In spite of the warnings given by Cosgrove and Cidwm, Amalie and I are determined to leave the house and enjoy ourselves. The Carnival is one of the few amusements outside of Drakesheath Hall that I enjoy...with the exception of one or two columns in The Cotswolds Corruption. Gilbert drives the carriage up the lane just as Amalie and I step outside.

Perhaps we do make ourselves vulnerable by throwing ourselves into the questionable hands of the so-called winter people, but I am confident that Cidwm will not permit any harm to befall us. I have learned to expect the same from Cosgrove. And lately, I've had the sense that there are others, beyond perception, who have a hand in our well-being. Perhaps it is my overactive Godwinson imagination...but I doubt it.

In the great moor that serves as the carnival grounds, elephantine pavilions, striped and decorative, billow and creak. From their delusory exteriors, it is impossible to know what bizarre features await audiences within. It is late afternoon when we arrive, and there is a goodly number of residents taking in the wonders.

Besides the tents, there are wagons and carriages that the roustabouts have transformed into museums of phantasmagoria and tableau vivant theatres. There are also makeshift structures set up for medicine show mountebanks and comedic Punch & Judy spectacles. All this is interspersed with hawkers, buskers, and parades of clowns, acrobats, exotic animals, and lusus naturae.

Gilbert and the carriage wait for us at the edge of the fairgrounds. My silent companion squeezes my arm and smiles broadly. Ah, where shall we go first?