The Seam Sorceress

The Ferris Wheel, part 1.

All around them, farmers sprang to their feet to give a standing ovation for Peter. Their clapping and cheers of congratulations seemed increasingly far-off as Tilly and Sprout stared at each other in utterly stunned silence.

"Well, I'm plum bumfuzzled," Booger finally spoke up. "Wasn't Sprout's pumpkin supposed to win?"

"There has to be some mistake." Tilly glanced over to GP, but he was just as lost as she was, offering her the most helpless of shrugs. "Maybe they read the notes wrong? Judges do that from time to time."

Sprout didn't answer. Tilly didn't realize what was happening until the first big sniffle shook her sister's small shoulders.

"Aw, honey, no," Booger whined, laying her head in Sprout's lap. "Don't cry none."

"I ain't," Sprout said stubbornly, but her voice trembled with tears. "I ain't crying. It's just a stupid contest."

"It's gonna be okay." Tilly looped an arm around Sprout and squeezed. "Let me go talk with the folks over the competition. I'll find out what's going on."

GP was already off the bench. "Let me go with you."

The group of farmers began to disperse, some loading up their cars and wagons outside the fairgrounds, while others milled out to the surrounding attractions. The pair had to separate to give room for a carny-turned-stagehand hefting a wheeled trunk up the stage steps in preparation for the next performance—a magic act, if the caped and top-hatted man waiting in the wings was any indication. Two of the judges were still on stage, chatting with the microphone off, but one excused himself as he locked eyes with Tilly.

She swore he took the stairs two at a time.

The remaining judge—the man in the overalls—flashed a watered-down smile as they approached. "Evening, miss. What can I do for you?"

"How much did Peter Howden's pumpkin weigh?" Tilly asked.

His cheeks puffed in thought. "Five hundred and two pounds, I think, give or take."

She nodded. "And entry number three?"

"Well..." The judge swayed on his feet. "Truth be told, miss, we couldn't find a scale that could weigh it without breaking. Not even the scale we use for the livestock competitions."

"I see." Tilly's knuckles bit into her hips. "Forgive me, sir, since I ain't never had no schooling, but shouldn't it stand to reason that a pumpkin that can't be weighed 'cause it's so heavy ought to beat one that's only a quarter of a ton?"

"Well, one has to take more factors into consideration than just the weight of the specimen, of course. There's color, shape, the general vitality..." The judge prattled off, but once it was obvious that this explanation wasn't convincing anyone, his shoulders deflated with a sigh. "Look, sweetie, your pumpkin was easily the finest of the bunch but we were alerted by a third party that it, uh, might've had a little supernatural help."

"Magic, that's right," Tilly answered. "The Lafayettes have been entering this contest for years, sir. Near-everybody in Coleville knows we use magic. Not like we can choose not to, it'd be like asking a body not to breathe, or a fish not to swim. Never been a problem before."

"We've never been aware of how—" The judge struggled to find the word. "—Potent it could be until this year."

"So it was fine until we won." There was a dangerous edge in Tilly's voice. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Uh, well." The judge panicked, furiously patting his front down until he found purchase in a coat pocket. A handful of coins were produced. "Here, I'll strike you a deal. You take your entrance fee back, as a courtesy extended from us to you in light of this decision. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, like they say. How about it?"