It did not take them long to outride the little men, but they galloped on for a long while after, leaving the field behind mountains, and the mountains behind fields. They stopped at last by a small creek. It gave a gurgle of surprise upon seeing riders approach.

Myrtle dismounted first.

"Percy, are you under the impression that running from mobs is some kind of trust exercise we have to take part in?" she asked, pinching her voice just into the right tone to annoy him. "I promise you there are other ways for us all to bond and become good friends."

"Look, someone had to point out they were fighting over something ridiculous" he huffed, dismounting his mare, but very much determined to remain on his high horse.

"And how did you think they would react when you rubbed it in their faces?"

"Well forgive me for having faith in people's ability to realize when they're being idiots!"

"And forgive me if I don't share that faith whenever I talk to you."

He scowled at her. The ferns surrounding them giggled faintly in the breeze.

"I see what you're trying to say there Myrtle, and to that I say, it's obviously not the same – and you know what, Valeria, if there's a ditch nearby, I'll gladly throw myself in it just to spare you the trouble of – "

A pleasant sound tickled his ear. He turned and saw Evans laughing. Percy had seen him smile often before, and chuckle, but it had always been the quiet mirror of a peaceful lake. Now it had ripples.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"What's funny is that you achieved what you wanted in the most roundabout way possible" Evans laughed on.

It was not a graceful sound. It reminded Percy of many things: linens hung to dry clacking on the summer wind, the hiccup of a bagpipe, a goat stubbing its toe. Myrtle looked as though she had never heard anything so wondrous.

"What do you mean?" Percy mumbled, trying to contain his amazement.

"I mean that you did get them to stop fighting each other, which is what you were trying to do – I think" Evans added with a little biting smirk. "When they were chasing us, last I looked back to check, they seemed united in a joint cause. It's just that, well, the cause was chasing you out."

Percy retreated further into a mumble.

"And why is that so funny?"

"Well, it can be funny if we let it" Evans smirked.

Percy cleared his throat. He had hoped he would only feel like a curmudgeon until he was much older.

"Is it ever truly the result you want, if it wasn't your methods that got you there?" he sniffed.

"Right, let's get going before you keep going" Valeria sighed.

The road ahead was spacious, uncrowded with little men and their little quarrels. Somewhere around midday, Valeria pointed to a deep-set valley ahead of them.

"It should be at the foot of that mountain, by a lake" she announced.

The valley sunk deep below the plateau that they rode on now, and Percy did not see a lake at all: just the top of a conical mountain peeking out in the smudged distance of a persistent fog. The thick humidity soaked the air around him with the scent of damp earth and dew-heavy ferns. Ahead of them, a large field came to a sudden halt by the cliff edge. Old oaks stretched out taunting branches over the drop beyond.

An idea whispered into Percy. It was sordid, but he followed it anyway.

"Myrtle – I'll race you to the cliff-edge" a child from somewhere within him grinned.

To his surprise, she did not even grace him with a hesitation. She leaned down at once to hitch up her trousers above her knees.

"If I win, Percy, you'll have to wear the scarf I knitted for you" she proclaimed as she rolled up her sleeves. The gesture could not come more naturally to her: Myrtle was born with sleeves to roll.

"Alright. And if I win, you'll have to knit me a blue one."

She grinned back at him. Percy glanced at Evans. He looked stunned. Percy smirked at that reaction, like a well-earned prize.

"Aren't you going to try and stop us?" he beamed at Valeria.

"Why? I'm sure your sense of self-preservation will kick in before you go over the edge" she chuckled. "I don't think that badly of you, Percy. Although you seem to think I'm a kill-joy. Understandable; it's a common misconception with nannies."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

He dared one last look at Evans before bolting for the oaks that lined the cliff edge. The field around him turned watercolour as his race blurred the outline of every rock and tree. The more he ran, the less he understood why he ran at all, and it made him run all the faster. The sun raced behind to warm his back. Perhaps he ran simply for the senseless joy of it. Perhaps it was that simple.

Myrtle sprinted behind him, yelling something about a false start. No, it could never be that simple with him. He had been taught better than to enjoy simple things.

He wanted to enjoy the speed of a race, to turn his time into breeze, to stitch that moment out of the fabric of worn days. That, at least, was a simple joy. But he also wanted to prove to the others he was not made entirely of grumbles and gripes; that he was not becoming like his old tutor, Mr Henning, who would frown at seagulls because their call sounded too much like laughter.

He was nimble and a fast runner – he would not have proposed a race had he known otherwise. Myrtle lagged behind, but she caught up once she decided she could survive exclusively on petty tenacity and do without oxygen. He set his sight on the trees ahead and their spread-out branches, welcoming him open-armed.

A misshapen rock crossed his foot. He tripped and splattered on the ground. Behind him, he heard a yelp of concern and delight erupt from Myrtle. No matter; he could always crawl to the finish line. Every misstep could be fixed by pretending it was deliberate. He had learned that much by watching the tabby cat that ruled his street.

