There was one day when summer had just finished fading away that not a single Northerner went to make their living. Mira was grumpy that morning, having been woken far earlier than she wanted to be. From beneath her furs, she could hear lithe music, chatter, hens clucking, the one aged crow that insisted on squawking each morning, and laughter—Fell’s voice stood out from within the symphony.

“She sleeps still,” he said.

“Wake her!” someone else shouted.

Carrying a child was hard work, and Mira was always tired and so always in the mood to cozily sleep away her day, sometimes only waking a few hours before supper. This being said, her curiosity was piqued, and Mira wandered out into the honeyed light of early autumn with her sleeping fur wrapped snug around her shoulders.

Everyone in town was gathered around the hearth, and many of them had begun to take wine despite the early hour.

Mira was still cross from how she’d woken up, but the music held her focus; it was more sparse than usual—airy and transparent—like something secret was hiding between the notes.

Fell sat up straight when he saw her, like a child about to be reprimanded. “Did we wake you?”

Mira shook her head, even though they did, too charmed by his immediate attention. She yawned and crawled into Fell’s lap, letting his arms add to her warmth. “What song is this?” she said.

Fell’s smile warmed her heart. “Today is special.”

“The light is perfect this day. There is exactly the same amount of day and night,” Dania said.

Sigyn Speartooth laughed and pushed his chair up onto its hind legs, leaving Mira feeling like he would topple over at any moment. He said, “We will make a great mess, but it will be fun.”

Equinoxes were not celebrated on the Isle because finding meaning in the behaviour of the sun, or the movement of the stars was another act of sacrilege. Mira had attended feasts in the past, but they did not prepare her for the mayhem of a Northern holiday.

The communal hearth was overfed until it swelled and stretched high into the sky, the center of it glowing blue instead of orange. The sparks that leapt off of it were the size of Mira’s palm, and her heart skipped a beat each time she watched one surge towards a person or a tent. The music was spirited, and there was always something to eat being passed around—shredded duck, baked apples, herb-crusted bread doused in butter—and endless wine. By midday, everyone was deep in their cups.

Fell asked Mira to play the harp, but after only half a song, he charged up at her. In his drunkenness, he lifted her up in his arms and spun her around, shouting with joy about his child to be.

People seemed happy for them—even Inga, who’d taken up with one of the men who returned on the last ship. There were smiles and pats on his back and well wishes. Of course, there was one face that displayed no joy for the young couple. Likely, Rowan already had an idea of Mira’s relationship with Fell, but until that moment, it had not been confirmed to him. His stare was hard and dark and so intense that Mira had to look away from his eyes.

A plate of mushrooms was passed around the hearth, but when Mira went to accept some, Myret shook her head. Neither Dania nor Ama partook either, though Fell had many. When the plate came to Rowan, he looked around suspiciously.

Mira was also skeptical. The Northerners seemed far too eager for him to have some. They smirked and muffled their laughter, watching with teasing expressions to see what he would do. Rowan took some but ate hesitantly, chewing and frowning, his thick black brows staying pressed together long after he’d finished.

Within an hour, everyone was rowdy, laughing uncontrollably, dancing the way that children dance, yelping, and twirling and swaying. People swayed even when they appeared to be wanting to sit still, as if the wind was strong and pushing them.

What a strange custom, Mira mused to herself as Orvir rolled around on the ground, asking questions about snakes like: “Do you think they like stretching? Or being curled up like this? Or only stretching out their tales but keeping the head close?”

Rowan had not moved from his seat by the hearth, but his posture had sunken in on itself as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. His eyes leapt from the fire to the sky to the sea behind them and back to the fire again with overwhelming confusion and intrigue. He repeated this again and again, growing more confused and somehow also more awe-filled by the moment. Every time a Northerner noticed him, they burst out in a fit of laughter.

“What are you looking at?” Mira said.

Rowan jumped a little when he heard her voice and turned to face her. “The light.”

Mira laughed at him as well.

“You can’t see it because you didn’t eat them. Everything… everything is made out of light.” He began to laugh too, but it was not his own laugh—it was deep and wild, like a Northman’s.

Fell ran up to Mira and pulled her to her feet. He set his face close to hers and rubbed their cheeks together. His scratchy beard, his nose, his forehead—their faces touched in every possible way as he giggled like a child. Then he grew still and stared into her core; his smile left, and his brow furrowed.

“What is wrong?” she said.

Fell shook his head. “There are too many stars in the sky.”

