An Afternoon at the Spell Market

Once a year, on the last Thursday of October, the Spell Market climbs out of a painted chest in Wendle's market square and opens for business: fog in jars, wind tied in knots, spoons that stir themselves (badly), a second shadow for the price of a good hat. At sunset, on the last stroke of the old bell, it folds itself away again and is gone until next year.

This afternoon something has gone wrong. Mizzle, a small grey rain cloud that has lived in a brass birdcage at the Weatherwright's stall for forty years, is missing. Its cage is open, there is a puddle on the counter, the Chief Warden wants somebody wet on his bench, and an elegant collector in plum velvet seems oddly calm about the whole thing.

You have until sunset. Ask questions, buy what you need, follow the damp spots, and be kind to the people you meet: almost everyone at the market knows something, and nearly all of them want this to end well. A short adventure for an evening, and a good first one.