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(The next day, Time skipped to the party.)

The Bent Penny didn't look like the Bent Penny.

It looked like a festival had taken a bath, combed its hair, and put on its best smile. Paper ribbons looped from beam to beam like lazy snakes—blue, white, and a warm gold that made the room glow. A cloth banner hung over the big table, hand-painted letters wobbly and proud: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOHN. In the corner, a flower-stringed broom stood like a soldier who'd been forgiven. Lanterns that usually behaved themselves burned a brighter kind of kind.

The long tables were covered in clean linen. Platters sat shoulder to shoulder: roast chicken with skin like glass, a mountain of buttered carrots, a lake of stew so good it smelled like childhood, a small hill of bread rolls that steamed when Penny pulled the cloth back. Old Ina had come with cakes—two big ones, stacked, frosted, and shining (how frosting can shine only Ina knows) and a parade of little cakes with fruit in their bellies. There were jars of pickled lemon that looked like sun in glass, bowls of berries, small pies with lids that smiled, and a proud line of jugs: water, apple, elderflower, and a few that did not admit their names in polite company.

Everybody wore "party," in their own way.

Penny had on her best tavern dress, black with a blue sash and sleeves rolled up just enough to say she was still the queen of the kitchen. She'd put a ribbon in her hair that matched the sash and—gods bless her—she had even dusted flour on her cheek for style. Pim had a borrowed vest and a paper crown he clearly made himself; it kept slipping over one eye and he kept pretending that was on purpose. The roof cat wore a ribbon (no one confessed to putting it there), sat on the windowsill, and pretended not to care.

Edda looked different—more city than alley—plain gray dress with clean lines, hair braided, eyes bright but watchful. She blended. But if you knew to look, you saw the little dagger-charm at her wrist and the way she stood where she could see both doors.

Elara had done "party" her way: clean armor polished to a glow, cloak folded back, sword stacked with the other coats because even she could be told "not at the table." She'd braided her hair, too, and the braid looked like a promise not to laugh at jokes and then she laughed at them anyway.

Sera wore the temple's white and blue and somehow made it look like a dress for dancing. A thin silver chain lay at her throat. Her smile was soft but wide—you don't see that often on people who spend their days holding other people's sorrows. Old Ina, flour on her arms and joy in her bones, had a fresh apron with tiny stitched flowers. She stood like a general with sugar for soldiers.

Fizz had gone full lord: a tiny velvet ribbon around his neck like a bow tie, fur brushed and sparkling, whiskers crisp. He floated in the doorway for drama, then zoomed toward the banner and pointed at it like he'd painted it with starlight.

John stopped just inside the door, and for a breath the noise fell off him like water.

He had thought there would be a cake and a loud laugh and maybe two plates. He had thought Fizz would shove a candle in a muffin and sing a song off-key and that would be more than enough. He had not pictured this. He had not pictured "welcome" braided into rafters, "stay" put out on plates, "we're glad you're here" tucked into every ribbon knot.

Penny saw his face and barked a laugh that had tenderness hiding in it. "Don't just stand there, young man," she said. "You'll let all the warmth out. Come in and pretend you don't deserve it like everybody does."

Ina wiped her hands on her apron and gave him a hug that made his spine forget it was ever stiff. Sera came close and squeezed his forearm with a quiet, bright joy. Elara gave a nod so crisp it counted as three. Edda lifted a brow and the corner of her mouth in a way that said surprise, we can do nice things too. Pim bounced so high his crown flew. The cat yawned, which in cat language is the highest honor.

Fizz spread his paws like a ringmaster. "Behold," he declared. "A triumph of taste, restraint, and dishes. I made it all with my own tiny hands—plus Penny's hands, Ina's hands, Edda's feet, Sera's grace, Elara's fear factor, Pim's crimes, and the cat's moral support."

"You did good," John managed. It came out hoarse. He swallowed, and his throat felt full of a kind of light he wasn't used to.

Penny clapped. "Speeches later. Cake sooner. But first—sit. Eat a bite so you don't fall over when we shout."

They sat. The first plate was always stew. It is against the rules of the world not to eat stew first when Penny is looking. John ate obediently, and the stew did that thing it does: put a floor under you. Fizz tried one of everything at once and gave a running commentary ("This chicken knows it is loved. This carrot is performing an opera. These pickled lemons are crimes, but sexy crimes."). Sera rolled her eyes, which didn't work because she was laughing. Elara pretended to disapprove and then reached for a second roll. Edda ate quietly, watchful, but each time John looked her way she gave a small nod that said happy birthday, boss and I am here.

When the stew bowls were pushed back and the first shock of "we really did this" had settled into the room like a good rug, Ina stood, wiped her hands again, and lifted the big knife. Everyone hushed without being told.

"Boy," Ina said (she calls everyone "boy"—it's a rank, not an age). "Make a wish so big it embarrasses you and then cut clean."

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