Shoutout to Evaseawynd, who wanted more Wilkie, and to samanthavimes, captain of #TeamAnthony. Also special thanks to Alinyaalethia for chatting about choir logistics back in the Before Times.

Sorry, Not Halloween Yet

"Hey! Wait up!"

Carl was already halfway down the chapel steps, but turned to see the sandy-haired baritone from the choir hurrying after them. Without his dignified scarlet robes, the boy looked just like any other Redmond student, overburdened with books and always running five minutes behind. He caught up with Carl and smiled as if they were old friends.

"You're back!"

He looked so pleased that Carl couldn't help smiling at him, though they had a terrible suspicion that they were supposed to know his name. Had they been introduced and Carl had forgotten? No, they didn't think so. He was only "cute baritone, second from the left."

"I thought maybe you had stopped coming to Prayers," the boy blurted. "People do tend to drop out after a while."

"I was sick," Carl explained. "Pneumonia."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I mean, I hope you're feeling better."

"Thanks. I am."

"Is that why you weren't singing today?"

Carl cocked their head in surprise. It was true that they had only listened today, afraid that trying to sing might send them into another coughing fit that would interrupt the service. They'd never imagined that anyone would notice that they had stayed quiet.

"Ummm . . . yes?"

The boy blinked, perhaps remembering that staring at someone over a choir stall for fifteen minutes each morning did not, in fact, constitute an acquaintance.

"I'm Anthony," he said. "Sorry. I should have started with that. Anthony Marckworth."

"I'm Carl Meredith."

"We can hear you. In the choir, I mean. You have a beautiful voice." Carl tried to protest, but Anthony persisted. "I mean it. Have you ever sung in a choir?"

"Only my church choir at home," Carl admitted. "But it's nothing like yours."

The Glen St. Mary Presbyterian choir did not discriminate on the basis of talent. Rosemary led them with infinite patience and assigned solos according to an alphabetical rotation so that there were no hard feelings. By rights, Carl ought to have had a solo every Sunday, but that wasn't the point.

"Have you ever considered auditioning? We're always looking for good tenors."

Truth be told, Carl had wondered about the choir, but had dismissed the idea. There was a weekly choir schedule posted on the chapel bulletin board that showed two evening rehearsals plus Morning Prayers and Sunday services and the odd wedding or funeral. Carl couldn't devote that much time to anything that wasn't school or work, no matter how much they might want to.

"Sorry," they told Anthony. "I don't think I can. I have a job."

"A job?"

"At a research lab. With the rats."

"We get paid, you know."

No, Carl hadn't known. Paid to sing? "Really?"

Anthony was nodding enthusiastically. "We get a stipend and we get paid extra for weddings and things like that. They give us free voice lessons, too. How else do you think they found sixteen undergrads willing to get up for Morning Prayers every day?"

Carl chuckled at that. "I go to Morning Prayers and nobody's paying me."

"All the more reason to audition. You're there anyway."

Anthony rummaged in his bag and pulled out a card embossed with the Redmond Choir logo and URL. "They'll post the audition announcement soon," he said, handing the card to Carl. "Think about it?"

"I will. Thanks."

Anthony beamed and began to walk away without bothering to look where he was going. He nearly collided with a professor carrying a thick file of papers, stumbling and apologizing as he regained his balance. He shot an embarrassed grin in Carl's direction, then hurried off at a clip that suggested he must be running very late indeed.

Nan refreshed her email and told herself that she was not disappointed. After all, she was very busy. She had a mountain of reading to do and a French literature essay to write and she owed ever so many reviews. It was plainly ridiculous to feel let down by Inbox (0).

Out in the common room, the suite door opened and Nan perked up. Maybe she and Di could grab a coffee? Alas, the unmistakable shriek of a Delilah in high spirits and the click of Di's bedroom door sent Nan scrambling like a fire alarm. Book, keys, and phone flew higgledy-piggledy into her bag as muffled laughter propelled her out her own door and down the hall at speed. Nan had shared a bedroom with Di her whole life and never minded, but sharing a bedroom wall had proved to be a horse of different color.

The bright crispness of October was mellowing into duller browns. Maple leaves that had whirled like Spanish dancers on the sprightly breeze were settling into sodden drifts against the curb, no longer crunching or rustling underfoot. Still, it was not quite November, and Nan decided to wring one last day out of the dying autumn.

By the time she turned onto Park Street, Nan was already wishing that she had thought to wear a hat, but it was nothing a cinnamon dolce latte wouldn't fix. Besides, waiting in line at Starbucks gave her a chance to check her mail again. The bubble of excitement she felt at Inbox (1) was pricked in an instant. Just another installment in the interminable thread of Halloween party planning. Nan archived it without even opening it.

