He never looked forward to the Harvest Festival. Not even a little. It wasn't simply his aversion to physical sports, no real art or craft or knack with the livestock; he was never the competitive sort, so these contests never inspired him. He hadn't his older brothers' strength or dexterity, or his younger brother's creativity, or even his sister's dashing looks or charm. And he had long since accepted his father's disapproval for it, as well. Despite this gnawing feeling of inadequacy, however, it was rather, above all else, yet another affirmation that he was alone that festered this dislike of the annual event.

Lucas climbed out of the back of the wagon last. Jacob and Joshua were already unloading and, had he waited longer, he might have been unpacked like another feed bag and sent along with the hogs. He stepped back from the work a few paces, waiting quietly, carefully. When no one turned to him for help he shrunk back further.

(It wasn't that he was averse to helping out. In fact, had someone asked, Lucas would have happily obliged. But they didn't. They rarely did.)

So this was how he made his exit. Unnoticed. Invisible to even his own family. With two books under one arm and a knapsack over the shoulder, Lucas left the wagons and work behind him and looked for a quiet place to sit and read.

* * *

Not terribly far away, Marissa helped her father unload their wagon while simultaneously watching her sister. She'd grown adept at doing such things. It caused her to stop wondering on whether her mother had had eyes in the back of her head. The young woman had looked forward to this time all year. She felt confidant that she'd place well in the games this year, for one thing. For another it was a time when she had very few responsibilities. Her aunts from Ghal were glad to help watch over Annie, so she could shop and socialize and... just be herself again. Whoever that was.

After settling the last bale of wool and the last bushel of apples in the stall, Marissa was free to do as she pleased until supper. Eagerly, she set out for the stalls and booths, chatting happily with people and looking over the 'pretty things' she'd suppressed a need for over the year.

***

The rain from the night before, combined with the sudden heavy traffic of cart and wagon and horse had turned the Coronation Field to mush. Folk were undeterred, however. Tents were up. Fires were warm and food was cooking. A huddle of bards and troubadours were already playing, and it seemed that the Festival preparations were well under way. Lucas found himself watching them play, a contented smile on his face. He had a few copper pence in his purse and thought about dropping one for the song. He didn't see Amos coming until it was too late.

Amos Wyrmwood was the same age as Lucas. His father was a skinner and tanner that paid well for Lucas' father to drive his pelts to market in Okarop. Amos had inherited his father's bulky physique, as well as his arrogance.

Lucas' books tumbled suddenly from his hands, accompanied by the sound of chortled laughter from behind him. Amos and his two lackeys were clutching their sides as Lucas stooped to gently pluck his books from the mud and wipe them furtively with the corner of his shirt.

"Ah, Fair Lucas!" exclaimed the still chuckling Amos. "So glad to see you again, my boy."

Lackey Number One, a dirty, wiry kid about two summers younger than Amos, snorted loudly. "Yeah. Ever good for a gag, you is."

"Still courting the freak in the hills, little lassie?" asked Amos, mercilessly.

"He's not a freak," Lucas mumbled in protest from the ground. He didn't turn around to face them; it would only make it worse.

"He is. Everyone knows. And he's got an eye for you, Fair Lucas."

"Little Lady Lucas," Lackey Number Two chanted. He was almost as big as Amos himself, but broader in the shoulders, rather than the waist. "Virgin for the Freak."

"Shutup," mumbled Lucas and he tried to stand. Amos kicked him hard in the back and Lucas stumbled into the mud. He caught himself by one hand, but only barely.

"What you say there, boy?" Amos grunted.

Lucas managed to get himself to his feet, still without turning. Both knees and his left arm up to the elbow were covered in dark, wet mud. His father would be furious. His shoulders slumped. His head hung. He started to walk away.

Amos shoved him from behind. "Running back to Mother's skirt?" Lackeys One and Two had circled around, penning him in. Lucas shuffled to a stop between them.

"Your father was late with the last drive," Amos snarled. "He gets slower every month, he does." Lucas eyed Lackey Number Two skeptically.

Amos shoved him again. "He found hiself a whore in Okarop, has he?" Lucas shook his head and sized up Lackey One instead.

"I'm talking to you, Fair Lucas!" Another shove. This time Lucas tumbled into Lackey Two, who shoved back gleefully. They circled him, like wolves, grinning before the kill, until Amos was in front of him. Lucas, meek and thinner than Amos by almost half, still said nothing.

"I would, if I was him," Amos said finally, "Find me a whore, that is. Your mother's a terrible lay."

At that remark, the snap deep within the diminutive boy was almost audible.

"You fat piece of shit!" Lucas exploded and lashed out with one soggy boot. It caught Amos in the shin and he doubled over with a howl. Lucas darted out from the opening, but the Lackeys were on him in moments. He was crushed beneath Lackey Number Two, face down in the mud before he had made it ten yards.

