The night was cold outside the market; the wind bit at Clara’s nose as she walked. Below her, the cobbled road seemed to call out with each heavy footstep, the echo of the faint clicking sound encompassing her in solitude before soaring up to greet the night sky. The stars were out of reach tonight, the light of her little city obscuring all but the brightest. No matter; where she was going, she’d have no problem finding them again.

She grasped it tightly, the note. She had no need for it anymore, the scribbled handwriting had long since been etched into her mind; still, she kept it crumpled up, nestled in the deep pockets of her good red coat. Held tightly in her palm, the note radiated with warmth. Comfort.

With rising excitement, she turned the corner, beaming up at the lampposts that towered over her like giants, shrouding her in light. She counted them as she whisked by, her pace faster now. One, two, three. At the third, she slowed, casting a quick look over her shoulder before disappearing down the alley to its left. Seven steps and then a jump. Not a real jump, of course‒ that would be silly. It was far more like brushing past a curtain. 

Clara took a deep breath, standing very still. Then, eyes squeezed shut, she stretched out a hand and felt for it. Magic. Her father had described it as a buzzing sensation, or the shock of static electricity against your skin. To him, it was sharp, unexpected. But for Clara, it was warm, a glowing heat beneath her palms and fingertips. It felt like home. Like love.

It did not take long for the sensation of fire to reach her hands, and, when it did, she grabbed for it, wrapping her hand around the curtain and pulling.

For a moment, there was calm, and then, as though someone had flicked on a switch, there was magic everywhere. She saw the floating lights first, blinking on one at a time, their gentle glow turning her skin a soft golden color. And then, there was a firework, ripping through the quiet night, the rest of the market crashing down with it. It bore the face of a dragon and left her cheek warm as it whisked past her, a crackling body, alive with fire. 

Everything was animated with color and noise and light and warmth, the magic kind of warmth that made Clara’s soul burn. At the different booths, vendors called out, thrusting their goods in the faces of all those who would pay them mind. Lights hung off the large sheets of fabric draped across the tops of the stands, this time attached to wires, blinking contentedly down at shoppers.

The street was narrow, and in their thick winter coats, people had to push against one another as they bustled towards their destination. From either side, creatures approached Clara. On her left, a witch eagerly extended a box of teacups, the sudden movement provoking a loud clashing noise as they collided with one and other. Inside its cardboard container, the sea of porcelain sloshed, a mishmash of dainty roses and hand-painted lilies. 

Smiling kindly at the woman, Clara gently pushed the box away. She’d come back later if she had money left. Instead, she continued down the alley, her feet guiding her instinctively towards the stand where she often found herself beginning her journey into the market. 

She could smell it before it came into sight, the sweet scent of apple cider wafting over her. She thought immediately of the orchard Father had taken her to visit for her twelfth birthday, of the tight pigtails her mother had forced her then unruly hair into, of the mud that seemed somehow to have caked every piece of clothing she’d worn. 

Behind the stand stood a man of unnatural height, whose back was bent slightly to avoid hitting the makeshift fabric roof. He recognized her instantly, and his messy, freckled face twisted into a smile, ears sticking out impossibly further, making their pointed ends glaringly obvious. Clara grinned back at him and grabbed for the small pouch looped around her belt. Reaching inside, she brushed away the pepper, a safeguard against the nasty imps who’d stolen her money last time, and removed a single gold piece.

“Clara, really? Put that back. It’s on the house,” Oliver chided, pushing away her outstretched hand.

“Oli, you can’t just keep giving me free stuff-” But he was already off, speaking with another customer, a cup of steaming cider left in his wake.

Sighing deeply, Clara grabbed the drink and slipped the coin in the jar meant for tips, knowing Oliver would tell her off later. The heat of the cup seeped into her skin, and the steam gently caressed her face, the scent and memories of the orchard leaving the cup in waves.

With her drink in hand, Clara fell back into the rush of the crowd, allowing it to drag her forward. Slowly, the people melted away, and with the burn of the still scorchingly hot cider on her tongue, Clara felt her heart grow light with merriment as she began her trek deeper into the market, towards the happenings of the night.