When Mat pulled up to the cottage that evening, the clouds looked ready to unleash a thunderstorm, though snow was still falling deceptively light.

Gran huffed when he strode through the door. "There he is!" She quit her task of canning fruit to put her hands on her hips, her apron disheveled. "Thought thieves may have strung you up by your thumbs and made off with my harvest."

A salad prepared for the girl already occupied her spot at the table. Mat tossed the lamb chops beside it, then threw up his hands in mock offense.

"You left me to haul three pantries worth of merchandise alone, then deny my part in helping farm said merchandise? Keep it up old woman, and I won't bake a single croissant all winter."

Gran threw a wooden spoon at his head that he caught midair.

He sidled up to her at the counter and grabbed an apple slice before she could slap his hand away. He stuck out his tongue in triumph, then plopped it into his mouth.

"Always knew I should have traded you in for a respectable man servant. How grabby you are," Gran groused.

"A small price to pay for family, surely." He went for another—this time Gran was faster.

"I'm a growing boy, Gran!"

"Then get to salting those pork chops so we can eat!"

"I skipped lunch," he said pleadingly.

"Oh, so that's not cinnamon I smell on your breath?"

Taking a wide step back, he gave her a sly look.

"Where's the girl?" he asked, reaching around the old woman and nabbing another slice.

She elbowed him in the ribs.

"Reading of course. It's a wonder what good any of that knowledge does with her tongue so tied."

Mat tapped his temple. "You mistake banter for intelligence."

"And you mistake silence for mystery."

"Don't underestimate me, Gran."

"I'll do as I please," she said, but pulled him down to her level to give him a swift kiss on the head before returning to canning. "Salt those chops, boy."

Mat unwrapped the meat, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, and slapped it onto the cookfire.

"Old man Elis says hello."

"Stop that."

"He said the same about my loving title for you."

"He's a stripling compared to me.

"Did you tell old man Elis you were shirking your duties to play with toys in his ramshackle shop?"

"That's not very nice."

Gran scoffed. "Mystians would sooner have their little ones play with sticks and rocks in the road, than venture into that unworldly place."

"Mhm, where better to find a fitting gift?"

"Pray tell, what could you possibly think I'd want from Elis' shop?"

"Not for you."

The words left his mouth like arrowheads, striking the old woman in the back. Gran turned to him with the gravity of someone told the world was ending and in that moment knew it to be true. Cowed by her stormy gaze, Mat couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. He had practiced what to say all the way home but when it came time to tell even a partial truth, he clammed up.

"I bargained with Elis to give me his phonograph. Cylinders, too," he said, pride wavering as the last word stumbled over his lip.

"Boy, tell me you did not tell him about the girl," she whispered.

"No. Well, yes."

His skin crawled as an onslaught of emotions tore across her face.

"I told him about her, but not as herself."

Jowls shaking, Gran looked on in horror as if he were growing two heads right before her eyes. She grabbed him by the arm, hauled him into her room and swiftly closed the door.

"I never thought I'd have to remind you to keep mum about that girl," she whispered scathingly.

Her caution to keep Snow out of it at least stifled her fury.

"She has a name now." Right away he knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

"I could strangle you," she seethed, looking good for her word.

"I only told him a distant cousin was staying for a span—"

"Great, so he'll think it harmless to mention our visitor in mere musings with townies. Everyone's gobs will be full of the news!"

"He doesn't seem to have many acquaintances."

"That's not the point!" she said much louder, slamming her fist against the doorframe; a splintering of wood singed the air.

"Do you have plans to put a cap on her stay here anytime soon?" she asked, back to a strangled whisper.

Stuck dumb by the hot anger rolling off her in waves, it was all he could do to shake his head.

"Then if not for yourself and not for me, think of the girl. We keep to ourselves, but they will wonder why we never bring her around when we go into town for fare or festival, they will marvel at why we hide her away. One may even dare pay a visit, and what begins as innocent curiosity will breed into insidious intent the first time they set eyes on her.

"She is not human," Gran pressed. "What she is, what little we know, slipped into us, and we wrestled with it, but ultimately let it lie. You are smarter, better—the world won't be so kind. What they don't understand will gnaw at them until they skin her to see what's inside."

Of course, Mat had felt more than an iota of doubt when he so easily parted with their greatest secret, but he had swallowed it. Even now, while he understood Gran's fear, he thought she overestimated how much anyone else cared about their tiny cottage over the hill.

