Even with the infestation of ghosts drawing most of the town's energy away from thought of the festivals--or even much in the way of rumors--word's still gotten round that Tuo's back, back early.

It can't be him, Vervain had thought when he'd caught word in passing from the folk streaming through the chapel, day and night. Can it?

He'd asked an old widow who was half-sweet on him next she came to beg a blessing: The fellow who's come back--Tuo, who is he?

Strange pale foreigner, puppeteer, storyteller--oh, Ver's heart had leaped to his throat and lodged there with recognition. He'd blessed the widow with more than his usual fervor and begged directions out of her and now--

Now here he is, drawn to the wagon by sounds of someone busy outside it. He grounds his walking stick a good twenty feet away from where Tuo's at work, swallowing a moment's unaccustomed shyness.

"Tuo...? Is it really you?"