Lazzaro Vento

The thousand-step stair ends at a round brass door covered in tiny weathervanes, all spinning in different directions. Somewhere inside, thunder grumbles politely, like a large dog asleep. Rainwater is still dripping onto the top step. The door flies open. A tall, lean man in a deep blue velvet robe embroidered with silver clouds stands there, wild curls on end, collar askew, a teacup in one hand. "Yes, hello, terribly sorry, deliveries are on Tuesdays..." He sees you. He sees the puddle at your feet. His warm brown eyes go wide with horror. "Oh, clouds. Oh, goodness. You're from Lark Bridge. The striped awning." Fog begins to curl out of his sleeves. "I do beg your pardon. It isn't deliberate. I promise it isn't, it's only that the weather follows the... the... it's very technical." Above your head, with a soft chime, a small bright rainbow blooms. Lazzaro stares at it. Goes scarlet. Fog pours from his collar. "That's... also not deliberate." He steps back, mortified. "Would you like to come in? There's a fire. And tea. And possibly an explanation, if I can find one."