She felt better in the park. She always did. Once, when she was a little girl, Nan had explained to a skeptical classmate that heaven would certainly have trees. Mother can't live without trees and I can't, so what would be the use of going to heaven if there weren't any trees?* Unimpeachable logic. But then, she didn't go to the park for logic. She went for the tang of pine-spiced wind in her hair and the lapping of little waves that could pluck a twig from her hand and carry it out to sea, past the Grand Banks and onward until it washed up again on the shores of Iceland or Shetland or Casablanca.

It was a wonderful park, vast and rambling, with sunny paths and woodsy dells, to say nothing of the pebbled beach. It couldn't touch the wild red cliffs around Avonlea for drama, but it was a pleasant place to sit and read, at least when it was not quite so wet.

For the sake of her skirt, Nan bypassed the shaded lawns and headed for the picnic tables down by the Naval Memorial. There were a few joggers on the path, some with dogs, some without, but no one lingered in the shadow of the great Cross of Sacrifice. Nan wiped down a bench and table, sipped her coffee, and settled in to read.

Truth be told, she was finding Cyrano de Bergerac a bit of a slog, but it was all part of a larger plan. If she was serious about working in government, she needed fluent French. Not just conversational French — nineteenth-century dramatic literature-level French.

Les mots chers et fous,
C'était vous. . .
La voix dans la nuit, c'était vous!

She tried, but her heart wasn't in it. Under normal circumstances, she would be rehearsing a blistering attack on Cyrano, a creep and a liar who disdained women as shallow creatures incapable of looking past an unsightly nose. Nan would want to be ready in case someone had the gall to defend him in class, but the imagined duel just wasn't holding her attention. Lines slipped past, imparting little more than the shapes of words. She'd have to read it all again, wouldn't she? Cher et fous, c'était vous . . .

Nan let the play droop in her hand. She let her mind drift out toward the glittering sea, where a distant sail scudded along like a fallen cloud. Nan had always liked to watch the fishing boats going out and coming in, and sometimes a ship drifting down the harbour, bound to fair lands far away. Like Jem, she often wished she could sail away in a ship, down the blue harbour, past the bar of shadowy dunes . . . on, on, to enchanted islands in golden morning seas. Nan flew on the wings of her imagination all over the world.** She tried to construct Milan from Persis's rapt descriptions and selfies, but you couldn't really begin to know a place until you'd smelled it and tasted it and measured it with your own footsteps. A little more than two months from now, she'd be making a start.

But first, French literature. Or not. The book might as well have been padlocked for how difficult it was to open. Nan checked her phone instead.

Inbox (1)

Hearts do not actually go leaping about, at least not according to Dad, but he always said it with a twinkle in his eye. Nan's did, physiology be damned. It remained suspended in mid-leap as the page failed to load over the park's dubious cell reception. Nan pressed her lips into a flat line, regretting that desolate, windswept shores had ever been invented.

Watching the stalled progress bar would not help. Nan turned her phone face downward on the picnic table and took a slow, deliberate sip of her latte, counting ten before allowing herself to check again. When she did, her anticipation dissolved into surprise.

Toomey, Patrick
Subject: saw this and thought of you

Patrick? Nan couldn't help but be slightly curious. Neither of them had stayed in touch, and she hadn't so much as entertained the idea of regretting it in weeks. But . . . he had thought of her?

Hey,
This was just announced — sounded like you. Want me to put in a good word?
P.

Nan clicked the link and read, neat brown brows rising with every line. The Speaker was offering three Summer 2017 internships for undergraduates. Bilingual candidates only. There was no stated preference for candidates from Kingsport West, but surely being from the Speaker's own riding couldn't hurt . . .

Want me to put in a good word?

Nan grasped her phone firmly in both hands and let her thumbs fly.

Dear Patrick,

Thank you so much for thinking of me! This internship sounds like a wonderful opportunity and I'll definitely look into it more closely. There's no need to put in a good word with anyone, though — if I'm selected it will be on my own merits.

It's good to hear from you. I hope you're well. Have you seen the new collection of Laurier's speeches that's just come out? It's front and center in the bookshop windows here, but I haven't had a chance to look it over yet.

Thank you again for thinking of me.

She hesitated over the signature. Certainly not "love" and probably not "yours" either. "Your friend" sounded impossibly juvenile and "sincerely" was out of the question. She wrinkled her nose and tapped out "Best wishes," hitting send before she had time to reconsider. She did reload the page, though, just to check that there were no other new messages. There were not.

