Alice pressed forward, determined, toward Shirini Firini, the absolute best sweets shop in town. She scrambled over gentle mountains of handwoven rugs, each dense with color and detail. She slowed only to stare in awe at a stall stacked with warm, freshly baked discs of bread, all golden-brown and haphazardly kneaded. Poor Alice was so distracted by the aroma of baked goods she nearly collided with a crowd of men singing in the street; she managed to dart away just in time to avoid the sight of Danyal Rubin, who’d been crossing the road to join the crooners. Alice fought back a scowl.

Oh, there was always someone to be envied, wasn’t there?

For Alice-of-little-color, Danyal Rubin was a nightmare. He was the most radiant twelve-year-old she knew, with his rich black hair and ink-like eyes. His skin was the color of dusk: auburn and magenta and cinnamon all at once. He had color and he wore it well, framing his already-luminous eyes in kohl that served only to make Alice feel worse. She’d heard the whispers; she knew the rumors. The town was betting on Danyal to win the Surrender this year, because someone so colorful was undoubtedly the most magical. In the hearts of Ferenwood folk, Alice didn’t stand a chance.

But she would prove them wrong.

Alice clenched her fists and pushed forward through the crowd with such force that she nearly knocked into a group of girls tinting their nails with henna. For just a moment Alice froze, overcome by a great longing to join them, but quickly shook it off, keeping her head down as she passed, ever mindful of the limitations of her pocket. When she finally reached Shirini Firini, Alice was out of breath and exhausted. Coming into town was always a trek, but she should’ve known better than to have ventured out today, on the eve of the Surrender. All of Ferenwood was out to celebrate, and the festivities would likely last all week. Alice checked the sun as she stepped inside the store and noted she had very little time to get home before dark.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, Alice was overpowered by a heady perfume of sugar. By second three, she was in a happy daze, her every thought sweeter, her very heart lighter, and her hands happily grabbing for everything in sight. Alice knew better than to let the sugar dust get the better of her, but she was happy to rest for just a moment longer before she found the strength to fight again. As soon as she shook off the daze, she found herself sifting through candies with a more stable mind. One fink wouldn’t afford her many options, but she liked to look around all the same.

Glass apples were hung from the ceiling, honey-canes gift wrapped in packs of three; figcherry jams were stacked in windows and honeysuckle taffies were spilling out of wooden barrels stacked in each corner. There were walls of iced plums and pomegranates, bushels of baskets weighed down by gold-chocolate leaves and tens of jars of apricot honey that fizzed in your mouth. Alice looked and looked and never tired of the splendor, but she very nearly gasped herself silly when she saw the trays of zulzuls. A zulzul was a spiral of fried dough soaked in honey and covered in sugared rose petals; and on any given day, Alice would tell you that zulzuls were her favorite pastry. (Note that this confession would be entirely ridiculous, as Alice had never tasted a zulzul in her life. But she could imagine herself loving zulzuls, and somehow, that was enough.)

Finally, reluctantly, Alice selected a single dillypop from a small plastic bin and promised herself that one day, someday, she would return with a pocketful of finks and choose as many sweets as she liked.

One day.

Her single task now accomplished, Alice was in a hurry to get home. There was very little light left, and if Alice was late one more time, she didn’t know what Mother would do.

She hurried down sidewalks and tore through spice stalls and slipped between racks of skirts. She spun around shopkeepers and nearly tripped passersby and only glanced up once or thrice to sneak looks at her most favorite storefronts as she rushed home. Knot & Tug was selling self-sewing needles for only three finks apiece, and Alice tucked the information away. Sabzi, the local grocer, was selling lemon blossom twists, two finks a pound, and Alice took note for Mother. But The Danger & The Granger—the best bookshop in town—had new books on display in the window, and Alice was thrown off course. She stopped so suddenly she nearly fell over and, despite her better judgment, she snuck closer to press her nose against the glass. Once near enough to the window, the first thing Alice noticed was a small crowd of people buzzing animatedly around a man sporting a very trim beard. He wore several spectacles and an oversized tunic and Alice realized then that he was an author, ostensibly there for a reading of his book. She squinted to scan the title of the tome in his hands—

The Birth of the Stoppick: Inside the Mind of Fenjoon Heartweather and Salda Millerdon, the Greatest Harvesters of Magic in Ferenwood History

—and sighed, disappointed. Alice didn’t much care for the history of harvesting. She found the business terribly boring and, if she were being honest, she might even tell you she resented the whole of it simply because she feared it would be her fate one day. Alice had worried all her young life that she’d end up good for nothing but tilling the fields. Tilling was honorable but it was an exceptionally unglamorous job, and Alice preferred to be on the other side of things: taking raw magic and transforming it into usable matter.

Anyhow, she was about to push on when she remembered the very reason she’d stopped. There were two books on display in the shop window.

The Surrender, The Task, and the Long Way Back:

How to Cope When Your Child Leaves Home

and just beside it

Champions of Recent Past:

Remembering our Ferenwood Heroes

Alice’s eyes nearly split in four as she shoved herself through the shop doors and ran for the books in the window. Limbs trembling, heart racing, Alice picked up a copy of Champions of Recent Past and ran her hand over the cover. There, with a small selection of other town heroes, was a picture of Father, aged twelve and glorious, the winner of his own Surrender just thirty years prior.

Alice had always known Father was a Champion. Father won the title for his dexterity of mind and for his ability to retain and re-create images at will; his task was to travel the land and work with the Town Elders to become the first true cartographer of Ferenwood. He and the Elders had been working together to create maps so precise and so easily navigable that one day all Ferenwood residents would have a copy of their own, enabling them to travel from one neighborhill to another without complication or confusion. In fact, his work had been so remarkable that he’d been asked to stay on with the Town Elders ever after. This kind of treatment was fairly customary for Champions, who were considered the single most talented citizens of their year; but Father had been more than just a Champion. Father was a friend to Ferenwood. He was loved by all. In fact, it was often whispered that one day Father would be named a Town Elder, too. Instead, Father had left, and not a soul knew why.