They crept through town quietly, doing little to draw attention to themselves. Strangers offered them a few glances but little else, which Alice thought was kind of them, considering how awful she must’ve looked with her sea-washed hair and clothes. Her outfit was fairly ruined and her hair was a wispy nest, and though she looked nothing at all like anyone in Slumber, they didn’t seem to mind. She realized it was because they couldn’t really tell.

In the dark, they were all the same.

“Here we are,” Oliver finally said.

He pointed to what appeared to be a ladies’ toilet. It was little more than a wooden shack standing in the middle of all the dimness, and when Alice gaped at Oliver, all he did was shrug.

So into the shack she went—tick tock tick tock—and out the shack she came.

She shook out her skirts and smoothed out her top before joining Oliver where he was standing, and did her best to appear proper. She cleared her throat a little.

“I’m ready now,” she said.

Oliver glanced at her. “And how are you feeling? Still hungry?”

“Yes,” she said. “Quite.”

“Good. Very good. Shall we?” He gestured to the main path.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she fell into step with him.

“We have to pick up something important while we’re here. I just hope it’ll be in the same place I left it.”

“Oh?” said Alice. “And what is it?”

“A pocketbook.”

Alice laughed. “But you’ve already got one,” she said, nodding at his bag.

Oliver shot her a look. “I most certainly have not.”

“Oh Oliver.” Alice sighed, rolling her eyes. “We’ll get you ten pocketbooks if you love them so.”

Oliver was perplexed but let it go. He seemed distracted—nervous, even, as he wove a path through town, but Alice was experiencing no such nervousness. She followed Oliver through the narrow cobblestoned lanes and tried to be present in each moment, appreciating the scents and scenery of this new land. Lanterns were lit along every path and the sky was positively mad with power, but even so, it was hard to see. Night light made everything invisible around the edges, all slinky silhouettes and occasional spotlights. Alice did her best to keep up with Oliver, but her efforts required more than several apologies to the bodies she collided with. Still, it smelled like cardamom in Slumber, and the pinked cheeks of bundled strangers made her want to stay forever.

Oliver, however, was not having it.

“But that’s not fair,” she said to him. “What if there are clues here? Clues to where Father has gone? We came all this way—I really think we should investigate the people! If Father has been here, we should shop the shops he shopped and climb the trees he climbed and see how the gentlemen wear their hair and, oh, Oliver, I would dearly love t—”

“Absolutely not,” Oliver said, stopping in place. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Alice, please stop insisting we stay. I already know where your father has gone. I don’t need any more clues. And besides it all, you don’t understand how important it is that we—”

“But—”

“It’s not safe!” he said, finally losing his temper.

“It’s not safe? To pop into a shop? Not safe to knock a hello on a neighbor’s house?”

“Not safe, no! Not safe at all! We cannot, under any circumstances, go into the light,” he hissed. “Don’t you understand?”

“No, I do not understand,” Alice snapped. She shook her head and shook off his hand. “You are being insufferable,” she said, “and I’m so tired of it I could fall asleep standing up.”

“But—”

“Now I haven’t a single idea which feathers you pluck in private—(this was a common Ferenwood expression; I’ll try to explain later)—but I can’t guess which either. And my right hand to rainlight, Oliver Newbanks, I swear it, if you go on an inch more with this nonsense of answering none of my questions, I will find a lake and push you in it and then,” she said, poking him in the chest, “then you’ll discover the only use in having a head so full of hot air.”

Oliver had gone reddish.

Humility had gotten lost on its journey to his ego, but the two had finally been reunited, and the meeting appeared to be painful. Oliver swallowed hard and looked away. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. I’m sorry. But let us find a quiet place first. A private place. We won’t have much time to spare, but I’ll do my best to tell you the things you need to know.” His eyes darted left and right. “And please,” he begged, “for Feren’s sake, lower your voice.”

Alice sighed.

“Oh, very well,” she nearly said. “Fine, fine, let’s carry on,” she nearly said. She nearly said she was perfectly ready to be amiable.

But nearly said was not quite enough. Alice was distracted, frustrated, and embarrassingly stubborn, and she had stopped paying attention to anyone but Oliver. So it should come as no surprise to you then, that in that moment, just as she was about to grant Oliver her acquiescence, she was plowed into.

Apologies abounded.

Excuse me and pardon me and oh goodness collided in the air. Alice was dusting herself off and adjusting her skirts and clambering to her feet (with no help from Oliver, mind you), when she first saw the person with whom her body had collided.

Friends, he was the most handsome boy she’d ever seen.

He was tall but not too tall, perfect but not too perfect, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. He looked like molasses had made a man. Her exact opposite in every way. Skin like silk jam, hair as dark as pitch. Eyes with lashes so thick and black and oh, how they fluttered when he blinked. Was he blinking? He was staring. At her.