They awoke to sunshine once the day had started properly.

After unravelling from blanket and chair, Lydia and Flumpt left his room and hurried through hallway to find something resembling breakfast. They stopped by Oscar’s room, but he’d still not returned, so they continued on to the palace’s dining rooms.

As they neared it, things became increasingly busy, not least because one corner of the palace had been decimated, which meant several floors of apartments had been relocated, along with a small supermarket, a theatre, two bookshops and a travel agent. The amount of reconstruction that was going on was remarkable and meant that the palace was far more hectic than its normal hectism, despite it always being busy. It reminded Lydia of an immense and glamourous mall, six stories high and thousands of paws long. Despite the carnage it had endured, it retained its atmosphere of vitality, which was entirely unbefitting a recently extinguished sun and continually burning infrastructure. Like the residents of Vierlême, animals of Bisarah revelled in rebuilding and repair as though not only grateful for the opportunity to do so, but thrilled should a second wing collapse beneath even more marauding beast. Indeed, Lydia suspected that if the sun disappeared for any extended time, they’d probably have the sort of celebration that would really hurt its feelings.

The place was noisy.

Hammering and sawing echoed through its halls. When Lydia commented on this, Flumpt reminded her that its acoustics were intentionally excellent so no one had to shout at anyone, and was why their prior row conjured such an audience. Lydia did, however, point out the irony of him having to shout this over the din of hammering and sawing.

They were stopped by an animal selling postcards of the shattered palace for half a hug each. When Lydia asked why anyone would want pictures of such devastation, he explained that because such a thing had ever happened before, it was considered very avant-garde, despite the obvious safety concerns and unfolding insurance nightmare. Moreover, he had several cousins currently involved in its restoration, all of which were thrilled to be part of something so innovative. When Lydia had looked at Flumpt in response to this, the dog merely winked and reminded her of his earlier words of encouragement.“Where they fail to understand, Miss Lydia,” he added, “they more than make up for in enthusiasm. That is what you must hold onto.” The animal with postcards was thrilled then, when Lydia, despite refusing to accept his wares, gave him a hug of such fervour that it bordered on a hostile takeover bid.

They reached the dining halls when breakfast had been underway for some time. Lydia had hoped to see Oscar in their usual one, but he was not. She didn’t mind, however, encouraged instead by her encounter, Flumpt’s words and a growing familiarity of morning routine. Initially, she’d felt uncomfortable at having bed and board at no cost, feeling to be taking advantage of wonderful charity, until Flumpt and Mironaelk pointed out that her recent heroics meant that animals were more likely to feel that they were taking advantage of hers. Despite this, she’d insisted on helping with the washing up at the very least, until discovering that there was a three-month waiting list to do so. Moreover, her concerns at becoming spoilt and entitled to such generosity were quelled after giving hugs in payment, as it induced a humility, love and gratitude that she’d never experienced before. Indeed, after her second morning, Flumpt and the Returned Poet had to escort her from the premises after she broke down in sobs of unadulterated joy, which only worsened when nearby diners insisted on giving her hugs and what remained of their bacon rashers. From then on, she’d excuse herself to nearby lavatories for a few silent sobs and impressive strings of snot.

The palace’s public lavatories were wonderful places that not only gleamed in rose-veined marble, but smelt of flowers and petrichor. In addition, it had gloriously tinny music piped in via inconspicuous speakers. It meant that regardless of how many animals were using the facilities, no concern arose over who might hear what. As a result, the cacophony of flatulence that arose during the dining halls’ busiest times were overpowered not only by Muzak, but enthusiastic choruses of sing-alongs emanating from occupied cubicles, some of which met on a regular basis, and at least one of which had enjoyed a short theatre run.

Fghrei-Plint waved at them from a table, which they wove toward, taking care not to bump animals balancing huge stacks of pancakes drenched in the sort of syrup that was probably used to secure girders in the nearby renovations. The clatter of dropped cutlery and plates from inadvertent hugs rang through the hall and gave the new day a vibrancy that Lydia knew she’d never tire of: it fed her determination to ensure it would endure.

They met each morning with Fghrei-Plint, who’d reserved seats for them along with copies of The Daily Spoon, which they’d spend time perusing until spilt syrup made the pages impossible to read, though easier to turn.

Lydia’s spirits improved when seeing the Returned Poet with him. He was eating pancakes, which was a good sign, as the dog had been deeply scarred from recognising the poet embedded in beast. Seeing him in company again was encouraging.

Flumpt realised the same and greeted him with a hug, which spilt some syrup and knocked over a pumpkin.

