The year turns at the Masquerade, so the four weeks before it are when everything owed in Venturia is finally asked for. Rents, guild dues, apprentice terms, notes held privately between people who would rather not discuss them — the entire ledger of the city empties and refills inside a month. Nobody gets through the Settling without being asked for something.

And across the same four weeks the masks come into the street a little at a time. First the children, then the apprentices, then anyone who likes, until on the last night nobody is anybody at all.

Ask a Venturian which of those two things the season is named for and you will be told, with total confidence, one or the other. Nobody argues about it. Something might settle into it is a thing you say about a mask left facedown and a thing you say about a debt left standing, and both are obviously true.

The Days

Il Conto — the Reckoning. Opening day, four weeks out. Guilds and houses post their accounts and every debt in the city is formally called. Nothing is enforced; today is only the asking. The Burnt Quill prints a special sheet, the Covenant Archive stays open past dark, and the Watch stands about looking bored on purpose.

Low Water. The tide draws out, the old courses of the Penny Shrine come up streaming, and Venturians go down to ask.

The Small Faces. The first day masks may be worn in the street, and only children may wear them. Every child in the city is somebody else until sundown and adults are expected to play along and pretend not to recognize them. The Masquers' Sodality apprentices make and give away hundreds.

The Guilds' Table. The night the great houses and the guilds host dinners. Invitations are a matter of standing, published nowhere, and declining one says something about a relationship that everybody hears.

The Ferriers' Feast. The gondoliers' day. Free passage for anyone who asks, boats lashed together across the canals into floating tables, and by dark half the city is eating on the water. No whistling after midnight — the Ferriers don't, and they know why.

The Nameless Hour. One hour after sundown in which no one may be addressed by name. You are what you are doing: the baker, the one with the cane, the tall one. Held to be lucky. Held, more quietly, to be a good hour for saying difficult things.

The Quiet Night. Two nights before the end. Shutters closed, no music, no work. Finished masks are set face-up on windowsills to air, and you do not touch someone else's.

The Autumn Masquerade. The year turns. Everyone is somebody else.

Connections

• Low Water — The season's second day, and its oldest.
• The Autumn Masquerade — What the whole month is walking toward.
• The Covenant Archive — Busiest four weeks of its year.
• The Masquers' Sodality — Workshops run day and night.