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The first chill of October had settled over the hills surrounding the Abbey when the ministry decided to hold its annual autumn fair- a mixture of harvest booths, homemade sweets, local crafts and games that ranged from sweet and innocent to mildly questionable (completely dependent on who was actually staffing it).
Papa Copia arrives dressed for the occasion…in his own unique way.
“Eh, you said ‘dress up for the fair’” he reminds you as he holds his arms out wide with pride. The ensemble was somehow a cross between a scarecrow and a Victorian poet: a corduroy vest over his cassock, a large wool scarf the color of pumpkin flesh and a floppy hat that has clearly been through several chilly autumn nights already.
“It’s…festive!” You manage to say, fighting back a giggle.
“Festive!” He repeats in delight. “See?! You understand me.”
The two of you are wandering through the fairgrounds together as the late afternoon sun gives way to a dusk sky swirling with purple and orange. Children run past carrying their candy apples excitedly, as the wind carries the smells of woodsmoke from the nearby bonfire and the cinnamon sugar of fall treats. Copia buys you each a hot apple cider, promptly scalding his tongue, and playing it off like nothing just happened.
Every single booth catches his attention. He lingers over hand-knit mittens, samples roasted chestnuts “for science” he exclaims as he breaks them in half to share bites with you, and points out every single large pumpkin that he claims is “larger than a small car”.
Copia is as much a part of the fair as any of the actual attractions- recognizable, a little theatrical without even meaning to be, and naturally full of childlike wonderment.
At the ring toss game he insists on winning something for you.
“Ah! These things, they are rigged, sì? But not against me!” He huffs, rolling his shoulders like an athlete.
The first ring bounces off a post.
The second nearly hits the attendant.
The third falls between two bottles.
The fourth somehow lands perfectly- on the bottle directly next to the one he is actually aiming for.
“See! I told you I was close!”
You are laughing so hard you have to use his arm for balance to keep you up right. Looking down at you, cheeks slightly flushed from the chill and cider, a sweet pleased smile creeps across his lips. Finally he does win something- a small little plush pumpkin which he hands to you in mock solemnity.
“For you, bella mia. Proof that your Papa is a man of skills.”
You tuck the plush under your arm and gently tease “and persistence.”
He grins so wide, the corners of his eyes crinkle behind the lenses of his glasses. “Ah! That too!”
As dusk fully settles, lanterns and string lights over head flicker to life around the fair, casting everything in a warm glow of amber. The laughter, humming of music, and low murmur of excited voices wraps the evening in a gentle, happy noise. Copia walks beside you, warm cider in one hand, the other brushing against yours every once in a while as if he is testing whether it might fit comfortably into his.
When a small group of Ghoulettes starts a tune onstage, he pauses looking toward the sound.
“Eh….it has been awhile since I have danced at one of these things.”
Your eyebrow quirks upwards. “Are you saying you want to?”
“I’m saying…” he extends a gloved hand towards you, his grin sheepish but sincere. “It would be a shame if we did not try.”
So you do. A little awkwardly at first. Giggling when he steps on your toes and apologizes at least a dozen times. Eventually though, you find your rhythm together, turning slow circles under the lights. The scents of hay, cider, and fresh fallen leaves drifting around you.
When the song finally ends, Copia dramatically bows, his hat slipping over one eye.
“Grazie, cara mia. For humoring an old fool.”
You gently bump your shoulder with his.
“You’re not old! Just festive!”
He chuckles, looping his arm through yours as you both begin walking again.
“Festive.” He repeats the word fondly. “I think I will keep that word.”
As you head back towards the Abbey, the glittering lights and sounds of the fair drifting behind you, you cannot help but think that there is no better word for him- your Papa in his crooked hat, hands still sticky with caramel and joy.