The Festival of the Blue Surge was the one night a year when Haven Heights felt truly alive. Luma-banners draped between the stone houses, glowing with a soft, pulsing light that mimicked the heartbeat of the mountain. Music from copper flutes echoed through the plaza, and the smell of roasting meat and honey-cakes was thick enough to taste.

  Grace, now 11, was in the thick of it, her obsidian eyes bright. She had spent the last hour helping a girl fix a jammed mechanism on a festival lantern. Now, she was leaning against a stall, talking to a girl from Section C named Lara. Lara was laughing, her face flushed pink, looking shyly at the ground whenever Grace made a joke. Grace, oblivious to the girl’s bashfulness, was just being her usual, charming self—gesturing wildly while she explained how the Luma-banners were wired.

  At the edge of the fountain, Mable stood perfectly still. Her golden hair was braided with a blue ribbon, but her eyes were fixed on the pair by the stall.

  Caleb leaned against a stone pillar nearby, nursing a cup of cold cider. He looked at Mable, expecting her to call out to Ace, but she didn't. He saw her expression—it wasn't anger, exactly. It was a strange, tight-lipped quietness. For the first time, Mable looked complicated.

  Caleb followed her gaze. He saw Grace give Lara a friendly pat on the shoulder, and Lara’s smile grew even wider. Caleb felt a sudden, cold shiver. He looked back at Mable’s face and then at Grace.

  Ace, you idiot, he thought. Run.

  The Night Market was supposed to be the highlight of the festival, but for Grace, it was turning into a nightmare of silence.

  "Hey, Mabes, look! They have those lace ribbons you like. The silver ones," Grace said, pointing toward a vendor.

  Mable didn't even turn her head. She kept walking, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "I have enough ribbons, Ace."

  Grace blinked, her hand dropping to her side. Even in that cold, clipped tone, Mable hadn't used her real name. It was always Ace. But the way she said it now felt like a wall instead of a bridge. Grace looked at Caleb, her eyes wide with confusion. Caleb just shook his head and mouthed, Good luck, before intentionally falling back to look at some scrap metal.

  "Okay..." Grace muttered. She tried again five minutes later. "Mabes? You want to go to the high ledge? The fireworks are starting soon."

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  "I'm tired, Ace," Mable said softly. "I think I'll just go home after this."

  Grace stopped dead in her tracks. The bustling market seemed to roar around her, but the silence coming from Mable was louder. Grace scrambled through her mind, replaying the last three hours. Had she forgotten a birthday? No. Did she break one of Mable's pencils? Maybe, but that never caused this.

  She didn't know what she had done wrong, but the hollow feeling in her chest told her she must have done something terrible.

  The walk back to the duplex was a slow-motion torture. Every time Grace tried to start a conversation, Mable gave a one-word answer.

  When they reached the shared terrace, Grace couldn't take it anymore. She practically lunged into her house and came back out a minute later, breathless.

  "Here," Grace said, thrusting her hands forward.

  In her palms sat her last three oranges—the ones she’d been saving for the week. She also held a small, poorly wrapped bundle of copper wire she’d twisted into the shape of a flower, and a heavy wrench she thought Mable might find "useful" for her window latch.

  Mable looked down at the pile of offerings. Her bottom lip trembled, just for a second.

  "What is this, Ace?"

  "I don't know!" Grace blurted out, her voice cracking with rare desperation. "Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I'll do your chores for a month. I'll let you pick the lunch spot. Just... stop looking at the floor like it's more interesting than me."

  Mable looked at the copper flower, then at the oranges—the ultimate sacrifice. She looked at Grace, who looked genuinely terrified and completely lost. The "cool" mask was gone; she was just a girl who couldn't stand the thought of her best friend being five feet away and a thousand miles gone.

  Mable let out a long, heavy sigh. The tension in her shoulders finally broke. "You're such an idiot, Ace."

  "I know," Grace agreed instantly. "The biggest."

  "You were ignoring us for that girl. Lara. You didn't even notice when I was talking to you."

  Grace blinked. "Lara? The girl with the broken lantern? She was just asking about the surge-capacitors, Mabes. She’s terrible at math, I felt sorry for her."

  Mable looked at her for a long time, searching Grace’s face for any sign of a lie. She found nothing but honest, confused devotion. Mable reached out and took one of the oranges.

  "I'm not doing the dishes tomorrow," Mable said, her voice returning to its usual soft warmth.

  "I'll do them! I'll do them for two tomorrows!" Grace grinned, the relief flooding her so fast she almost tripped over her own feet.

  As they sat on the steps, peeling the orange together in the fading glow of the festival, Caleb watched from the shadows of his own doorway. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

  The mountain was still standing. Grace was forgiven.