Princess Wela noticed things. Not big things — small things. A beetle carrying a crumb twice its size. A candle that flickered only when someone whispered. Tonight, she noticed something very big indeed: the banquet hall was completely, utterly, mysteriously empty.
Every chair was pushed back. Every plate was untouched. The roast parsnips were still steaming, and the towers of little cakes stood perfectly still, but not one single guest sat at the long table. Wela stood at her place and listened. The hall was enormous when it was quiet.
Then — very faint, very far away — she heard it. Giggling. The kind of giggling that someone is trying very hard to stop. Wela put down her fork, straightened her blue gown, and followed the sound. Sniff, look, listen. That was Wela's way.
She walked the length of the great table. The candles all leaned slightly to the left, as if they were looking at something. And there, on the stone floor, was a trail. Crumbs. Small, round, cake crumbs, leading straight to the heavy tablecloth that reached all the way to the floor.
Wela crouched down. She pressed one hand against the thick velvet hem. Something glowed orange on the other side. More giggling. She took a breath — it smelled like sugar and dusty carpet — and lifted the cloth.
There they were. Four small cousins, sitting on the great patterned rug under the table. Cousin Bree had a strawberry on her nose on purpose. Cousin Dot and Cousin Sev were building a tower out of bread rolls. And tiny Tam, the youngest, sat in the middle holding a glass jar. He looked worried.
"We made a better feast," Bree announced, not even slightly sorry. "The tall table has too many spoons." Wela looked at the bread-roll tower. She looked at the strawberry. She sat down on the rug and said, "How many spoons is too many?" "Eleven," said Bree firmly. Sniff, look, listen.
Then Wela saw what Tam was holding. A lantern — their only light — had been mostly stuffed inside the jar. Tam had wanted to keep the light safe. But the light was going dim. The under-table world was slowly, slowly getting darker. Tam's chin wobbled.
"I was just keeping it," he said quietly. The jar was sealed shut with its own little metal lid, and the trapped light pulsed weakly inside, like something breathing very slowly. The bread-roll tower stopped. Everyone looked at Wela.
Wela looked at the jar. She thought about candles that flickered when someone whispered. She thought about the way glass hummed sometimes, if you ran a wet finger around the rim. She leaned close, and she sang one single soft note — low and round and steady. Sniff, look, listen.
The jar hummed back. The metal lid popped. And the light spilled out in a slow bloom, warm and orange, filling every corner of the under-table world all the way to the table legs. Tam blinked. Then he laughed — a real one, not a trying-not-to one.
The feast went on. Quieter than the one upstairs. Much smaller. Considerably better. Dot ate four little cakes. Sev fell asleep sitting up, a bread roll still in his hand. Bree lasted longer, then tipped sideways onto the rug with a small decisive thump. Tam curled up last, his jar beside him, empty and glinting.
Wela tucked the lantern close so it wouldn't tip. She looked up at the underside of the table — at the carved wood, the shadows, the tablecloth hanging all around them like walls of a very soft house. She did not go back upstairs.
Five children, one lantern, a patterned rug, and the very faint sound of parsnips going cold above them. The candle flames upstairs all leaned a little to the left, as if listening. Under the table, nothing moved at all.
