Chapter Twenty #2
“Hey,” Theodore whispers, nudging my gaze back up to his with a finger crooked beneath my chin, “everything will be fine, I swear it. We will be with you the entire time, and if you wish to leave—if either of you wish to leave—then we will. Alright?”
He takes a deep breath, his chest expanding against mine, and I mirror it. Let it settle me. Then I nod.
Alright.
While I’ve no frame of reference for what it looks like normally, Sainte-Falaise is practically overflowing with action and excitement by the time we step out of the carriage and bid Mr. Allard away to find the stables.
The streets are congested with carts and people fluttering to-and-fro, the buildings decorated with leafy garlands and carefully braided strips of fabric and twine.
Little booths and tables are scattered throughout the main thoroughfare, piled high with handmade goods and fresh foods.
Shops have thrown open their doors to welcome in the excited crowds of patrons, eager to rid them of the heavy coins weighing down their pockets.
Theodore keeps me tucked up close to his side, my gloved hand resting in the crook of one elbow while Azizi’s rests in the crook of the other.
He navigates the streets and crowds with a natural effort I do not possess, artfully dodging running children and ducking under wayward parasols—all with a fond smile on his face.
It surprises me, as Theodore has never spoken kindly of his village, if he speaks of it at all. Yet here he is, smiling like someone who has come home after a long journey.
“I will admit,” Azizi says as we pause at the edge of the town square to take in the chaos, “I did not expect this when you mentioned a harvest festival. Though in truth, I have only been to a few in larger cities.”
“La Fête de Sainte-Falaise is an event that has been happening since the founding of the village,” Theodore answers easily, releasing our hands to reach out and pluck two small glasses of wine off one of the nearby tables.
“The stories say that a group of travelers got lost in the woods one day during an awful storm, and while searching for someplace safe to take cover, they came upon a clearing in the trees where the rain didn’t seem to touch. ”
He hands us the glasses, urging us to drink. The taste is warm on my tongue, the wine heavy and earthy as it chases its way down my throat. Theodore laughs at the scrunch in my nose before taking my glass and finishing it off himself.
“The first morning after waking, they were met with baskets full of grapes to fill their bellies,” he continues, gesturing to a large tree in the center of the square, a dozen or so baskets of grapes settled within its roots.
“No one knew who left them, but the travelers saved one basket to make a single glass of wine with. They left it on the edge of the clearing in thanks to whoever saved them from starvation.”
Theodore moves us deeper into the crowd, leading us towards another table covered in braided ribbons.
“Still, the storm didn’t end, so they were forced to stay another night.
The next morning, they woke to find themselves covered in beautiful blankets made from the softest wool they’d ever felt.
” He picks up two of the braids, one made of blues and yellows, which he pins to Azizi’s waist, just next to her chatelaine, and another made of reds and oranges, which he pins to mine.
“In thanks again, the travelers used one of the blankets to make a braided rope, which they hung from one of the tree branches as a gift.”
He does not reach for another ribbon before moving on, which makes me frown. So, with a brief glance at the smiling man behind the table, and only after receiving an encouraging nod, I carefully take a braid of yellow and brown and pin it to his coat before following along.
“On the third night, the storm got so bad that many trees were torn from the ground and toppled over, crushing the wagons and scaring away the horses. The next morning, the strangers in the forest finally appeared, as terrifying as they were beautiful, and helped the villagers build homes and shelter from the fallen trees. They showed them where the grapes grow for fresh food and where the sheep roamed for warm wool. And so was the founding of Sainte-Falaise. We celebrate it every year now with a festival, and by giving back the gifts with which the strangers gifted to us.”
“I would have thought the people here would not celebrate such… pagan ways,” Azizi comments with a thoughtful frown. “Is the Church not a very heavy presence here?”
Theodore’s smile falls slightly, but he shakes it off and shrugs.
“Sainte-Falaise has been here much longer than the church has, I think. Father Thompson does not approve of the festival’s rituals, but he does not interfere with them either.
