The Merry Men Masquerade

11. Homecoming

The day was brutally hot, but Ronan would rather be anywhere but inside. He had left as the sun rose and had only returned once to drop off the day's purchases thus far: a blanket, kerosene and coal, vinegar, soap, baking soda, and a pot to replace the rusted one in the kitchen.

Now, he scanned the day market. Some of the faces had changed, but the energy was the same. Fresh despite the soot in the air and lively despite the circles beneath the vendors' eyes. A group of kids chased down the street, nearly toppling a graying woman's potato stand and speeding off as she chastised them. Ronan averted his eyes.

His back ached with every step. He had spent the night before sprawled out on the living room floor, staring at the dust floating above his head until he accepted the sleepless night for what it was and blew out his candle. With no way of telling the time – his stolen pocket watch was stuck, it turned out – he had waited in darkness for dawn.

He gratefully added onto the day's list that he would need that watch repaired.

Pickings were slim so late in the morning, but Ronan didn't plan on buying much. He traipsed between dwindling stacks of salted meat and fishermen selling leftover catches out of buckets and scrawny fowls tied in threes by the legs. He eyed bottom-of-the-basket cabbages, peas, carrots, and artichokes, and his stomach grumbled at the thought of stew.

He walked past it all to the potato stand. Some potatoes and some bread and some lard – maybe tea, too. That should be enough.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd done this by himself. He had always perused markets in a group. Going alone had seemed a lonely choice when he could have Felix tugging at his arm, dragging him towards cheap books and plays, or Mitch insisting they buy more meat than they could store, or Vito flirting with the older women at their stalls, charming them into offering lower prices but paying them in full regardless.

The potato lady attempted pleasantries as she counted Ronan's coins. Her clothes were shabby and stained, but her hands were clean where they handled Ronan's potatoes. She gave up when all she received in return was a stilted smile, and Ronan mused that he had been right. It was lonely.

He was hungry, thirsty, and finally tired by the time he returned, but he only stayed long enough to set his haul in the kitchen. He recalled the murky directions he'd gotten from a man at the market and set off toward what he hoped was a watchmaker's.

As the journey led him to the edges of the city and further still, he started to doubt it. Gravel roads became dirt paths, and the crowded city blocks gave way to small, far-spread houses. You'll know you're there when you see a redheaded bear, the man had said, which hadn't inspired much confidence.

Ronan stared blankly at the front door of a farmhouse, where a wobbly outline of a bear had been scratched into the wood. The door must have once been red, but the paint had chipped away so badly that only one sizable chunk remained, vaguely centered around the top of the bear's head.

When Ronan looked past the house and squinted through the pines framing it, he could see several large animals grazing on a field. He had asked for a watchmaker, and the man had led him to a farm.

If there had been nothing to avoid back at the rowhouse, Ronan would've turned back. As it happened, he was dead-set on avoiding the rowhouse as a whole. He knocked on the bear's face.

"Come in!" a man's voice shouted from within. Ronan heard a clatter, a curse, and a series of rushed footsteps as he tentatively opened the door. The space inside had obviously been well-loved and well lived-in; dents in earthy knit cushions and childhood drawings etched into floorboards and books tipped over on the kitchen table when Ronan peered around the corner. A red-haired man with bright blue eyes approached from a doorway to Ronan's right, already smiling his way. "Good afternoon! Say, I don't think we've met. First visit?"