He knew he should call it quits, apologize, admit his folly, but with a stubbornness only children on the cusp of adulthood know, instead he whispered: "You didn't see, but I did. When that thing fell from the sky, they wanted nothing to do with it, even now they don't talk about it."

Desperation leaked out of her like sweat as she leaned in close, jamming a finger to her temple. "Out of sight. Out of mind. You said yourself there was nothing left. It fell from that blasted airship, an unreachable island, and without the means to investigate, they do not speculate." She pointed toward the kitchen. "This one's living, breathing. Should they see her, a constant reminder of the omen that fell from the sky that day holed up on the horizon, they will remember how it soothed them to bury it.

"As we speak those people prepare for that damnable celebration of conquerors who thought they got every last one," she said, poking him in the chest, one for each of her last three words. "You think it matters to those fools that she doesn't wear a bone mask or live in a hut that sprouted from a magic seed? It's all the same to them."

Of course, she was right. A big part of him had known it all along. Such brash slips as the one he had made today only served to put them all at undue risk.

"I'm sorry." He surprised himself to find it true. "It was stupid and selfish."

Gran reached out and squeezed his arm. "You have a big heart, boy. I just don't want you to choke on it."

As Mat opened the door, he swore he saw a flash of white through the crack of the other bedroom door. But when he lingered outside, Snow still sat on the floor, nose thrust in a book.

He waved Gran to the front door and she followed him out.

The snowflakes had grown fat. They fell fast and wet as he and Gran made toward the cart.

Determined to not make the phonograph a sore spot between them, Mat was eager to show her the contraption.

"Come see the phonograph," he said, brushing the snow from the top of the box now bowing with moisture before opening it. "It plays music," he added at her mystified look.

"I know that," she spat, lip curled. "How?"

Mat pointed to all the parts in turn and recited their corresponding functions as Elis had taught him orbits ago.

Looking perplexed, she shook her head. "And what did you barter for such a fancy box?"

The phonograph instantly grew heavier in his arms.

He paused too long.

"Mat," she said curtly.

"A moon or two of my time," he lied.

It would probably take many moons, orbits even; he had never heard Captain Agatha complain of any run-ins with pirates, and if another phonograph existed anywhere on the planet, it was most likely locked up in some grand estate nowhere near a hamlet where the arts fed and clothed no one, but Elis was a smart man, which is why he had made Mat promise something much worse.

"Moons! Doing what?"

"Cleaning. Fixing. Helping him sell stuff."

"Junk! Helping him sell junk. Mat, most of what's in that shop is unsellable. You can stand on one side of Myst and see the other; it's not for lack of publicity that he doesn't sell! It's a complete waste of time, and I need you here."

"That's because he sits on it all. He putters. If he had some help—"

"He's a kook! Elis keeps to himself and he likes it that way, though he seems to have taken a fancy to you," she spat, as if it were an insult. "He's looking for company, not your help to fix broken toys."

"So what if he is?"

"I need you here," she repeated through clenched teeth.

"It's winter, we've a lull before any planning goes into gardening again and Snow can help with any other chores around the cottage, even the stable."

"What part of the girl needs to be our best-kept secret don't you understand! Were you of a certain age, I'd pull those trousers down and strike you, boy," she said, very near yelling.

"So what's she supposed to do? Stay cooped up in that room, reading the same books—"

"You made that choice in resolving to keep her," she yelled, thrusting a gnarled finger in his face. "I will not be the one to sick the world on that girl, but your foolery will bring it to our door all the same," she blustered and stormed back into the cottage.

Mat stood there in a guilty stupor until he remembered the phonograph and how he should probably try his damnedest to keep it dry. The snow had turned to a sleety mix, the sky turning darker all the time. He got halfway to the door before he remembered the masks and the shame struck him twofold. Arguing with himself, he thrust them inside the box with the phonograph. It sat like dead weight in his hands as he trudged back to the cottage and placed it just within the door.

He unloaded the cart by himself, walked Jude back to the stable, fed the horses, then returned to a cold lamb chop and a sizzling silence. He ate with all the vigor of one who hasn't the time to savor, all the while, with Gran's glare burning a hole into the side of his head.

"If you don't slow down on that chop, it'll be your last meal, boy."

A lot of good it would do you.

He reddened when the girl glanced at him over her salad bowl.

Sleet started clinking against the roof. Everyone stilled when the first thunderclap rolled in the distance.

