I wasn’t sure whose Rite this celebration was for, but Surehand had gone all out. There were white tents scattered across the manicured lawns. Pathways between the tents were lit by magical means—nothing so mundane as electric lights for Lugh Surehand’s guests. Garlands of flowers were draped over anything that stood still. Staff dressed in Surehand’s colors circulated among the guests carrying tray after tray of wine and Epicurean delights. Even the weather had been manipulated. It was cool but not chilly, and the rain that had plagued us all day was finally gone.