There are three things that are most sought after in this life. Power, love, and an invitation to Lord Balthazar’s Bazaar. In rare cases, you could find all three in one night.

One could never be sure how, or even if, they would receive an invitation. They were tossed from the roof of the bell tower, delivered by elephants and peacocks, or mysteriously found in the pockets of one’s waistcoat. Prince Elias once claimed he’d found his stuffed in his roasted turkey and covered in gravy. There was very little rhyme or reason to it all, but when you were the richest man in all of Europe, you had very little need of reason.

Those who were not so fortunate to receive these coveted invites chose to live vicariously through the gossip that filled the parlor rooms and storefronts, whispered behind open fans or loudly boasted of at private dinners. No two stories were exactly alike, nor was any party the same as its predecessor, but one thing remained the same. Once all the guests had arrived, the music would stop, and Lord Balthazar would appear. He’d call for a toast, raise his glass aloft, and say, “To a night of merriment and mirth!” Balthazar would disappear just as suddenly as he’d come, and the night would begin.

It was the makings of myth and legend, and it would soon be mine. If it wasn’t for all this damned cheese.

“Unhand me, you insolent pig!” Said the woman whose boot I’d just grabbed. Her foot started kicking and bucking, making contact with my jaw. I could taste the blood of my split tongue, but refused to let go. Not when I was this close.

The poor bloke who owned the establishment stood helplessly at the door, trying desperately to diffuse the situation. “M-ma’am, please stop climbing the shelves. You could get hurt.”

“You heard the man!” I said, giving her boot one last tug, “Move it!”

My competition reared backwards, dislodging herself from the shelf and taking a wheel of Brie with her. I didn’t bother trying to catch her, immediately launching myself up to the highest shelf I could reach, despite the continued protests of the shopkeeper. Everything I’d worked for, all my sweat, research, and borderline-illegal travel had led to this one moment, and nothing would stand in my way.

At last, the top shelf, the fromage de la fromage, and my carrot at the end of a very long stick. With almost euphoric glee, I grabbed the hardened wheel and wrenched it free from the shelf to reveal… a piece of string attached to what quite worriedly looked like a ticking time bomb.

“Oh, SHI-“

With an enormous flash of light and sound I was flung from my lofty perch into the opposite shelf, falling to the ground with the grace of a dead rat. A warm pile of gooey cheese broke my fall, and more dripped down from the ceiling and walls. The whole room stank of decades-old milk and gunpowder.

And right at my feet, lodged in a mound of fondue, was a single piece of parchment, embroidered with what appeared to be real gold, and signed by a certain nobleman who had a habit of making people jump through hoops. As I reached out with shaking fingers for my prize, I couldn’t help but wonder:

If this is what it takes to get an invitation, then what on earth could the Bazaar have to offer?