That’s when I catch Mrs. Cliffton slip something into a woman’s bag. The woman is wearing a colorless dress and has a handkerchief pulled around her unwashed hair. She is so focused on chasing after a young boy without dropping the wailing baby slung over her arm that she doesn’t notice what Mrs. Cliffton has done.
“Aila!” Beas breaks through the crowd. She holds a pumpkin cinnamon roll wrapped in a napkin, dripping with icing. “I wanted to make sure you got one of these.” She hands the roll to me, still warm. Eliza follows her, delicately eating a candied apple on a stick. “Oh, and you should get in line early for one of the Babcocks’ baked cinnamon apples,” Beas instructs. “I’d wait with you, but I’m supposed to be warming up for the concert.” She wears the deep woven purple strap of her violin case like a purse.
“See you, Beas,” Eliza says, taking another prim bite of apple. She wears a body-skimming costume that drips with red and silver beads, and a younger boy with the same bright green eyes as hers trails a half step behind her. He smiles widely when he sees Miles.
“Hello there, Miles,” he says, stepping forward. Miles kicks at the dirt in response. “Hi,” he mutters.
“Mrs. Cliffton,” Eliza says brightly, “my mother was thrilled to hear about the new Dream Variant. She wants to have you and Dr. Cliffton over for dinner when she returns in a few weeks.”
“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Cliffton says, but she is distracted, waving to a man, giving him a small pat on the shoulder as he passes, discreetly dropping something into his bag with her other hand. I’ve gotten a better look this time. It’s a Variant pouch.
My understanding dawns when I see that Will has some, too. So many they are practically spilling from his pockets. The Clifftons are using the chaos of the crowd and the shadows to sneak Variants into people’s bags. Bestowing anonymous gifts on those whose clothes and faces show signs of wear, on the night they will be most in need of some cheer.
This is who I am finding the Clifftons to be. Eyes open, watching for the need around them, and quietly meeting it. Like new coats for Miles and me.
Like Miles and me ourselves.
“I’m performing later,” Eliza says, gesturing at her costume. “It’s the routine that won in the Sisters Tournament last year. I couldn’t bear to turn them down when they asked me to do it tonight.”
“They wanted my older sister, Cassandra,” her brother interjects. “But she has a real performance. Where Mother went. To see her.”
Eliza’s eyes blaze. “Thank you, Walt,” she says through gritted teeth. Then she touches Mrs. Cliffton’s arm. “I hope you’ll make it,” she says, and her smile broadens into something real when she looks at Will. “I’ll look for you.”
“I’ll look for you,” her brother mimics silently behind her, making a face.
“Nice to see you, dear,” Mrs. Cliffton says noncommittally.
“William, Carter was looking for you,” Eliza says. “I’ll help you find him. I think I saw him over there.”
When Eliza pulls Will and her brother along with her, Mrs. Cliffton reaches down for Miles’s shoulder and mine. She gives me a small squeeze, an acknowledgment of how much she understands and will never say.
“Come on, you two,” she says dryly.
I purse my lips into a line to hide my smile. The Clifftons, whether they are trying to or not, are making inroads straight across each fault line of my heart.
I’m pleased when Miles finds two of his classmates and melts with them into the crowd. Once the sun has fully set, there are two false reports of Disappearances in quick succession: the first when someone bites into a mealy, tasteless apple, and the second when Mr. Babcock declares the rum in his flask has become water. After a few tests, both claims are refuted, and everyone disperses back into the night with a sigh of relief.
I find George in line for Dr. Cliffton’s telescope. We take our turns looking at cratered shadows of the moon and a burning red Mars, and then we join a crowd gathering at the lake’s edge. Leaves crinkle like parchment under our feet.
“Let’s hope he’s feeling uncharacteristically brief today,” George says as Principal Cleary clears his throat from the podium. “Welcome to the eighty-fifth annual Harvest Fair of Sterling,” Cleary begins. His deep voice echoes across the water. The fires shimmer along the beach. “We extend a very cordial welcome to our friends from Corrander and Sheffield here tonight.”
He clears his throat again in response to the smattering of halfhearted applause. Then he holds a monocle over one eye and reads from the cream-colored papers in his hand.
“Our forefathers—?rest their souls,” Principal Cleary intones, “never knew what momentous double meaning this fair would someday hold. Yes, we gather to celebrate the bountiful yield of the past year. And while some might say that much has been taken away, we always must remember how much we’ve been able to regain through a bit of hard work and applied intellectual prowess.”
“Oh, here we go,” mutters George. “This is a warm-up for him running for mayor.”
“We think tonight, and every night, of our brave men fighting, and I’m sure their thoughts are with us on this significant occasion as we recount the beginning of our humble struggles, thirty-five years ago to the day.”
There is no applause this time. It is quiet enough to pick up the ragged sound of Principal Cleary’s breathing, the crisp shuffle of the papers in his hand. I glance at the crowd around me. Wonder again about Mother’s ring. If perhaps the person who took it is here tonight.
“So what do we come together to celebrate on this most bittersweet of days?” Principal Cleary hurries on. “Yes, we celebrate our harvest, but we have something even greater to observe: that the people of the Sisters are strong, resilient, and, most important of all, resourceful. We have all persevered—?no, I dare say, thrived—?admirably, humbly, worthily, all in the face of an unparalleled challenge.”
George blows a thick piece of sand-colored hair from his forehead. “This is actually one of Cleary’s favorite days,” he says. “This and graduation. And the Christmas Ball. Really, anywhere he gets to orate and get his photograph taken.”
I’m about to remark on Principal Cleary’s unfortunate choice of bow tie when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.
“Be right back,” I say instead, and slip away.
Miles stands alone, twenty yards behind the crowd, his eyes trained on the dirt at his feet. When I draw nearer, I’m startled by the tears that fall like rain on his one gloveless hand. Something about that bare hand makes my chest constrict and then open, until the hollowness makes my rib cage seem too small.
“Miles—?what’s wrong?”
He looks up at me and hastily brushes the tears from his face. “I’m not crying,” he says angrily.
“I didn’t think you were,” I lie.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” he says. “She hasn’t even been dead for that long, and you already forgot that today was her birthday.”
I step back, touching my cheek. So this is why he’s been distant today.
“I didn’t forget,” I say.