“Hey, how long are you going to sleep?”

  The gentle nudges pulled me out from under, and I blinked open my eyes. It was so bright that I squinted hard and pulled the blanket over my head immediately. Sunlight pierced through every corner and surrounded me.

  “We’ve got a lot of preparations to do and it’s getting late, get up,” the cheery female voice seemed familiar yet foreign.

  Slowly, I lowered the blanket and found a woman seated by my side, peeking at me curiously. Her face was unbelievable: eyes large and blue like midnight and lips red as… aged wine. The thought brought a furrow on my brow. I’ve heard this before. I’ve seen this woman in my mind’s eye. Her features were picturesque, like her whole form was ripped out from a book of fairy tales.

  “Put this on,” she hurled at me a dress in soft blue, just like hers, and jumped to her feet. “Those lanterns won’t make themselves, you know.”

  “Excuse me,” I pushed myself up to a sitting position, eyeing her suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

  She laughed out loud. “Your spirit must’ve wandered off pretty far while you were asleep if you don’t remember your sister.”

  “I’ll put this on,” I pointed at the dress with an uneasy smile. A sister? Yes, I think I had one. “What lanterns?”

  “The Eternal Carnival!” she gaped at me. “You truly don’t remember anything.”

  “I think I hit my head on a beam last night,” I admitted.

  “Zoya!” came another woman’s voice from the other room. “Come help me with the turnips.”

  “Hope you didn’t hit that funny head of yours too badly. It’d be sad to lose that insufferable wit,” she gave me a condescending smile as she backed away to the door, and then disappeared.

  A strange knot of a feeling lingered at the bottom of my stomach. All this… I was convinced I’d seen it before. Zoya, the dress in my hand, this dilapidated bed, the old beams over my head, and the little square window across from me. And I’ve had this comfort before, I’d seen this vibrant morning sunlight fracturing into glints over every surface in the room.

  With a fling, I tossed the sheets aside and dressed up. Marching outside my room, I found Zoya and an elderly woman who looked entirely like Zoya, though significantly older. They sat at the table among heaps of turnips, and at least three varieties of winter squash.

  “Your father left you another one before he went to the market,” the woman nodded at the kitchen counter, sounding amused.

  Endlessly curious, I walked up to it and gathered the metallic badge in hand. It resembled a pilgrim badge or a souvenir at first, but then it occurred to me it only meant to imitate one: the imagery on it was of two round human buttocks. Laughter erupted from my chest. “I love it,” I announced.

  “You always do,” Zoya murmured under her breath, busy separating the turnips’ roots from the stems with green leaves. “Even though they’re getting more and more ridiculous each time.”

  So my father was a funny man, I thought, tucking the badge into the tiny pocket of my dress. Endearing. Like everything here, in this whimsical cottage interior, all wood and sunlight. My gaze strayed back to my mother and sister, calmly discussing lunch plans with each other, the rosiness on their cheeks, the beauty of their feminine hands. So intricate and… alive. Breathing with life.

  That was… an odd thing to think about. Of course they breathed with life. Any life needed to breathe. Nothing unusual about it. I was unusual for paying attention to a mundanity like that.

  Humming under my breath, I looked through the window over my shoulder. Fleetingly, I noticed the wooden shutter was a smooth oaken tint, but one handle was several notches lighter, made of birch. Beyond, dazzling warmth adorned the crowns of trees, and islands of gold and auburn leaves splashed over the fading green of tall weeds and parched grass. A narrow stone passage spanned a brooklet in the distance, and further down the road was a pretty village huddled by a thick forest, with steep hills eastward.

  “We’re making lanterns for the Carnival?”

  “Well, yes, to please the King,” Zoya told me, nervously. “Everyone brings something to him at the end of the week. And this week’s harvest has been abundant, so we shall present him with our beautiful decorations.”

  “Oh, this one’s beautiful indeed,” my mother smiled as she raised an enormous turnip to show us. “Will make a fine lantern.”

