Elana passes by with an armload of pumpkins for other guests, catches my eye, and gives me an approving nod.
If I didn’t know better, I would suspect her of being Maisy. The girl was trapped alongside me in the ship, but somehow bounced back faster than the rest of us. She’s since set herself up as our resident matchmaker, determined to find love in every nook and cranny. She’s even trying to convince us to let her start a dating service between guests and residents!
I grab a carving knife and position my pumpkin. “Okay, first step—we need to cut off the top and scoop out the insides. Fair warning, it’s going to get messy.”
“How messy?” Khatak asks warily.
I grin and plunge my hand into the pumpkin’s opening, pulling out a handful of stringy guts and seeds. They squelch between my fingers, slimy and cold and absolutely gross.
It’s hard to not cackle like a villain.
“This messy.”
Khatak stares at my pumpkin-covered hand like I’ve just reached into a biohazard container. “You’re… using your hands?”
“It’s faster this way. And more fun.” I plop the guts into the discard bowl with a wet splat.
He carefully, precisely, begins cutting the top off his pumpkin with the serrated knife. Each movement is measured, controlled. When he finally opens it up, he reaches for one of the scooping tools and begins extracting the insides with almost surgical precision.
Not a single seed or sticky string touches his skin.
I’m wrist-deep in pumpkin guts, stringy bits stuck under my fingernails, orange pulp smeared on my forearms. Khatak wields his scoop like a scientific instrument, each motion careful and deliberate.
“You know you can just stick your hand in there,” I say, pulling out another handful. “Really get in there.”
“This seems more… appropriate.” He meticulously scrapes the sides of his pumpkin.
“Appropriate for what? A surgical procedure?”
His lips twitch—almost a smile. “For maintaining cleanliness.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I wipe my hands on the towel, leaving orange streaks. “Besides, you’re going to get messy eventually. That’s half the point.”
“Is it?” He glances at me, then quickly away, but not before I catch something in his expression. Longing, maybe? Or uncertainty?
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I decide to stop pushing him. If he doesn’t want to get messy, that’s his loss. He just doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.
I focus on sketching out a rough face on my pumpkin—crooked smile, oval eyes. Nothing fancy. Khatak studies his pumpkin like he’s planning a military campaign, occasionally wiping his hands on a towel before they can get too dirty.
“So,” I say, starting to carve out an eye. “Do Volscians have anything like this? Holiday traditions, I mean?”
“We have the Festival of Blades, but that involves actual combat exhibitions. Not quite the same as… this.” He gestures at the pumpkins with his scoop, a hint of bewilderment in his expression.
I grin. “Yeah, Halloween’s pretty unique to humans. It’s actually one of my favorite memories from childhood.” I pause, glancing at him. “Did you have good memories like that? Growing up?”
His careful scooping stalls for a moment. “Volscian children don’t really… celebrate. Not recreationally. Only when one achieves a particular feat.”
The way he says it—so matter-of-fact—makes something twist in my chest. “Wait, you never had fun traditions? Nothing just for enjoyment?”
“Not like this, no.” He looks genuinely puzzled by the concept.
“That’s kind of sad.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I mean—sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s alright.” He offers a small smile. “I’m curious about your traditions. You said this was a favorite memory?”
I lean back, my hands covered in pumpkin guts, and grin. “Oh, definitely. When I was ten, my best friend Mara and I went trick-or-treating dressed as witches. You know, little black dresses, pointy hats, the whole thing.”
“Trick-or-treating,” he repeats slowly, testing the unfamiliar words.
