6. Dannica #3
“I loooooove the harvest festival,” he declares to a group of confused strangers.
One of them nods slowly, trying to be polite. Another looks like they’re hoping to get airlifted out of there.
“Sir,” someone says carefully, “are you… okay?”
“I’ve never been better,” Luke replies, delighted.
I grab Shelly’s arm and steer us away before he can rope us into his antics.
As we enter the tent, we step into a different world. A warmer, softer world, where the light makes everything look a little more magical than it actually is.
Loosely draped fabric hangs from the ceiling, catching the glow of string lights and lanterns, shadows shifting with the sway of bodies moving to the music. It’s louder in here, the bass settling with a low, steady, insistent rhythm trying to sync itself with my pulse.
People are everywhere.
Masks, cloaks, feathers, sequins… so many sequins. Like glitter grew up, got a personality, and decided to be obnoxious about it, except here it catches the light just right, shimmering instead of screaming.
For once, I’m not the most overdressed person in the room.
Shelly’s grinning, already scanning the crowd like she’s about to make several bad decisions and enjoy every single one of them. “You look incredible, so if you don’t let loose, I’m revoking your fun privileges.”
“I don’t remember giving you that authority.”
“You didn’t. I took it.”
Before I can argue, she grabs my hand and pulls me to the center of the tent, straight into the thick of it.
She starts moving her body, and unless I want to look awkward, I have to do the same.
At first, it’s silly, more laughter than movement as we bump into each other and try to find the rhythm somewhere between the music and the lingering buzz of cider.
Shelly throws her head back, completely unbothered, spinning me out like I agreed to this, which I very much did not. I do it anyway, though.
Because it’s easier than resisting. Okay, okay, because it’s fun.
“Stop!” I laugh, nearly tripping over my own feet.
“Never!”
“You’re a menace?—”
“And you love me!”
I do. That’s why I don’t let go. Something deep inside me shifts after a while.
Maybe it’s the music. Or the warmth of the tent. Or the way no one is really watching anyone else because everyone is too busy being their own version of ridiculous. The careful part of me, the one that measures everything, second-guesses everything, starts to loosen.
I stop thinking about how I look. Stop wondering if I’m doing it wrong. Stop just long enough to feel the movement, the music. The way my body actually knows what to do when I’m not micromanaging it into submission.
Shelly whoops, grabbing my hands again and spinning me out, my skirt flaring, cool air brushing against my legs before I’m pulled back in.
“See?” she says breathlessly. “Not so scary.”
“I’m still judging you,” I reply.
“Judge me later. Dance now.”
The flash cuts through the moment like a crack of lightning, bright and gone before I can fully register it.
I freeze anyway.
It’s instinct more than anything else that has my body going still even as the music carries on around me, people brushing past like nothing happened, like I didn’t just feel that split-second interruption slice clean through everything.
But I did. I felt it. Saw that quick burst of light from somewhere just beyond the edge of the crowd.
My gaze lifts, scanning, searching for the source until it lands on a figure standing a little apart from everyone else.
Tall. Still. Watching.
A hooded cloak drapes over broad shoulders, dark against the warm glow of the tent, the fabric falling in clean, deliberate lines that make him look like he’s placed himself there on purpose. Like he belongs exactly where he’s standing while the rest of us are just moving through it.
The mask catches the light.
A gold-and-white Venetian jester covers the upper half of his face, the intricate detailing curling over his cheekbones, the edges glinting with every slight shift of his head. Small golden bells line the tips, still for now, but I can imagine the sound they’d make if he moved.
Something about him seems… familiar. Which makes no sense, because he’s wearing a mask. Yet there’s a pull I can’t quite name, and he doesn’t quite fit here.
Or maybe he does, just not in the way the rest of us do. It’s like we’re all part of the chaos and he’s standing just outside it, watching, untouched.
He’s holding a camera. My stomach drops. Oh. Oh no.
I push through the crowd before I can talk myself out of it, my pulse quickening for an entirely different reason now. Something sharper than embarrassment, heavier than annoyance fills me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t step back. Doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t just violating my privacy.
I hear Shelly asking me where I’m going but ignore her in my single-minded mission. Stopping a few feet in front of him, my breath still uneven from dancing, irritation sparks quick and bright, easier to hold onto than whatever else is trying to creep in.
“Did you just take my picture?”