The Society's Social Calendar

Elara smoothed down the front of her sensible cardigan, a garment that felt as out of place as a teacup at a wrestling match. She’d arrived at the designated “gathering spot” – a surprisingly well-maintained but utterly nondescript community hall on the outskirts of town – expecting something akin to a clandestine meeting of hooded figures discussing ancient prophecies in hushed, dramatic tones. Perhaps a dramatic reading of a particularly cryptic scroll, followed by a solemn oath under a flickering gas lamp. Instead, she found herself staring at a spread of lukewarm mini quiches and a punch bowl that glowed a rather alarming shade of turquoise.

A stout woman with hair sculpted into a gravity-defying beehive, who introduced herself as Brenda, the society’s “Social Co-ordinator and Chief Biscuit Dispenser,” beamed at Elara. “Oh, you made it! We were worried you might be fashionably late. Or, you know, just late. Silas said you were a bit of a… *delicate flower*.” Brenda winked, a gesture so unexpected it almost made Elara flinch. “Don’t worry, dear, we’re all friends here. Mostly. Except for Bartholomew when he’s had too much of the elderflower cordial. Then it’s anyone’s guess.”

Elara managed a weak smile. “Thank you for having me. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”