The earlier flash of adrenaline was gone now, replaced with a slower, steadier sense of expectation. A hundred people would apply for each spot, but Nan didn't see why she shouldn't win one. She would read over the essay prompts this evening and devise a strategy. But first, French literature. Bilingual candidates only. Nan wrenched Cyrano de Bergerac open and resumed her reading.

John frowned at the jar of olives. How was it possible that Wilkie had no actual food in his refrigerator? There was a carton of orange juice, some tonic water, and a bottle of champagne, but the only edibles that weren't edibles were the olives and a couple of stray limes.

The cabinets were little better. John found a few more unopened mixers and a half-empty can of cashews that he recognized as the offering he had brought to the last poker night. A small collection of ketchup and soy sauce packets rounded out Wilkie's pantry.

John sighed. He should have checked before he went for his run. At least he could have stopped somewhere and brought back some eggs. Though, come to think of it, did Wilkie even have a pan?

"What on earth are you doing?"

John looked up to find a freshly-showered Wilkie emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung low across his hips. He was the very picture of casual unconcern, though he must have heard John clattering around and draped the towel so that it highlighted the trail of dark hair running south from his navel. It wasn't quite sporting, John thought, to go around looking like that when people were trying to concentrate on other things.

John averted his eyes. "I'm making breakfast. Or, I would be if you had any food."

Wilkie padded across the room and sidled past John. The kitchenette was narrow, but not quite narrow enough to make it strictly necessary for him to brush against John in passing.

"Ugh, you're all sweaty," Wilkie complained, twitching away.

"I went for a run."

Wilkie rolled his eyes theatrically and opened the fridge for orange juice. John set a pair of glasses on the counter, but regretted it when Wilkie brought out the champagne as well. Some of his skepticism must have shown because Wilkie raised a brow as he popped the cork.

"It's Sunday," Wilkie said, pouring two mimosas. "Brunch."

John knew better than to refuse the glass. "Doesn't brunch usually involve food?"

Wilkie waited until John had taken a sip before bestowing a satisfied smile. "Where do you want to go? Crown Tavern? Bergamot?"

To be honest, John didn't want to go anywhere but back to the dorm to shower and change. He was supposed to be at Ingleside in an hour to make tarte Tatin. Susan had already prepped the apples.

"What?" Wilkie asked icily. "Don't want to be seen with me in public?"

That wasn't the least bit true! It wasn't John's fault that they never went anywhere. Wilkie was the one who shot down John's suggestions for outings that might incidentally resemble dates with such withering pity that John had long ago given up asking.

"I'm not afraid to be seen with you," John flared.

"Good. I paid for a whole table at the Crow's Nest for my birthday and you'd better be there."

John should have been pleased. As a general rule, he didn't have much use for clubs, but the Crow's Nest was better than most. It operated on weekends and holidays in the loft space above the Lighthouse, serving as an alternative to the handful of gay bars in Kingsport, most of which were too small for dancing. John wasn't big on dancing, but if that's how Wilkie wanted to spend his birthday, he wouldn't object. It was only . . .

"Next Monday?" he asked.

Wilkie took a swallow of his drink. "One of the perks of a Halloween birthday is that everyone's always ready for a party."

John hesitated. Last year, Wilkie's birthday had passed during one of their periods of not speaking. This past spring, Wilkie had let John's 18th birthday pass with only a crack about how the third time might the charm. Therefore, it had not occurred to John that Wilkie was a birthday party sort of person. Certainly not a cake sort of person. John hadn't even considered keeping the evening free, which was stupid of him, now that he thought about it. But it wasn't like they had ever penciled one another into their calendars before. What did this mean?

John couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing for long enough that Wilkie clicked his glass onto the counter and cocked his head. "What?" he asked. "Do you have other plans?"

He did, actually. Di had coaxed John into promising that he would put in an appearance at the terrace Halloween party, and had promptly trumpeted his acceptance to Joy and Mum and Susan so that there would be no end of disappointed concern if he didn't show up. Using Wilkie's birthday as an excuse was a nonstarter. John would rather spend the Blythe's annual Christmas party chained to Aunt Mary Maria than answer even a single one his family's inevitable questions about Wilkie. They would ask things like How did you meet? and How long have you two been together? and the thought of trying to explain apps and trust-me-he's-definitely-not-my-boyfriend to Susan made John want to dissolve with embarrassment.

"No," John blurted. "No plans, I mean. I'll be there."

"You'd better. Ten o'clock."

Someone who had only recently met Wilkie might have thought that this was an invitation, but John had failed enough of his tests to recognize one in the offing. Not this time, though. He would pop into the Halloween party early, greet enough of his siblings to make himself unremarkable, and get to the Crow's Nest with time to spare.

"Brunch . . . ?" Wilkie asked again. "Surely you can spare an hour or two."

John wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him flinch at the name. That was the way to manage Wilkie. Never let him see a weak spot or he'd never let it alone.

"Crown Tavern," John said. "But I've only got an hour."

Magnanimous in victory, Wilkie slid the hand around to the small of John's back and pulled him in for a lingering kiss. He tasted sticky-sweet and bubbly, and John let go of the hope that perhaps he'd be able to get away in enough time for tarte Tatin after all. He'd make it up to Susan.

"Does it really have to be pink?" Joy asked.

Jem wiped dusty hands on his jeans and frowned. "The pink is the whole point!"

He had dragged half a dozen dusty old boxes down from the crawl space and opened them in the living room, where they were making Joy sneeze and snicker in equal measure. Mum could never bear to part with "good" clothes that might prove useful one day, and now she would be vindicated by Jem pawing through all her old stiff-shouldered blazers and velour jumpers. He held up a windbreaker that existed at the junction of Easter egg and road sign, making a face that reduced Joy to helpless giggles.

As if laughter had conjured her, Mum poked her head into the living room. "Having fun?"

She came to perch on the arm of the couch, close enough that Joy could smell the onions she had been chopping in the kitchen with Dad. The scent of something that promised to be cheesy and bubbly followed in her wake, along with the echo of music that definitely wasn't Josh Groban playing over the Sonos. Mum settled in, smiling fondly as Jem pulled the turquoise windbreaker tight against his chest.

"How do I look?"

Joy snorted. "Even if you do find a dress in there, it will never fit you."

"What do you think, Mums?" Jem asked, preening.

"It really depends on what you're going for," Mum said, not laughing, but looking as if she could laugh. "If you're planning on going as Hulk Hogan, I think that top will tear nicely."

Joy tipped sideways onto the couch cushions, laughing until she was weak. She didn't even reach up to stop her glasses slipping from her nose and dropping onto the couch. Jem balled up the windbreaker and aimed it at her head, glowering when it billowed and fell short.

Joy wiped her eyes and grinned at Mum. "He's looking for a pink dress."

"Pink?"

"It's for Jem," Jem said unhelpfully. "I mean, I'm going as Jem. Like, Jem and the Holograms Jem."

Mum tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, but it was no use. She spluttered, which set Joy off again.

Undeterred by their hilarity, Jem called up a reference image on his phone. It showed a glam 1980s cartoon character: Barbie-doll proportions, hair like an un-chopped truffula tree, oversize glitter-star earrings, eye paint down to her cheeks, a dress that barely skimmed mid-thigh, and all of it pink, pink, PINK.

"I've already got the wig and the belt. I couldn't find heels my size, so I covered some Crocs with hot pink duct tape. But I still need a dress."

"You won't find one in there," Mum apologized. "I never wear pink. Redheads really shouldn't."

"I suppose I never really thought about it," Jem admitted.

"I'm so glad I have two daughters who can wear pink," Mum said, reaching out a hand to pet Joy's brown braid.*** "I always did love buying clothes for you, darling. All the sweet little pink dresses I'd always wanted . . ."

"Hang on," Joy said, her mind whirring. "You liked buying pink clothes that you couldn't wear?"

"I loved it. You had this adorable pair of fuchsia overalls that . . ."

Joy reached for her crutches and made for the door without another word. Mum and Jem followed, but Joy did not stop until she reached the end of the main hallway, where the bedrooms branched off from the rest of the house. She halted in front of the framed wedding photo that hung at the junction. Mum and Dad, both of them beaming under the apple-heavy trees in the Green Gables orchard. Uncle Fred and Aunt Jo stood by Dad's side with their glorious '80s hair, while Mum had Aunt Diana and Auntie Phil, both of whom wore long dresses with voluminous puffed sleeves in a startling shade of

"Pink!" Joy exclaimed.

"The bridesmaids' dresses?" Jem asked, leaning closer to inspect them.

"Of course the bridesmaids' dresses! Look at the sheen on them. What were they made of, Mum? Pink lamé?"

Mum's face softened in reminiscence. "Aunt Diana and I picked those out together. They were just exactly the dresses we'd always dreamed of. Auntie Phil wasn't thrilled about it, but she went along out of love."

"You don't suppose Auntie Phil still has hers?" Joy asked.

"Her dress? I'd say she probably burned it the moment she got home, but I think that sort of fabric just melts rather than catching fire."

Joy flashed a grin at Jem, who had caught her drift and was already reaching for his phone. "Let's ask her!"

Notes:

*Rainbow Valley, chapter 11: "A Dreadful Discovery"

**Anne of Ingleside, chapter 30

***Rainbow Valley, chapter 3: "The Ingleside Children"