I am wandering through a garden park far from home. I have just completed the work I came here to do and am taking some time to enjoy the scenery when I accidentally wander into the middle of a wedding reception that I had seen hints of on the way in. There seems to be a fae theme to the festivities and it seems that with my suit of white, red, and bck I am striking the proper bance of formality and whimsy to be mistaken for a guest. Someone hands me what initially appears to be a menu but is in fact a list of trades with a guarantee printed at the bottom that all curses will vanish at dawn.

  I indulge my fancy and opt to trade my voice for a painting. Or perhaps skill at painting, given that no one hands me a painting. To my surprise, but not shock, I find myself genuinely unable to speak. Inconvenient, but less so than it might be for others. Novel, at any rate. It would seem this party is not merely fae-themed but the real deal.

  I begin making my way out of the gardens and back to my car but am wayid by a woman and a man dressed in matching blues. They too mistake me for a fellow guest – it seems the party is grand enough that many of the guests here are strangers to one another – and begin chatting me up. Through a series of miming and making an X gesture across my throat I convey to them that I cannot speak and this only reaffirms their mistaken assumption about me. I py along, bemused and confident that I will not be able to accidentally say anything that could give myself away. Between my suit, my height, and my ck of voice they mistake me for a man (or at least a masculine-leaning enby), but this bothers me less than it normally would. I’ve wandered into the presence of the fae; why shouldn’t I let my identity be a bit more chimerical than normal?

  The pair escorts me around the gardens, pointing out the sights and introducing me to other guests. It seems that the two of them had a hand in arranging the festivities and are quite proud of the outcome.

  Unfortunately, a second wedding crasher arrives who is far less concerned with blending in. My long-time nemesis, a shriveled old man scurrying about on too-short crutches with inhuman speed and agility, tearing apart decorations and vaulting over tables as he makes a beeline towards me. He must have heard I had a job in the area. He never did forgive me for taking his legs, and I can’t say that I bme him, as dangerous as he still is without them.

  I disentangle myself from my new friends and try to decide whether to fight once again or flee.