After dinner, Snow helped Gran clear the table and Mat hauled the misshapen box to the girl's room.

She had left the shutters open again. The storm was rushing in.

Mat quickly placed the box on the bedside table and latched the shutters. He wiped the moisture from his face and rubbed his wet hands on his trousers.

A crash sounded from the kitchen.

Gran let loose a curse that melded with a thunderclap. "I told you, you're too short and have dough for arms! Now go out to the wash shed cupboard, get two towels and haul a bucket of rainwater in here. Ugh, you stink. Get."

The front door slammed back on its hinges, propelled by the storm's whimsy.

Mat took the phonograph from the box and left the masks inside, shoving it under the bed. Feeling for moisture, he ran a finger over the phonograph's fine grain and burnished horn that came away pleasantly dry. While admiring it, the front door swung open and shut. He went back to the kitchen where Snow stood with a water bucket and towels dampened by the rain before an angry-looking grandmother, a chunky mess on the floor between them. Evidently the crash had been the compost bucket Gran had been preparing for the move outside before the girl somehow spilled its contents on herself.

"Made a bit of a mess, did you?" he chided, pulling a wisp of onion skin from her hair. "Floor needed a scrubbing anyway," he whispered in her ear, smelling soap and compost as he grabbed a towel from her hand and prompted her to set down the bucket.

"Hadn't you the decency to clean yourself first instead of tracking the bits about the place?" Gran groused.

Snow appeared to have shoddily tried. Suds slunk down her jawline, but bits of trimmed fat and chopped up lettuce stumps still adorned the top of her head. To add insult to injury, her bare feet were muddy from the sprint back.

"No need to fuss," Mat said to the room as we wet his towel and began to clean up the mess.

Snow's eyes were wide, taking in Gran as she loomed over her. Jaw set, the old woman snatched the other towel from Snow's hand.

"Next time listen," Gran said, the anger already weaker in her voice.

With matted hair and irritated eyes, Snow made a pitiful sight.

"Got some of the lard in your eyes, did you?" Gran said. She swung a chair around at the table to which she hauled up the bucket of water. "You've a compost patch up there," she mumbled as she gestured for Snow to take a seat.

She did.

The old woman guided Snow's head back, filled up a cup, and poured clean water over the girl's eyes.

Mat took the opportunity to step back into the bedroom. He placed a cylinder on the phonograph and cranked the handle. The music wobbled before warbling into a crisp and spirited tune led by string instruments. Mesmerized by the mighty sound of an orchestra not in the room, he stilled, watching the cylinder turn.

Still wet and now cold, Mat hugged himself, rubbing at the gooseflesh on his arms as the storm raged outside. Rain lashed at the roof and thunder bellowed, but all he heard was a gutsy solo he thought was perhaps a violin. Over the orbits, Elis had tried to teach him the instruments' signature sounds but Mat was still a shoddy guesser.

He started as Snow appeared at his shoulder. Towel clutched to her chest, she eyed the phonograph with an investigative curiosity.

"Cool, huh?" he said.

Enraptured, she paid him no mind and instead sat on the edge of the bed. A piano solo began. Mat eased the towel from her hands and walked back to the kitchen where Gran was removing a pot of water from the fire to begin washing dishes.

He absently folded the towel.

"Well, has she taken to the thing?" Gran asked.

"Seems so."

"Then what's plumbed you?"

He shrugged and leaned back against the counter.

"She tried to heave that compost bucket off the counter all by herself," Gran said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I heard."

"Poor thing was wetter than a disheveled cat caught in the rain," she smiled, lathering soap in the pot of water. "Smelled like one, too. Looked on the verge of tears, though I imagine that could've been all the salt she took to the eyes. The bucket conked her on the head to boot." She chuckled. "She's never been eager to help like that before." It sounded as if she were chewing on a thought. "Didn't flinch away when I brought the water to her eyes. I dare say that's progress, boy.

"Let her listen to the music box tonight and bombard her with expectations tomorrow," she added, plopping the first dish into the bucket of suds.

I don't bombard her, he thought moodily, unreasonably angry that the old woman was in good spirits after being in such a rage at him mere hours ago.

The song died back to a piano solo; it ended how it began. The lapse in music gave way to the storm for so long that it brought him to the bedroom, only to pause in the doorway.

