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John stood. Fizz hovered close by his ear, whispering ten ridiculous wishes ("A flock of obedient goats. A sack that makes more sacks. A comb that fixes your hair by faith alone."). John smiled and shut his eyes anyway. He made a wish he didn't tell. He didn't wish for power or gold or revenge or even safety. He wished for people—for this to last, for it to repeat, for it to become the kind of trouble that follows you on purpose.

He opened his eyes, took the knife, and cut.

"Speech!" Pim yelled at once, mouth already sugared. "Short!"

John cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said—and then stopped, because the word felt too small. He tried again. "I thought… I thought birthdays were for other people. And now I think maybe I was wrong about that." He looked at Fizz. "Mostly because a certain criminal made it impossible for me to hide."

Fizz wiped at an imaginary tear. "I am the law," he sniffed. "The law of cake."

They cheered. They ate. Ina's cake tasted like joy had been baked at a low heat for hours and iced with mercy. The small cakes sang backup. People poured drinks that did not have names; Penny did not ask where they came from as long as the jugs didn't walk by themselves.

The music started—no instruments, just people being human. Pim stomped out a tune he claimed was "river feet" and Fizz taught him three moves that were 70% dance and 30% crime. Elara clapped off-beat and glared at her own hands for it; Sera fixed the rhythm and laughed into her palm again. Edda did not dance, but the line at her mouth curled, and once—only once—she tapped her foot. The cat slept with one eye open, finding all of this acceptable.

It was perfect.

Which is why John slipped away for a minute.

He didn't mean to. It's just that sometimes when the world is too kind you need a smaller bowl to hold it. He slid to the far corner, a shadow by the old shelf where Penny kept the extra cups that don't match. He sat, elbows on knees, hand around a small plate he did not remember taking, and let the noise of the room be rain, not talk.

Memory, that unkind magician, arrived without knocking.

He saw a small kitchen, the one in the River House he grew up in, which was never warm unless the midwife was there. He saw a short, kind woman with hands like work and a laugh that bounced off pots. He saw her make a cake once with five ingredients and a prayer and put a candle in it that would not stand straight. He saw himself at eight, and nine, and the year there was no candle because the woman could not get out of bed, and how he sat on the floor next to her and pretended the cup of sweet milk was a celebration. He saw the year after, when there was no laugh and no cake and the kitchen forgot how to look like a kitchen at all.

His eyes got hot the way eyes do when they don't get what they want for a very long time and then someone brings it to them late.

He did not sniff loudly. He did not hide his face either. He just sat and let the water sit in his eyes and did not let it fall.

Fizz noticed. Fizz always notices.

He peeled away from a joke about lemons and drifted over, soft. "Is the cake wrong," he asked, faux-grave. "Is it too round? Should it be square. Did I fail geometry."

John laughed once into the back of his hand. "No. It's perfect."

Fizz sat on the table beside him and leaned his head to the side until their temples almost touched. "Why do you look like rain," he asked, gentle now.

"I miss someone," John said. The words were small and crooked. "The woman who raised me. She died when I was ten. No one made cake after that. I didn't think… I didn't think I'd ever do this again." His mouth bent. He looked at Fizz. "Then seven months ago you fell into my life like a rude star. It's… a lot. Good. But a lot."

Fizz's face went pink under the fur. He did two things at once: puffed up with pride and softened like butter. "Well," he said, and then he ran out of loud words. That doesn't happen often. He groped around for a joke, didn't find one, and went honest instead. "In this world," he said, "you are my only family too. Somewhere above the sky and the little lamps past the sky there is my mother. But she's far right now. So you are my now. I will say it once and if you tell anyone I will set their shoes on polite fire: I care."

John pulled him into a hug that was careful of crumbs. Fizz hugged back with serious little paws.

On the other side of the room Pim yelled, "Watch my river feet!" and tripped over his own pants. Elara said "By the sun" and caught him without spilling her cup. Penny swatted the air with a dish towel like she could hear joy. Edda shook her head and pretended not to smile. Sera clapped and bit her lip and looked like love.

Fizz pulled back, wiped John's eye with the corner of his bow ribbon, and clapped his paws briskly. Feelings were lovely; show time was better.

"Enough tears," he said. "We have gifts. This is now the Official Lord Fizz Gift Segment. Everyone ready your offerings. Gentle lies about the quality will be accepted."

They went back to the center of the room. Fizz cleared his throat like a master of ceremonies. "Rule one," he announced. "My gift is the best. Rule two, applause is mandatory. Rule three, if you brought a cabbage you will be escorted out by the roof cat."

"Proceed," Penny said dryly, arms folded, eyes soft.

"First!" Fizz cried, pointing at Penny. "The queen of stew."

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