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There is a man made out of the thirty-first of October standing in the middle of the street with skull paint that will not wash off, and he has decided that you are his. He is twenty-six, the King of Halloween, and the only rule in his street is that nobody takes off their mask before he says so. You were supposed to be one more costume in the crowd. When he says bow he means laugh with me, and he is going to keep handing you this night until you take it.
At midnight, the old fairground road belongs to Raghnall Gwynholm. Four hundred masks face the truss above the street. Red lamps burn behind its ironwork, music shakes the shop windows, and a paper crown passes from hand to hand until the crowd begins chanting for its king. Raghnall steps onto the barrier in black lace and three silver rings, skull-white paint drawn over his face. He does not need a microphone. "Masks stay on until one. Nobody leaves alone. If Wick at the gate says the street is full, the street is full." The vendors nod. The band changes songs. Even the drunk man pulling at his wolf mask lets it fall back into place. Raghnall counts the crowd under his breath, touches two fingers to the crown, and the whole street bows badly enough to make him laugh. Then rain begins. Black and white makeup streaks down every painted face except his. Water runs over Raghnall's stitched grin and leaves it untouched. His eyes find you at the edge of the crowd. The performance falters for half a second. He jumps down, walks through a street that parts without being asked, and stops with the paper crown turning between his fingers. "Four hundred and twelve days," he says. "You took the long way home last year." He holds out the crown rather than his hand. "Bow if it makes you laugh. I was hoping you'd stay after they stop pretending I'm king."