Snow had already removed the cylinder and had begun adjusting the stylus onto another. The velvet-inlaid box that held the others was open on the bed. It struck him that she was familiar with the science of the thing. Snow cranked the handle and a chorus of flutes and pan pipes burst from the horn. For a moment, she stilled, wet dress plastered to her slight frame. Then, she closed her eyes, stood on her tiptoes and lifted her arms as the flighty tune gave way to a waltz. Mat felt like an intruder as she placed one arm around an imaginary partner, rested the other on an invisible shoulder and began spinning in tactful circles. Pleasantly distracted, he leaned against the doorframe and gritted his teeth as the wood groaned beneath his weight. Snow came to a startled halt.

"Sorry," he rushed, hands raised. "Please, don't stop on my account."

But she made no move to resume. He knew he should back out, give her privacy. Instead, he stepped inside.

"Wish I knew how to dance," he said sheepishly. "Looks like you could use a partner."

The faintest smile tugged at her mouth. She put out her hand and waved him over when he hesitated.

Feeling suddenly shy, he slowly bridged the distance. Too slow—Snow reached out, grabbed his hand and yanked him to her.

A hot flush raced across his chest as she adjusted her grip. He was a good two heads taller than her, forcing her to place his other hand on her shoulder—wasn't counting involved?

Snow returned to her tiptoes and started to turn, squeezing his waist, which he could only guess meant he should follow her lead. He mimicked her movements, changing pace and direction with every squeeze. They weren't dancing so much as orbiting one another.

He might have laughed if he didn't feel so weird. Instead, he kept looking down at his feet, worried where they might land.

Snow dropped his hand with a mock scowl. "Keep your eyes on me."

He bumbled an apology and rubbed at the warmth that had spread to his neck as she returned to the phonograph to change the cylinder. As she returned to him, he wiped his clammy hands on his trousers.

A somber song slunk out of the horn, but they ignored the tempo.

She looked him pointedly in the face, then down at her own feet, making a show of placing them together. Apart, and back together. She repeated the movement until he practiced in turn, then placed her feet back together, but this time, heel to instep.

Again, he followed suit.

She smiled up at him, eyes twinkling, and he couldn't help but feel he was being laughed at. But he kept his attention trained on her small, pale feet next to his sun-brown toes as she placed the heel of her leading foot to the toe of the other, the leading facing outward, the other inward, legs slightly crossed.

They started again from the beginning. She matched Mat's pace until he picked it up with some fluidity, then stepped forward and grabbed his waist, indicating they should begin again.

Again, they circled, he the moon that had fallen into her orbit, lips moving as he counted. To keep himself from glancing at his feet, his eyes bore into her and that laugh of discomfort finally bubbled up his throat. It seemed to throw her off. She tried to recover but that and the sudden wail of a trumpet made Mat fall over his own feet, trip over her and they both went down hard.

Snow untangled herself and rolled away as Mat's mouth filled with jumbled apologies that backed up in his throat when she erupted into laughter. The sound made the hair on his neck stand up. He had never heard her laugh. Never heard her exhale more than a snicker. At a loss, he stared at the gleeful split of her face as she leaned back, arms wrung tight about her middle, eyes clamped shut in hilarity.

He snorted at the sight.

A thunderclap shook the entire house, silencing them both. At the sight of the other's startled face, both burst into giggles.

He helped her up and they danced, she all smiles every time he broke stance to twirl her, dip her back, or pull her into him.

It wasn't until he couldn't quit yawning and bade her goodnight that she asked: "What about the masks?"

He gaped at her, having nearly forgotten the gift he had promised. Without thinking, his eyes darted to the bed and back, but it was too late—she dove under, grabbed the box and ripped back the lid. She pulled out the masks and scrutinized them, one in each hand.

"These don't look like them."

"No, they don't—look, we shouldn't go. I've been thinking about it, and it's too risky."

"But you got the masks."

"Yes, and I've been thinking about it since then," he said lamely, knowing she had likely heard him and Gran arguing.

She put on the orc mask and shot up, posture defiant; Mat knew what was coming.

"I want to go."

Gran's warnings made his head ache—

—until they skin her to see what's inside.

"You weren't so sure before."

"I've been thinking about it since then," she mocked.

He could hear her smile and felt the reserve the old woman had beat into him earlier ebb as the child in him squirmed.

"It's dangerous."

She lifted the mask. "My being here is dangerous."

Even before he consented, before he said yes, Mat knew they were always going to go to the festival. It was a decision they had made before today; they were already passengers on the inertia of steadfast commitment and stupidity.

But his heart still sunk when she leapt up to throw her arms around him.