs of sorcerers and spirits gathered by the sides of the primary avenue to see the first parade floats start their procession.

“Are you here by yourself?” Ben asked Sam, aware of his shyness.

Sam nodded, a hint of embarrassment coloring his rosy cheeks. Sybil laughed and took him by the arm. “Come on, join us then! You can call me Syb—Amber.” Sam blushed as Sybil pulled him along, and together they looked for a spot from which to watch the festivities unfold.

Sybil noticed something in the distance, her excitement bubbling over. “Lookit! What’s that?”

Ben squinted his eyes at the sunlight. “What is it?”

“I think it’s a… Uh, a giant woman with a hammer.” Sybil replied, shading her eyes to get a clearer view.

Sure enough, the enormous float depicted a figure striking an anvil, moving as if imbued with a life of its own. Real sparks flew into the air every time the hammer made contact with the faux iron slab, which disappeared in a multicolored haze before they reached the audience.

“That would be Brigid the Smith.” Sam explained, leaning closer to them.

Ben furrowed his brow in confusion. “I thought Brigid was some sort of nature deity.”

Sam’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. This appeared to be his topic of expertise. “Oh, but she is! She’s a triple goddess, you see. First, we have Brigid the Smith, who represents the creative spark that birthed spirits. If I’m not mistaken, the following float will represent Brigid the Healer, which renews the inner self every year.”

As he finished speaking, they made out the outline of the second float in the distance, depicting the goddess holding a ewer. Water poured ceaselessly from it, transforming into a sparkling mist as it made contact with the air.

Ben became curious. “So, what’s her third facet?”

“Brigid the Exalted, adored by poets and favorite of spiritdom.” Sam answered, his expression turning solemn.

As the floats began their march in front of them, gigantic and lifelike, their conversation came to a halt. Their distinct autonomy was no doubt the work of sorcery. The atmosphere surrounding them buzzed with excitement, cheers, and applause directed at the magnificent display. By the time the third float passed by them, the crowd had broken into a reverent chorus:

“O radiant flame of dawn,

Weave thy light gently into my days.

Blessed Maiden of Spring’s fair promise,

Unfurl the verdant tapestry of the earth.

Mistress of the eloquent tongue and skilled hand,

Let thy artistry dance upon my lips and fingers.

Guardian of sacred wells, waters, and healing herbs,

Kindle the hearth of my heart, and teach it compassion.

Gratitude to thee, O Brigid,

For the bounty of milk and the wisdom of ancient verse.”

Orangier nodded in approval and congratulated Sam as soon as the chanting came to an end. “You’re a veritable scholar, young Sam! And to think you haven’t attended Mag Mell yet.”

Sam blushed, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I’ve been preparing, reading as many books as I can. I’m scared to death of the Triagonal Trials. Oh, the tales I’ve heard!”

Sybil nudged him playfully on the shoulder. “We have heard no tales, but we’ll be there, too! I propose an alliance: we’ll watch each other’s backs. What do you say?”

Gratitude flooded Sam, and he wholeheartedly agreed to the proposition.

As they continued to converse, more floats trailed by them, each more ingenious than the last. There was a fire-breathing dragon, a troll peeking out from under a bridge, and a medusa with writhing snake hair; the ingenuity of the designs was truly breathtaking.

Suddenly, a cacophony of commotion erupted in the distance. “What’s going on?” Ben asked, alarmed. He attempted to move closer, but Orangier stopped him with a firm hand.

Sam’s voice cut through the din, tinged with anxiety. “Someone is blocking the floats! And he’s wearing... A red mask?”

Ben and Sybil exchanged a worried glance. The surrounding crowd grew restless, booing and hurling objects at the mysterious figure, who refused to budge.

Sam’s nerves were evident. “By Fortune! They’ll flay him alive!”

“Over there, warlocks.” Sybil said, pointing ahead. Ben followed her gaze and indeed saw a squadron of guards clad in their telltale purple robes as they approached the scene.

The guards swiftly surrounded the interloper, but he remained still as a statue, an enigmatic presence amidst the chaos. Ben remembered the devilish features of the mask as well as the fortune-teller’s warning. Beware the red masque of death. Uneasiness flooded him.

“Coagulate, Danse Macabre.” The interloper raised a hand and slammed it against the ground. Ben’s misgivings weren’t unfounded. He hadn’t been able to perceive the magic being gathered because of the sheer number of sorcerers and spirits, but he had been preparing for a spell all along—and a powerful one, at that.

Countless blood-red tentacles sprung from the ground and plunged into the sea of innocent bystanders. Chaos erupted as all hell broke loose. A stranger shoved Ben to the ground as he fled, and their surroundings became a pandemonium of confusion and disarray. The Brigid Festival was off to an unexpected start.