“I am pleased to see you, Returned Poet,” said Flumpt. “I have found grief to be a lonely master. The more condolences that are offered, the further we are pushed from others. It leaves us sectioned from the world.”

There was a nod amidst wipes at syrup. “Certainly, I am over the worst of it, thank you—though it has only forged greater determination to continue on with what we must.”

“Like an ailment of the tummy, perhaps,” said Fghrei-Plint, offering a newspaper to Lydia. “Though with less flatulence and more tears.”

“Tears?”

“No, tears. As in damage.”

“Ah, yes. I see.” She took the newspaper and sat.

“Unless the flatulence is particularly bad, of course, in which case tears aren’t unknown.”

“Perhaps tears and tears.”

Fghrei-Plint nodded in conceding this.

While Flumpt went to gather breakfast portions for them, Lydia flattened the paper on the table and turned already sticky pages to the political editorials.

“It turned out to be surprisingly popular,” said Fghrei-Plint, knowing what she was looking for and tapping the appropriate page. “An excellent idea, at least.”

“To be honest,” she said, “I hadn’t realised it was actually happening today. I’ve lost all sense of time recently.”

“I get that with tummy ailments.” He indicated the brimming dining hall. “And I suspect everyone here is ensuring full tummies before things get serious.”

“I am grateful, Returned Poet,” she said, unpeeling some pages. “Despite your understandable reclusiveness, certainly your mind has remained bright and sharp.”

“Not bright or sharp, sadly,” he said. “The opposite, in fact.”

“Of course. My mistake. Nevertheless, it was a stroke of genius that kills two birds with several well-thrown stones.”

Fghrei-Plint frowned. “Kill birds?” he said. “Whatever do you mean?”

“It’s a cultural thing.” The excuse was becoming mantra.

Flumpt returned empty-pawed, dripping in syrup and slightly dazed.

“Where’s our breakfast?” asked Lydia.

He indicated where he’d been. “Over there, mostly,” he said. “I slipped on a pancake and lost the lot. I would go back for seconds but don’t trust the flooring.”

They were interrupted by an assortment of animals with a vast array of smiles, one of which would have sufficed for them collectively.

“Miss Lydia?” a cat asked, wringing her paws as though trying to unscrew the things. “We just wanted to say how much we’re looking forward to today.” She indicated her companions, each of whom ramped up their smiles until teeth broke. “It’s such a brilliant idea. Quite wonderful. You’re so clever and beautiful. May I give you a hug?” Paws were outstretched in anticipation. To ask without lunging first was quite the courtesy.

Lydia stood, though kept the newspaper. Unaccustomed to physical contact that didn’t necessitate security left her uncomfortable, so it seemed prudent to have a prop.

“You’re too kind,” said Lydia, amidst squeezes as she was passed along a line of admirers. “I only hope it turns out as exciting as everyone appears to be anticipating.” She indicated the editorial that none of them were interested in.

With smiles unabated, a dog said, “We have no idea what it’s about, obviously,”

“Well, obviously.”

“But we all love cultural things, and apparently it’s a cultural thing!”

“You have no idea.”

“Will there be buns?” another asked.

“Quite the selection, in fact.”

“Cultural ones?” asked another.

“I’m sorry?”

“Will they be cultural buns?” His excitement was palpable to the point of inadvertent urination.

Lydia glanced at her colleagues, all of which were amused. “Well, they’ll certainly be unlike any you’ve had before.” She gave Flumpt a bewildered shrug.

“It’s just that everyone is really looking forward to it, you see, not least because of the reviews regarding your theatrical performances. My mother saw one shortly after your arrival.”

“My—?”

“Arrival, yes. She’s never seen anything like it, apparently, but then that’s the wonderful thing about cultural things: they’re so cultural and thingy.”

Lydia’s stare was met with explanation. “You remember: towards the end of chapter fifteen in the last book. In the hallway.”

“Hallway?”

“With Mister Dooven. The avant-garde theatrical performance that completely ruined its wallpaper.”

Something inside her withered badly. “Yes, look, about that—”

“And there was also the punché.”

And then fell off. “The what?”

“Punché.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The cat glanced awkwardly at her colleagues, before apologising for her poor pronunciation. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with its correct spelling. Presumably it’s a cultural thing.”

“What is?”

“A punché. It must be, considering you introduced it to my mother’s uncle’s brother’s cousin twice-removed-with-bells-on.”

Lydia closed her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed at the colossal amount of work required to get any of these animals to understand anything of violence without brains short-circuiting.

