In the empty village (for who’d be in the village during the Faerie Market?), Dunstan was taken into the Seventh Magpie, and given a wooden settle on which to sit. He rested his forehead on his hand, and stared off into no-one-knows-where and, from time to time, sighed huge sighs, like the wind.

Tommy Forester tried to talk to him, saying “Now then, old fellow, buck up, that’s the ticket, let’s see a smile, eh? How’s about something to eat then? Or something to drink? No? My word, you do look queer, Dunstan, old fellow…” but gaining no response of any kind, Tommy began to pine after the market himself, where even now (he rubbed his tender jaw) the lovely Bridget was undoubtedly being escorted by some huge and imposing gentleman with exotic clothes and a little monkey that chattered. And, having assured himself that his friend would be safe in the empty inn, Tommy walked back through the village to the gap in the wall.

As Tommy reentered the market, he observed that the place was a hubbub: a wild place of puppet shows, of jugglers and dancing animals, of horses for auction and all kinds of things for sale or barter.

Later, at twilight, a different kind of people came out. There was a crier, who cried news as a modern newspaper prints headlines—“The Master of Stormhold Suffers a Mysterious Malady!”, “The Hill of Fire Has Moved to the Fastness of Dene!”, “The Squire of Garamond’s Only Heir is Transformed into a Grunting Pig-wiggin!”—and would for a coin expand further on these stories.

The sun set, and a huge spring moon appeared, high already in the heavens. A chill breeze blew. Now the traders retreated into their tents, and the visitors to the market found themselves whispered at, invited to partake of numerous wonders, each available for a price.