  “We’ve got a king? What kingdom is this?” I mouthed absently, the little uncomfortable laugh from my sister remaining in the back of my mind.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” she chuckled, and I had to face her.

  “Told you. Hit my head last night and my memory has faded somewhat,” I grinned innocently, and before she could say anything, I added: “No need to see any physician, I’m well. The world feels… a bit hazy, that’s all. Please, remind me of things without alarm; it would be a great help. If you would be so kind.”

  “Of… of course,” Zoya eyed me up and down. And then spoke slowly, “There is no kingdom. We are the Carnival.” She paused, eyes now on the turnip and the knife in her hands. “Some call it the Eternal Carnival because no one knows when it began or when it will end. This depends on the King of the Carnival, I suppose. He visits our village, we celebrate, and then he leaves, only to return once more.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “He doesn’t… demand anything from us?” I asked.

  “No, no, no,” Zoya shook her head, her eyes sparkling. “He’s not cruel. Nor does he demand anything. We bestow gifts upon him of our own free will. Because it makes him joyful, and that makes us joyful in turn.” Both her and mother’s faces lit up at this reminder. As if they had reminded themselves they had to kindle their joy about it. Be happier.

  I raised a brow. What sort of funny mushrooms have these two gals been eating lately? That sounded like a pointless cycle of wasted time, despite the alluring perfection of it. Where was the fun in perfection?

  “Why?”

  The question rang out into the space as both women went still and silent. Then followed a long, judgmental pause. As if I had just thrown in the filthiest blasphemy.

  “Whatever do you mean, my dear?” my mother blinked at me with soft confusion. “You’ve never asked such questions before.”

  “What is the meaning of it all?”

  Zoya exchanged looks with our mother, “I’m afraid we don’t understand what you’re asking, Sarai. There is no meaning… just a celebration. Eternal Carnival.”

  I humphed. That was not right. The wrongness of it burned in my soul. A celebration without a purpose. Carnivals were never meaningless. Perhaps that King could tell me something more. “Alright, I’ll help you with the decorations,” I said, sinking down into a chair next to them. “When is the King coming to our village?”

  “Oh, in three nights, dear,” my mother smiled at me. “There’s still plenty of time.”

  Three nights. Huh. I tipped my head a little. That sounded awfully familiar, too. I just couldn’t place why yet.

  Helping with the squash and the turnips grew on me. Mother left our company to make some lunch, and soon I found what an utterly good time I was having cleaning and carving, and giggling while at it, together with my sister. Noon came and went, and the afternoon rolled out quicker than I could catch it. Zoya and I ditched the turnips.

  As I gathered ingredients from different parts of the kitchen, Zoya left briefly and came back with a handful of large eggs. We began preparing a pastry, which apparently has been a favorite under this roof since forever. Pretending to know what my sister was talking about turned increasingly hard, but she spared me the torture of testing my knowledge of every single thing by taking the lead and showing me, for which I was immensely grateful.

  After I sliced the apples as thin as communion wafers, Zoya mixed in the batter and instructed me to heat the lard in the meantime. My gaze often drifted over the counter and through the window, taking in the blazing sunset and the gilded cobblestone way winding to the bridge and farther. Because we had pushed the window slightly ajar to help the frying fumes out, I could even hear the subdued melody of the brooklet nearby.

  “Sarai?” Zoya asked, puzzled. “Hand me the apples, please.” She must have asked that at least once before, but I hadn’t heard her.

  Murmuring an apology, I handed the wooden bowl to her and watched her dip the pieces and drop them in the frying pan hanging over our hearth-fire. Gentle sizzles filled the afternoon quietude.

  “Father must be coming any moment now, if you’re worried about him,” Zoya said, giving me sidelong glances.

  “Oh no, I was just… admiring the view,” I smiled brightly. “The road is beautiful.”

  Zoya chuckled incredulously. “The road?”

  “I love roads. You never know where they’ll take you.”