The commotion caught the attention of several passersby, most of whom chuckled over 'boys being boys.' One passerby, paused, though and frowned thoughtfully. Amos, again, she sighed. It seemed the larger boy was always picking on someone, or trying to get the girls to go off into the hay barn with him. It was the one blessing she was grateful for: She didn't get into town as often these days, so was spared his attention.

He was gruffly rolled over and the first of many blows crashed into the side of his face. A twilight of stars shimmered before his mud-covered face. The entire, crushing weight of Lackey Two was on top of him. He writhed, but punches two and three landed in his stomach, knocking the wind and all fight from him.

"Get off, get off!" Amos snarled then and he was suddenly free. Hands dragged him up to his feet where he hung limply. Amos stood before him, fire-breathing mad. He gripped Lucas by the throat and cocked one fist way back.

"Hey, Wyrmhead!" came a voice from off to the side. Marissa's russet-colored hair was braided down her back as she stood there, hands on her hips. Dressed in breeches and a linen shirt, she might have passed for a boy, given her height and her stance, which was all belligerence and cocksure. "I see you're too afraid to take on one skinny kid by yourself, as usual. You're pitiful."

Amos cranked his head around, his face smeared with irritation. "Hey, it's that girl," said Lackey One with a hint of awe. "Killed a whole pack of wolves by herself."

"Shuttup," grumbled Amos. He turned back to Lucas, considering the punch one more time, but then his fist lowered. "Weren't a whole pack, stupid." He looked over his shoulder one more time and hollered, "Keep outta this, Errald. He's getting what's comin' to him."

"Yeah, I'm sure he roughed you up real bad," she sneered back. "He's got a lot of muscle in those skinny arms, don't he? Or maybe Myron, there," she said, jerking her head at Lackey Two, "just couldn't get it up for you so you're takin' it out on someone else, as usual."

"Myron?" Lackey One snickered and got shoved for his trouble.

"Should I tell Widow Marshey that you were the one stole her pie the other day, Jed?" Marissa shot toward the other boy holding Lucas. She had no real way of knowing he had, of course, but the flush on his face told her the shot hit home, anyway. "Yeah, thought so. You're real brave three on one. But, I bet I could even the odds," she grinned, a feral look stealing over her face at the idea.

Amos laughed in surprise. His fist lowered once more, this time for good. He unclenched his other hand from Lucas' neck and the lad dropped to his knees. "Missy-boy, this aint no concern of yours. Scoot yourself back to your daddy 'fore you get dirt in your hair. I'm sure your sissy needs tending, or the hogs need slopping." Lackey One snickered yet again.

"Amos..." cautioned Lackey Two - known also as Myron. But the fat boy was undeterred.

"Looks to me like you already been fed, Wyrmy," Marissa taunted. Subtly, her stance shifted as she waited for the charge that was sure to come. She was pricking his already engaged temper and it was sure to blow, just like a kettle on the stove with a cork in it. "And I'm makin' it my concern. Whaddya goin' to do about it?" she asked, her voice becoming low and threatening as she took a single step forward. The young woman remained on the balls of her feet, not that any of the others noticed. She was ready, willing and able to finish this fight.

His jaw clenched and his face grew red. She half expected steam to spout from his ears. But then, rapidly, it all faded. He glanced around at the passing faces, turned in caution or disapproval or just curiosity. Conflict with the young lady was drawing far more attention than he had bargained for.

Amos grinned. "Maybe some other time, Missy-boy. Come on, boys." She knew he intended to keep that promise.

And just as easy as that, Amos Wyrmwood and his two Lackeys drifted away.

Lucas knelt on the ground, slowly plucking his books one more time from the mud and staring at his dirty knees.

Marissa watched the three bullies leave, then she relaxed. She looked over at the skinny guy and headed over to him at a trot. "Hey," she said, her voice soft and devoid of threat. Her hand on his shoulder was strong. Stronger than any girl he knew, but it remained gentle. "You okay? I'd ask what you did to make him mad, but he doesn't need an excuse to pick on people," she snorted softly.

He flinched, then, slowly, a wan smile began to form. "Thanks," he mumbled, not looking up at first. His face was flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliation. But he squirmed uncomfortably on the ground and finally stood. One hand brushed back the thin brown hair that hung over his eyes and he gave his would-be heroine a once-over.

"Lucas," he said, though his hand was slow to offer. "Lucas Onomang of Lanburg. You're from Ghal?"

"Marissa Errald," she said with a smile and shook his hand. "Not really from Ghal, more to Lanburg, actually. But, we go with Papa sometimes to Ghal to sell stuff or get supplies. So, I know about Amos and his ways," she snorts. "Well, Lucas Onomang, you look like you could use a clean-up. I know how to get rid of that mud, so's no one will notice much," she grins. "I have to do that for my little sister often enough. And maybe we can wipe down those books, too."

There was an eagerness in her expression, almost a hunger, for company her own age. Company without benefit of a brawl, such as Amos would have provided, anyway. "Those books look pretty big. Did you read 'em all the way through?" she asked, sincerely impressed.