"Sweet waters, Percy, give up already!" came Myrtle's exasperated cry.

He could hear her puffing in exhaustion, but he could also hear her slowing down.

"You can't make me wear that scarf!" he managed to grit though his teeth.

"Fine, I won't make you! Just stop crawling!"

"Hah! Do you think I would ever fall for that? That I would ever believe – you would give up this easily?" he persisted, pausing only to spit out a twig.

"I'm flattered, but honestly, you can..."

Percy gasped. His determined crawl had led him right to the edge of the cliff, and earned him a view of the valley below.

A small lake pooled its silver lead by the foot of the mountain. Tucked between the lake and the vertiginous mountain flank, Percy saw an impossible thing. It raised itself like a wondrous tear in what he knew to be real. It was a palace made out of coloured fabrics; no; a tent the size of a palace. Or perhaps, Percy's reason tried to grapple with the unreasonable, it was many tents on top of each other, piling different shapes and colours into a coherent absurdity: a palace made of squares and circles and hexagons, reds and blues and golden yellows that stole the sunlight, with tent poles for turrets and garlands for crenulations.

Percy wondered, for a moment, if it was just a very small lake, and a very small mountain, and whether he, too, had been turned smaller with the many humblings of the past few weeks. But swarming below were colourfully-clad ants that left no doubt as to the palatial size of the tent. Or perhaps, Percy thought, they were all little men, too.

"Now that's a huge bastard" came Myrtle's reaction.

He nearly jumped in surprise when he saw her crouching next to him.

"I've never seen anything like it" he murmured. "How does it even stay up?"

Evans and Valeria reached them eventually, leading their horses by the bridle. Evans stopped by the cliff edge and gawked at the enormous tent. He had the bright, sun-washed look of one who saw something new and wonderful for the first time. He did not have Percy's frown, the grimace of one faced with something they thought impossible, and who suffered through the sight of it.

They made their way slowly down to the valley, lacing along a winding path that took them to the shores of the lake. As they neared the monstrous tent, Percy saw the simmering crowd that surrounded it. There were neither children nor elders: merely young people and old pleasures. Everywhere they walked was littered with conversations, shouts and swaying limbs, and the air was fermented into sweet wine. There was an abundance of musical instruments, and a considerably lower number of hands that truly knew how to play them. But it seemed not to matter; no out-of-tune string had ever been granted so little thought as it was here. He realized, as he glanced around him, that he was surrounded by that most defeated of creatures: someone anxious to have a good time.

They waded along the throng to reach the wide entrance of the tent, its burgundy flaps adorned with golden garlands. At times, they would get caught in scraps of dances that fleeted through the crowd, like paper shreds scattered by a breeze. It reminded Percy of all the parties and festivals he had heard and seen from his half-open bedroom window, filled to the brim with the joys of those his age. He had always longed to go, so that he might later have the enjoyment of claiming he had not enjoyed it one bit. But he never went.

Just before they entered the tent, Percy noticed a stage built atop of the lake, on a wooden deck that was connected to the tent by a gangway. The stage was not merely a raised dais on a deck: above it reigned a tall, intricate wooden folly supported by several pillars, and from which hung sumptuous garlands of greenery and lights. A few people lazed about the deck now, their hands lapping at the lakewater, heads on laps and empty bottles tucked between half-naked legs.

Percy frowned. There was something odd about everyone he saw there; something he could not quite place. They were dressed in a luxury of rags. They were not clad as nobles, but they did not look like peasants, either, and they carried themselves with self-satisfied nonchalance. He was not used to being deprived of the comfort of knowing, with a single glance, who someone was and how he should behave towards them – and, more importantly, how they should behave towards him. He did not appreciate being robbed of that convenience now. It only got worse once they stepped inside the tent: it was no less crowded there, and the people made no more sense. He saw men wearing ragged silks and velvet chokers, women draped in torn brocade and murmurs of pearls. They wore their hair in a flattering mess that could only be calculated.

The interior of the huge foyer they found themselves in was no less absurd. The fabric walls of the tent were hung with tapestries; the floor was covered in rugs with intricate motifs that tired just from the sight of them; there were incense burners sighing languid perfumes of bergamot, cedarwood and amber; and from the conical ceiling of the tent hung a chandelier, each flickering candle taunting the surrounding fabric. Even Valeria, whose general philosophy in life seemed to be to let the world live its own way as long as she was free to live hers, looked baffled at her surroundings.

They approached a long polished booth where a man waited to receive guests. As was usual, Valeria spoke for them, though her speech now was slightly slurred with the effort of dragging her eyes away from the decor.

"We would like to see Tombert de L'Isle" she declared.

An odd little hunch of a man stared up at her.

"You and everyone else" he snorted.