  This baffled my sister even more. “If you say so,” she shrugged as she began pulling out the deep-brown apple rings from the pan one by one.

  Our apple fritters turned out to be the most glorious thing I’ve ever tasted. It distracted me sufficiently. That is, until my father, who was part black curls, part beaming smile, came home and scooped me into a crushing hug. I hugged him back, pleasantly surprised. But the lingering feeling at the pit of my stomach returned, and it couldn’t help but stunt my joy as I laughed with him at all the silly little things he called me.

  Who was this man?

  At dinner, we discussed the upcoming festivities regarding the Carnival King’s visit. Everything had to be immaculate and abundant, for he reveled in beauty and opulence. His benevolence was endless, though, and he judged no gift by its quality or quantity. Always, he was glad to be rewarded with the special attention of gifts, whatever they were. His only condition was to have brought joy to whoever made them for him.

  The guy sounded peachy, I thought, and then excused myself from the overly exciting conversation. Wasn’t there anything else to talk about apart from this Carnival? Muttering to myself, I walked down the two stone-steps and into the cottage yard. Absently, I ambled past the low ivory-white fence and headed for the brook with my hands folded on my chest to keep the warmth to my body.

  The air was light with an autumnal chill, but I didn’t mind. This unpleasant nip in the wind was like a balm to my soul. Having the window slightly ajar was not enough, I couldn’t breathe between four walls for long. I couldn’t see the horizon between four frames.

  By the time I sat on the bank by the river, playing with a tall fern-weed between my fingers, I heard another set of footsteps approaching me from behind.

  Zoya sank on the grass beside me. To my surprise, we enjoyed the last fiery strokes of the sunset light and the twinkling lights from the village in comfortable silence. Perhaps she tactfully sensed asking questions would disturb me more. Quietly, she turned to her side, and I discovered she had brought a tiny basket with what was left of the afternoon fritters inside, along with other fruits, nuts, and titbits. With an apologetic smile, she settled it between us in the heavy dusk.

  Food always helped. Munching on some almonds in the palm of my hand, I eventually broke the silence: “Tell me—do I usually go around town much?”

  Zoya frowned at me. “Occasionally. You mostly help mother and me around the house, and take care of the garden and the hens.”

  I laughed, facing her. How funny. “And?”

  “And what?”

  We stared at each other as I slowly realized she was right. I did take care of the garden and the hens. Also, I uprooted weeds and put seeds in the ground and watered them, collected eggs, and brushed the floors with my mother’s broom, whistling to myself my father’s songs. This was where my heart belonged. I was happy here, in this happy home.

  “Nothing!” I chimed, confused at myself. And what?

  The rest of the evening was uneventful. I bid my parents goodnight and laid down until late with Zoya in our large bed, reading and talking… about the upcoming festive night. Again. When we blew the candle, I nearly sighed with relief. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they have other hobbies except worshiping this Carnival King?

  As I had suspected, my mind refused to ease down into sleep for hours after that. And when I finally drooped into half-sleep, there was a terrible noise. Noise unlike any I had ever heard. Rhythmic thumping in the darkness, which echoed with growing intensity and speed. As if the rumbling steps of an enormous giant drew nearer and nearer to me. Terror seized me when I found I couldn’t move, and my body sprang up into a sitting position.

  Immediately, I pulled myself up on my knees and peered through the window and across the field, wide-eyed and silent as a mouse. The heavy thumping went on, distantly, as if whatever made that sound was roaming aimlessly in those woods. Beside me, Zoya stirred sleepily in the thick dark.

  “What’s wrong, Sarai?” came her drowsy voice. “Why are you up at such an hour? Go back to sleep.”

  “Can’t you hear it?” I hissed.

  “Hear what?” Zoya asked in a languid voice—and then the noises ceased completely. All of it died down into the night.

  I slowly lay down, turning to see Zoya already fast asleep. Her easy breathing calmed my apprehension a bit. I then shifted to my side and grinned to myself. My perfect home was, in fact, not perfect.

  How very intriguing.