Mira kissed him, but when she pulled away, she found that the kiss had done nothing to soothe his sudden woe. She wanted to lead him back to the tent and lie with him, thinking that might help, but he didn’t want to go with her; he wanted to run around and play with the other Northerners (particularly the group that was piling up leaves and grasses and jumping into the heap). Mira began to understand that the mushrooms had changed those who ate them.

She was too tired to run alongside him, so she let him go alone and took her seat at the hearth, enjoying the steady, eternal rhythm of the drums and watching the frantic fire grow larger than felt safe.

As the sun was setting, dousing the world in gold, Myret slaughtered goats, and the Northerners smeared the blood onto their faces. They spun around the fire, yelping like animals as the drums beat fervent yet steady.

Mira watched as Myret approached Rowan. He still had not moved from his seat, though he seemed more accustomed to the light—he was laughing and enjoying the scene. Myret knelt and pulled his face close to hers, whispering as she dipped her fingers in the bowl of blood she carried and brought her fingers to his face. She started just beneath the eyes, running her fingers in smooth lines down his cheeks. It made him seem scary—as if he was crying blood. Mira wanted to hear what Myret was saying, but they were a little too far away, and the music and shouting were too loud.

When Myret was done, a pretty Northern girl with white-blond hair littered with silvery-blue flowers and a mischievous grin offered her hand to Rowan. He took it with no hesitation, and she pulled him up, dancing and leaping around him. Mira lost sight of the two of them for many hours but finally saw them again when she went to relieve herself in the nearby treeline. They were lying together, in the woods, her white hair glowing in the moonlight. Mira’s face grew hot with shame, and she darted back to the hearth so as to give them privacy.

Seeing Rowan and the girl had ruined Mira’s mood, and she sat near the hearth, staring into the roaring fire ruminating on all the things that irritated her—not just from that day, how Rowan had been so quick to judge her for being with Fell but was happy to do the same thing himself—but moments in her childhood, things her mother had said to her about poise and grace.

Myret came and knelt beside her, lifting blood-soaked fingers towards Mira’s face.

“No,” Mira said firmly. She did not want her face painted with blood—it was too wild and heathen and gross.

Myret smiled. “Today is a day when the gods give us answers. It is maybe a good day to ask the stones about your mother, about her life before you.”

Mira tried not to laugh at the suggestion. “I will never do this as long as I live.”

Myret cackled and wandered away.

At first, Mira enjoyed watching everyone make a fool of themselves. The further below the horizon the sun sank, the more the stars multiplied and the messier things became. No one could walk or talk rightly, meaning there were lots to laugh at. Eventually, however, the chaos of it all began to exhaust Mira; her back was sore, and no matter how she sat, it would not be soothed, and the chill of evening air began to sink beneath her skin. Dania had already gone to bed with her little ones, and many of the Northerners had jumped into the frigid sea, shouting at the heavenly spread of stars in the sky. Mira hadn’t seen Fell in hours and began to wander around looking for him, carefully stepping over the limbs of Northerners already passed out and avoiding conversations with those so drunk that they said the same thing many times over.

Just as she was about to give up, Mira spied Fell sitting cross-legged with Myret at a smaller hearth near where herbs were hung to dry on birchwood racks. He was speaking animatedly, and as Mira approached, she sensed the intensity of their conversation and hesitated, wondering if the talk was meant to be private if she should leave them to it and go to sleep. She was exhausted.’

Mira turned to leave, thinking of burrowing beneath the furs in their tent, but Fell had already seen her. He motioned for her to come closer and pulled her into his lap.

“Your beard is pink again,” Mira said, scratching at the dried goat’s blood entangled in his thick beard. Fell smiled but did not reply, for Myret was speaking. The woman used the old language, meaning Mira couldn’t understand a thing.

Fell breathed deeply through Myret’s flute and coughed, thick smoke leaping out of his mouth in billowing bursts. He and Myret two laughed uncontrollably for many moments before Myret gathered herself enough to speak. Mira didn’t know what she was saying, but she knew it was of great importance because the air around them gained weight and took on the crisp, fixed sound of silence. Fell grew still around her, listening intently and watching as Myret threw dried wildflowers into the fire—vibrant red anemone, blue cornflowers, and foxglove, as well as something with a strident, sharp scent that Mira had not seen before. The leaves and petals wilted in the voracious flame, causing thin streams of fire to burst forth, rising and then fading into nothingness.

Mira knew Fell’s voice well, she knew he was asking a question, and she could tell by his laugh that Myret’s answer was harsh; she was scolding him for something. He ran his hands along Mira’s stomach as the two continued to talk, and, in her tiredness, Mira dozed off.

When she awoke to the sound of morning birds, she was back in their tent, tucked into the furs.

Fell was nowhere to be seen.