“You remember,” the cat insisted. “It was also during the last book. A couple of chapters later, as I recall—at least, according to my mother, who keeps going on about that, too.”

Lydia shook her head in bewilderment.

“My mother,” the cat said, as though it might make all the difference. “She keeps going on about it.”

“About what?”

“Punché. It was a cultural thing and very fast. A very fast hug.”

A sudden urge to smash the animal’s snout in had Lydia realise what was meant. “Punch!” she cried. “You mean punch!”

The cat glanced at her colleagues again. “Do I? What, without the squiggly thing at the end?”

“Yes, without it! Just a single, short, sharp syllable!”

“Well, like I said, I’m not very good with foreign dialects—”

“And it was a hug, you’re right!” she realised. “I was concerned about punching Prince Letherin’s snout in!”

“He didn’t want a quick hug?”

“Not the sort I intended! Look, who else knows about punchés?”

“Besides my my mother?”

“Besides her, yes.”

“Well, there’s most of her social circle, which includes half of Bisarah. Oh, and an insurance salesman who dropped round shortly afterwards wondering whether we wanted to consider policies.”

“Insurance? ”

“Salesman, yes. He dropped round shortly afterwards.”

Any hope that there might be something constructive in the exchange withered, as did Lydia, which became readily apparent.

“Oh, forgive me!” said the cat. “I see you haven’t yet had breakfast. I’m so sorry for interrupting. May we get it for you? It would be an honour, certainly.” The others nodded so fervently that something important snapped.

“Well, I—”

“You read your newspaper,” the cat insisted, helping her back to the chair, “and let us get your breakfasts. You’ll like the breakfasts. They’re nice.” There was more fervent nodding and one carefully held head.

After they’d scurried away, Lydia looked at her amused colleagues. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” she said, not sharing any of it. “There’s a very good chance that today will go unbelievably badly.”

“True,” agreed Flumpt, though with a smile that remained, “but even if that’s the case, no one will mind. It will be a huge success, regardless, albeit in the short term.”

Reminded of Oscar’s similar argument, she looked around in the hope he might arrive. There was no sign of him, however.

The dining hall had become ridiculously crowded and the amount of frivolity and excited hugging was even greater than what arose most mornings in anticipation of exotically spiced pumpkin. She looked at the newspaper, but didn’t read any of it. Instead, she thought of Mironaelk and Letherin, and their considerable experience in organising the day’s spectacle. She may have had the idea, and they may have orchestrated it, but now that it had arrived, she felt utterly overwhelmed.

Flumpt put a paw upon hers.

“It will be fine,” he said, his tone gentle. “You had the idea and that was enough. This world specialises in bringing such festivities to fruition.”

She tried a smile, but without Oscar beside her, it felt oddly plastic.

The animals returned empty-pawed and with reluctant expressions, advising that, although they had gathered an assortments of breakfasts, crowded conditions and associated spillages resulted in a barrage of ensuing hugs that left said meals of food distributed not far from where they’d been acquired, though nearer sea level. Lydia told them not to worry, her apatite having waned as the significance of the day’s activities grew. After the animals had retreated with languishing apologies and failed hugs, she returned to the newspaper.

The number of spectators is expected to be greater than that of last year’s Bi-annual Pumpkin Throwing Championships, of which officials recorded the audience as whopping. The number of curries made in anticipation of the event is estimated to be huge, while the number of spoons in attendance is expected to be almost inconceivable. While jumpers aren’t mandatory, flags certainly are, and are likely to be equivalent to half the number of spoons, which is still massive. ‘We’re hoping for an enormous turnout,’ says Mironaelk, when asked about what she’s hoping the festivities will accomplish, ‘while serving as a major educational campaign to help incite violence, foster revenge and cultivate extreme prejudice.’ These three concepts have already been discussed at length in the Daily Spoon and on SpoonFM over recent weeks. And although the majority of polled readers and listeners are still coming to grips with the spelling of these exciting and innovative foreign concepts, let alone their definitions, violence, revenge and extreme prejudice are apparently necessary for the ongoing serenity of everything, everywhere. There are, however, some who believe they already understand these concepts. Fghout Lint, a semi-professional pumpkin farmer from Ghitu, says that violence is like the colour of pumpkins, but pinker, while Gertrude Bint of Reading is adamant that revenge is an alternative anagram spelling of ‘used curry powder’. Regardless, anticipation for the festivities is at a high not known since the 1927 International Hug Extravaganza that resulted in the fatal suffocations of over thirty animals, some of them quite serious.

Lydia surrendered the newspaper and pushed it away. “Nothing at all to worry about then.”