It’s all tradition now, besides. I’m not sure anyone truly believes the old stories—other than the children, of course—but we enjoy celebrating them all the same. ”
“I think it’s a lovely story,” Azizi says, adjusting her parasol to keep the sun off her face as someone rushes by. “I myself have met only a few fées in my lifetime, but my father is a regular guest at their courts. Tricky people, though not always as antagonistic as many stories portray them as.”
Fées. The faeries.
I know the word, have vague memories of stories told when I was a child, books read to me by a nursemaid I cannot recall the face or name of.
If I believed in them or not, I am not sure, but I like to imagine these people had someone watching over them over the years.
Keeping them safe in their isolated little forest.
“We call them les étrangers—the Strangers,” Theodore says. “No one I know has ever seen one, much less met one, but the story carries on every year, regardless. They are who we thank and honor during the festival.”
It is a sweet tradition, I think, and part of me wonders if I have ever attended it in the past. I do not recognize the village square past what I’d seen when I wandered around those weeks ago, nor do the ribbons or wine bring forth even an inkling of memory.
Did I grow up attending festivals just like this one?
Did my family set out a booth to sell their wares or were they the ones swimming in and out of shop fronts buying whatever might catch their fancy?
Did I pin ribbons to anyone’s dresses or jackets?
Did I drink wine and dance and stay up late into the night with just the stars and the moon staring down at me?
“Excuse me, Madame?” a quiet voice calls out, drawing my gaze over to a small table a few feet away.
A young girl stands behind it, no older than twelve, if I had to guess, and she does her best to straighten up and raise her chin when she sees she has my attention.
“Would you like a doll for the festival?”
She picks up a bundle of sticks and wool from her table and holds it out for me, an eager smile spreading across her chubby face when I carefully take it.
The doll is no bigger than my hand, made from sticks and tied together with twine.
Wool is stuffed between the sticks like cotton, a beautiful cerulean that reminds me of a bluebird.
It is nothing more than forest debris tied together in the vague shape of a person, but something about it weighs heavy in my hand.
Like there is power within these little sticks, regardless of where they came from or what they look like.
“She’ll give you good luck and—and watch over you when you’re sleeping,” the little girl says, tripping over her words with excitement.
I’ve no way of thanking or paying the child, but before I can turn to find my escorts for help, Theodore appears at my side with wide eyes and a polite smile on his lips. “Ah, bonjour, Marie, I see your mother let you have your own table this year.”
The little girl jumps slightly at his sudden words, but keeps her chin raised with pride as she nods at him.
“Bonne Fête, Madame Villin—I mean…” Her eyes skitter across Theodore’s suit and top hat, then back up to his face, confusion pinching at her brows.
“Monsieur Villin? Mama said only boys are allowed to wear handsome hats and trousers, so...”
I do not miss the way Theodore’s jaw clenches at the reminder, but he recovers quickly and shakes his head. “Most boys do wear handsome hats and trousers,” he said kindly, “though I’ve heard tell that there are women in the cities who are wearing trousers now. They’re even riding bicycles!”
“Bicycles!”
“Indeed,” Azizi chimes in, and it is obvious by the way the little girl’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open that she’s likely not seen someone dressed so richly as Azizi. “And at the opera, there are men who wear dresses, did you know that?”
The girl blinks and shakes her head hard enough that the colourful ribbons in her hair whip back and forth with the movement. “Do they look pretty in them?”
“Oh yes, very pretty,” Azizi assures her. “Now what have you here, hm? Have you made these yourself? They are very well done.”
Marie brightens up even further, her chest puffing out and her curls bouncing around her face. “Merci, Madame! Mama helped me tie the knots, but I gathered the sticks and dyed the wool all by myself!”
“They are very beautiful, especially for someone so young. I think I shall take two as well, if that is alright. My father and brother would rather enjoy them. Theodore, dear, would you like one?”
Theodore shakes his head. “No, no. I’ve a few at home already, and I like to make sure there are enough left over for the children and such. But you two should get one. They’re meant to bring luck and protection, and Madamoiselle Marie is the best doll-maker at the festival.”