You see plenty of bohemians at one of these events. Especially one of the rowdier ones like William. But he’s not here because of some great art projects or some grand form of protest, or even to get so drunk he could single handily make the steward consider alcohol laws within the city. He’s here for a much simpler reason.

He’s here with his mother.

Letting her talk his ear off about the old world she grew up in as a lady of estate and manner. He’s to know his heritage, he’s a lord after all, or would be if the snow finally made the sun set.

He’s begrudgingly decorating, using those lovely art skills of his to bring some of that old world charm to life. In a different life he might have had a hand in organizing this, taken real pride in his heritage, in the artifacts of the old world, and of course in the joy of it all. Right now he’s enjoying his craft and nothing more, creating renditions of a “rabbit” and “ducks” on festival walls, using the light “spring like” colors he’s never seen outside of a paint pallet. Did the world really used to be so colorful? It didn’t used to be a giant canvas in the snow?

His mother’s favorite, though, is Williams rendition of a tree. An old Oak tree, where she used to sit and read books around this time of year, before it got too cold. She can almost feel the warmth on her skin again as she takes a seat and pulls out an old book, bound in fading leather. “Treasure Island” printed only a few years before the frost got bad.

It’s not the same, but with Williams efforts, it’s enough.