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Fizz took it and conducted a short parade consisting of himself, a polite breeze, and a boy who agreed to hum if tipped. Two new fans were recruited immediately: sisters in braid ribbons who asked very precise questions about office hours, club dues, and whether there would be snacks at meetings. Fizz swore on the honor of every pastry he had ever consumed that there would be snacks. He wrote their names carefully in a little notebook: Mina, Lila. Officers, in charge of chants and cupcake logistics.
Third, trinkets. The alley behind the fountain offered a curation of objects that had, at one time or another, almost been valuable. Fizz drifted from table to table like a moth with strong opinions. A brass spyglass missing a lens winked hopefully. A ring with a cracked blue stone told a story about a sailor and a promise and a sea that did not keep it. Fizz asked each item a quiet question with his paws, the way you can if you are something more than a spirit and less than a god.
