A few days later, all the shops closed, and the farmers abandoned their fields as everyone in Hamelin gathered in the town square to celebrate the children's return. Mrs. Norton set out a table full of freshly baked bear bread, and Mr. Stein put on a puppet show with the toymaker. Thanks to Mr. Farnsworth, a gentle old mare with dappled flanks offered the little ones rides around the town square, her hooves clopping in a regular rhythm.

Much to his father's annoyance, William played his guitar for the gathered crowd. His fingers danced over the strings, seamlessly weaving from one song to the next. More than a few of the adults danced along, whooping with laughter as they pranced through the square. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen everyone so happy, so carefree.

Yet despite the adults' merriment, the children paid him no mind. Usually William's songs garnered thunderous applause and shouts for an encore, but today he'd lost much of his audience to a buffet of all the baked goods and candy the children could stomach. Though she was usually the first to beg for an encore, Emma didn't glance his way as she and her friends swarmed Mrs. Norton and her rapidly disappearing loaves of bear bread.

Once his calloused fingers started stinging from too much strumming, William slung his guitar over his shoulder with a sigh. Neither his music nor the festivities could lift his spirits. Though the children were home at last, the shadow of the year they'd spent missing hung over every last one of them.

Little Peter Farnsworth's breath whistled in and out of the gap where one of his front teeth used to be as he cast his gaze around the square, constantly on the alert. Jennifer Baker's hands bore countless new scars, her skin a tapestry of scabs and scrapes. Emma jumped at the slightest sound, hiding behind the other children each time a crow cawed overhead.

He had to tell Mother. As relieved as he was to finally have Emma home, William would never be able to forgive himself if he didn't say something about how strangely she and the other children had been acting.

William quietly excused himself from the crowd to grab a mug of ale. He grimaced as the sickly sweet liquid pooled in his stomach, but though he despised the taste, he hoped the alcohol would loosen his tongue. It certainly had that effect on the adults clustered around the refreshments table, most with ruddy cheeks and easily flowing laughter as they indulged in his drink. Only his father's spirits seemed unaffected. If anything, the alcohol worsened his temper as he glowered at William over his mug.

William startled as Pastor Abrams clapped him on the back. "Very well played, William," the Pastor said, his words and smile as warm as a homespun blanket. "It's wonderful to see you making good use of the gift the Lord has given you."

"You're too kind," William said. Father's gaze burned him like a cattle brand from where he stood chatting with Mr. Farnsworth. Regardless of the praise anyone else gave him, Father would never approve of his music.

"There is no such thing as being too kind, but remember to give yourself the same courtesy," Pastor Abrams said. "Enjoy the festivities. I'm sure everyone will understand if you rest your fingers for a while. You've more than earned it."

"I will, thank you." At least, he would try to after he told Mother about what was on his mind.

Finding her was none too difficult. With Father seldom allowing her to leave the house except to go to market or to sell the garments she knitted, Mother had few friends of her own, but since Emma and Peter were so close, it was to be expected their parents would get along as well. As such, William was not surprised to find his mother engaged in a conversation with Mrs. Farnsworth on the other side of the square.

"There's the musician of the hour." Mrs. Farnsworth waved him over. "You must be proud, Beatrice. He's grown into a fine young man."

"That he has," Mother said warmly. "I couldn't wish for a better son."

William flushed. His mother always knew how to fill his heart with pride, if only for a moment. "If that is so, it is only thanks to Mother that I have."

"Quite a humble young gentleman, too." Mrs. Farnsworth tittered. "I can only hope my Peter grows up he will follow your example."

"I'm sure he will," Mother said. She tilted her head, silently examining William for any sign of distress. "Is everything alright, dear?"

"I'm not sure." William glanced around to make sure Father was still out of earshot before continuing. "The children's behavior has been troubling me," he continued in a hushed tone. "They haven't seemed the same since they came back."

"Oh, they've just grown up a little is all." Mrs. Farnsworth waved off his concern with a flick of her wrist. "It would do you good to relax every once in a while, young man. You aren't much older than a child yourself, yet here you are fussing when you should be enjoying the celebration."

"That's my William, always looking out for everyone." His mother wrapped her arm around him in a tight squeeze. Much to his relief, she'd brightened up since Emma came home. The bags under her eyes had faded, and her smile no longer strained at the edges.

But that ever-present weariness remained, turning her hug into a silent plea for support as she leaned against him. It would take far more than a few days for her to recover from the year she'd spent mourning.

William pulled her close. A nod in the direction of their house received only a shrug in response. She'd be alright, at least for now. There'd be plenty of time for her to rest after the celebration.

"Don't you think it's strange how much Emma has been eating?" William asked. "We could barely get her to finish half her supper before, and now she can't seem to stop."

"She's a growing kid," Mrs. Farnsworth said with a shrug. "My Peter's been the same way. Nearly ate three whole bowls of cabbage stew by himself the other day. Guess that means you and I know exactly what our children like don't we, Beatrice?"

"It's certainly a blessing to have Emma enjoying my cooking so much," Mother said.

"Of course, but look at how she's eating." William nodded toward where Emma had grabbed a meat skewer. Bubbles of fat crackled on the pork that had just come off the fire, yet Emma paid the heat no mind as she sank her teeth into the tender flesh. Grease dripped down her chin as she stripped the skewer clean, not so much as pausing to wipe her face before getting back in line to grab another. "I haven't seen anything like that since that fox got into Mr. Farnsworth's henhouse."

Mother hummed softly. "Can't blame her for enjoying the food, but you are right, this isn't like her."

"Now that you mention it, Peter hasn't been acting like himself either." Mrs. Farnsworth glanced around the town square before finally finding her son crouched off to the side, away from the other children. He stared at something beneath a stall with narrowed eyes, his fingers twitching in and out of a fist. "I'd best go check on him," she said as she began making her way through the crowd.

Mother bit her lip. "Couldn't hurt to have Dr. Hughes take a look at Emma to be safe."

"Aside from causing him unnecessary worry." Mother's eyes widened at the sound of Father's voice. He'd come upon them without warning, as he so often did. To an outsider, the way he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close could be mistaken for reassurance, but William knew that tight grip all too well. "Emma's been through enough. We all have."

"But she's—" William swallowed the rest of his protest as Father gave him a look that could have frozen the Tantalus.

"She's fine, and so are the others. Everyone except you." Father pressed his lips into a firm line. "Why are you so determined to make a problem where there isn't one?"

"I-I-I'm just worried about her," William stammered, the words catching in his throat. When Father had that look on his face, there was nothing he could do but pray he didn't anger him further.

"And I'm worried you're burdening everyone else with your nonsense." Father's hand clamped around his arm. "Everyone's heard more than enough out of you, boy. It's high time you and I head home and—"

A bone-chilling screech ripped across the town square.