Her enthusiasm was a bit unexpected, but it was hard for Lucas to remain sulky. The mention of the books brought him about. His scowl momentarily vanished. "No. Not yet. Not really those kind of books."

He followed her, mindful of the watchful eyes. But, fortunately, as they moved away from the square, the attention faded. "Supplies for what?" he said suddenly.

She blinked at him, unsure whether he was mocking her or sincere. She decided on the latter and answered the question. "For the house, the animals, the farm in general. Normal stuff," she shrugged. "Not living in town itself, we hafto go in for that kind of thing."

"You go to Ghal for supplies?"

"Well, mostly it's to visit relatives, but we pick up supplies when we're there," she admitted with a shrug. "I got a couple of aunts and a few cousins in Ghal. My sister's with the aunts, now, so I had some free time after we got the wagon unloaded and all." Marissa nodded to the stall they walked toward. "So if they're not readin' books, what kind of books do you have, anyway?"

Lucas glanced down at them self-consciously. "Oh," he murmured. He grew uncomfortable and shrugged. "They're... well... magic, I guess."

The tall farm girl thought about teasing him about his *guessing* they were magic, but decided that he'd probably had enough teasing for one day. "Should we be really careful about cleaning 'em, then?" she asked with a slight frown. She wasn't afraid, he could tell that. Just ignorant of the way magic actually worked.

"A little, maybe. They're... important. To me."

"Coulda used some magic last year," she sighed. Marissa shook off the impending depression and gestured for Lucas to sit. "Here. Let me help scrape the mud off, then I got some cleaner that'll get rid of most of the mud. You'll be wet for a little while, but clean, at least."

He complied by sitting, though obviously unsure of the whole cleaning process. He was awkward and uncomfortable, especially as she cleaned the mud from his pants and he squirmed. She didn't seem to notice as she set to work, first with a wooden scraper.

He tried to make conversation. "What'd you need magic for last year?" he asked.

Marissa blinked up at him, surprised that there was someone who hadn't heard. "Well, a small pack of wolves attacked the farm,” she said quietly. "When Papa and Jace -- my older brother -- tried to scare 'em off, they got attacked." She worked more diligently now, trying to keep the tears at bay. "When they killed Jace, Mama went runnin' outside and... they got her too. That's when I grabbed up the axe by the door and ran into the fight, too. 'Tween Papa and me, we finished 'em off," she shrugged. She looked over her handiwork and nodded, then grabbed a few things from a nearby haversack and mixed up a kind of dry soap, apparently.

"Oh," he said, a little mystified. "That was you." He swallowed, feeling awkward yet again (though for a different reason now). "Sorry."

"It's okay," his companion shrugged. "Still comes up to bite me, sometimes and prolly always will." She applied the dry soap to his pants and while that did it's job, she turned her attention to his books, wiping them carefully with a clean cloth.

When she had him scrape off the soap, it seemed as if she had certainly done wizardry on his pants and books. He smiled in spite of himself and brushed his hair from his face. His eyes were uncharacteristically wide. "They're good as new!"

Marissa laughed. "Not quite, Lucas!" she grinned. "There's still some smudges and stains at the knees and the pages will always be a little dirty, I think. But I'm glad I could help, anyway. What'd you plan on doing for the rest of the afternoon?" she asked, that hunger for company coming into her eyes again.

Lucas was far too engrossed in the miraculous cleanliness. "Nothing, really," he began, and rattled off what came to mind without thinking. "Studying a little, maybe walk the tents, find something to eat..."

Her real question struck him then and he stopped short. "Oh," he said and glanced up at her expression of eagerness. "Well I don't have any real plans--," he tried, but that wasn't right. "What I mean is, I'm not really doing anything specific..." Wrong again, Lucas. He frowned at himself momentarily, then brightened a shade.

"What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?"

She leaned back and regarded him frankly then chuckled. "I was on my way to listen to the bards when I saw the commotion between you and Amos," she said. "Then I was just gonna wander a while." Marissa paused, then decided to be forthright and more honest with herself. "Look, I'd really just like the company of a new friend. I don't care what we do. If you wanna study and have some time to yourself, that's okay. I can look up Garrick maybe, though he's probably busy helping his dad set up shop if he's here. I've been trainin' with him for a little while, and aside from Papa and Annie..." she stopped abruptly, aware she was rambling. She bit her lower lip in consternation, but didn't say anything further on the matter.

Lucas arched one brow, but only just a little. She didn't see. This was very much a new experience for the diminutive lad and therefore unexpected. He didn't have friends. He didn't know what that was like. What he should say. What they would do.

"Sure!" he blurted out just then. "I mean, you know," he said, recovering, "I don't really have to study or anything like that." He offered a smile he hoped was friendly.

When Marissa smiled, really smiled, it took over her whole face. Made it lighter, made her cinnamon-colored eyes sparkle with pleasure. She stood and gestured back out into the wide avenues of the impending Fair. "Let's go, then. We've got a whole Fair to look over!"