Ever since I was just a baby, my parents told me tales of the Spring Fair. No-one knows who they are, or where they come from. One day they’ll just show up outside the village, the whole fair appearing overnight, seemingly out of nowhere. The next day they’ll be gone, leaving nothing behind but trampled ground. You never know when they’ll show up. Sometimes they won’t appear for many years, other times barely a year will have gone past before they make their return. But they only ever turn up in spring. The fair was always full of wonder. Music and dancing, acrobats and sword-swallowers, sweets and treats both foreign and familiar. Colourful booths and tents made from cloth and wood would line the hastily erected fairgrounds, offering games and fortune telling and hand-crafted goods to any who wanted them. But the most amazing thing, my parents had told me, was always the mistress of the fair herself. As beautiful as a spring morning and light as a playful breeze, with a smile like the sun itself and a laugh like a burbling brook. When the mistress of the fair danced, my parents told me, you could feel the world warming up around you. The people of the village all had fond memories of the fair, and they talked about them often. About games they’d played, performances they’d seen, food they’d eaten. Everyone in the village attended the fair whenever it came, paying for their services with coin or food or supplies. Everyone liked the fair, and had many fond memories they were glad to share. But they didn’t trust the people of the fair, and they never let them into the village. And they always left the fair well before the sun went down. Because if you stayed at the fair after sunset, you never came home again.