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The long, narrow, wooden suspension bridge creaked. Above, The Wind that Smelled like Rain carelessly tugged her clouds across the sky, sending shadows crawling on the bridge’s boards. A foamy river of wine running below threw vintage droplets up as it tumbled over the rocks, soaking the swaying ropes. Across the bridge, three laden pedestrians made their way with care.
“They… call this… the Blanch,” said Tom from the back of the trio. He carried both of Honeydew’s luggage boxes in his thick arms. He huffed under their weight. “The longest river… in town.”
“It feels like the longest,” said Honeydew. She led the trio by a few impatient paces. “Feels like we’ll never settle lodgings. We’re missing out on the Wine Medo scene!”
“Do you think there’s any local pencil pushing contract work?” asked Mr. Grey of both. He walked between the two, stepping deliberately from plank to plank. He held his own suitcase and violin coffin stiffly at his sides.
“This town has… the most rivers. More than anywhere,” said Tom. He might have been replying to Honeydew, or merely musing.
“But aside from rivers, what moves in Toscamo?” Honeydew asked eagerly. “What’s exotic? What’s sightworthy?”
“Any parchmentwork?” Mr. Grey put in. “For making treasure?”
“Yeesh, slow down a bit…” said Tom with another huff of effort. “We have beautiful carvings... And performances. Fiddle contests too… Held by Blushing-in-the-Snow.”
Tom had pointed his last remark at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey - busy keeping his footing during a violent wine spray - hadn’t heard.
Honeydew turned and looked past Mr. Grey at Tom. “We will absolutely watch a fiddle contest,” she said. She clicked several times with enthusiasm for the idea. “I bet it’s an absolute spectacle. Lights. Music. Flash and fanfare!”
Mr. Grey muttered, mostly to himself. “I wonder… If I mention I’ll be finalizing documents for Jodee Coats and those other Odormoat-breakers, perhaps that Embassy clerk might give a commission.”
“What about Tom’s idea, Mr. Grey?” asked Honeydew. She stopped at the bridge’s halfway point. The other two came to a halt, and Mr. Grey turned his attention to her. With the three standing in the bottom of its arch, the suspension bridge swayed wide and close over the frothing wine.
“Sorry, which idea?” asked Mr. Grey.
“Attending the show. What’s the host’s name again, Tom?”
“Blushing-in-the-Snow,” answered Tom. He set the boxes down while they stopped.
“Right. How about seeing Blushing-in-the-Snow’s fiddle gala?” She nodded at the violin coffin in his hand. “Seems up your canal.”
“That could be one idea,” said Mr. Grey. He looked at Tom. “Would there be a fee?”
“For the audience. But not for participants. Players get in free.” Tom wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Mr. Grey missed the sweaty man’s sly expression behind the wiping cloth.
Mr. Grey said, “We’ll have to earn our entrance treasure then. I still say local work’s the way. Maybe someone has notary needs? I have a little background in that occupation.”
Honeydew said, “If you just enroll we’ll get in free. Right?” She looked at Tom. Before he’d deciphered her words, she went on, “Who knows, there’s a chance you’d win the prize... The winner gets treasure, Tom?” Tom nodded.
“I certainly won’t,” said Mr. Grey in an iron tone. Then, more placidly, “I only mean, I haven’t played violin in…”
“They call it a fiddle here,” interrupted Tom.
“So a fiddle then. Fiddle or violin, I’ve forgotten how to play.”
Honeydew said, “You’d need a brush-up. To remind you of the notes,” It may be recalled that Honeydew had no knowledge of enchanting.
“I know someone who could teach,” suggested Tom.
“No. I’m sorry, but I have to decline. We’ll have a much easier time recouping the loss with regular parchmentwork. I have a good feeling we’ll find something not so fantastical.”
Mr. Grey stepped deliberately to the next plank in the swaying bridge. Honeydew frowned, but she turned and strode onward. Tom picked up the boxes with a reluctant grunt, and followed. They crossed the rest of the bridge to the tune of the spraying water, and of Mr. Grey’s assurances. He said they’d find work soon, and make some treasure, and find Jodee Coats, and that everything would work out neat and orderly.
Much later that same day - when the sun had finally waddled across the sky and begun to set again - the three pedestrians found themselves crossing the same creaky wooden bridge. In the opposite direction. They’d left behind their luggage in the cheap lodgings paid for by Honeydew. The only burdens of this return trip were small bags of conical shell candy.
Mr. Grey said, “I’m still surprised. You’d think, in a town this size, somebody would have registration or insurance needing filed.”
No one responded immediately. Tom eventually said, “Less parchmentwork here.” Then, after feigning consideration for a moment, he added, “There’s still that fiddle contest.”
Honeydew added, “Enter it Mr. Grey. Where’s the risk?”
Mr. Grey shrugged, his dry hands clutching fast to damp rope rails. “I’m sure I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew. I’d ruin the event,” He sighed through his nose. “And look like a fool.”
Tom said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t. You’ve got some time for lessons. I do know someone,” The other two stopped. Tom dropped to a crouch. He let some of the wine spraying up around their feet collect in the hollows of the coneshell candy. He brought the candy to his mouth and crunched vigorously.
After a moment of satisfied chewing, Tom realized they waited for his elaboration. “An ancient Well Witch,” he resumed. “She lives beneath the topsoil; out beyond the town. Not hard to get to. With good weather, a few days. Scenic country views.” It sounded like something Tom had read in an advertising brochure.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Grey. He watched the misting wine. “I wouldn’t want to impose on a stranger.”
“Give it a chance Mr. Grey - click,” said Honeydew with an encouraging smile-of-pearl. “Worst case, she says no. You’ll have got one of your walks out of it. As for me,” she went on with a stretch, “I’d be treasureless-stakes on that trip. I’d scout out the town while you’re away.”
“I… Well yes, I suppose. You shouldn’t spend your vacation sitting around while I take lessons.” Honeydew patted his hand in appreciation. “I might get attacked again.” Mr. Grey pinched his chin at the concern.
Tom said, “You’d be well guarded. I’m attack-proof company.”
“Tom, I can’t accept. You’ve assisted so much now; a perfect stranger.”
“You don’t know the way,” Tom pointed out. “And I should visit the witch; it’s been ages now. We’ll go together.”
The rocks below threw up another translucent spray of wine. Aerating it; if you could put it that way...
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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