Tildy searched her memory, though she was positive she had not seen this woman before. As she considered this, her eyes scanned the chamber, seeing tall windows and a small stair to her right, and to the far left, a dark barred door. She assumed it led to the dungeons. Every castle had them, after all.

She scrunched her face in concentration, but her attention was inexorably drawn back to the spectacle of the dress.

“Ah, she went with the iris, umaner-umaner” said the castellan approvingly as they walked toward her. “Luxurious, isn’t it? She makes them herself – always in flower motif – but would you expect elsewise of a lady of Gardenstem?” Marklin nodded in understanding, though Tildy was certain he had no idea. She hadn’t heard of the place, and she read far more books than he.

The castellan carried on as they approached, his gestures becoming more effusive with each step. Tildy suspected he was speaking for his mistress’s benefit. “I’ve never seen anyone with such skill! Her dresses defy convention. Take that cowl, for example. No material should hold that shape, yet your eyes see as mine. Lovely. Yes, lovely.” He held his hands together, absolutely delighted.

They stopped a respectable distance from the dais. “My lady baroness,” the castellan announced with a voice bigger than he was. “Truly, my lady, a flower grows amidst this garden of stone! With pleasure I introduce you to three companions of distant Wayfahren: Ellethen Longbranch and her daughter, Tildeneth.” They bowed, after which he added an aside, “I suspect you have grown the pungent blossom after which she is named.” Marklin giggled and Tildy glared at him, beginning to find annoyance in the Obsequiant’s mannerisms.

The castellan continued, “And Billious, whom I believe is a traveling jester in their care.” It was Marklin’s turn to glower, though Tildy wondered how the Obsequiant had reached that conclusion. He bowed, nonetheless, and so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor. Tildy would have laughed, but the baroness’s severe bearing suggested a low opinion of humor.

The castellan turned to his guests. “With effusive pride and utmost humility, I introduce the Baroness Stoneward, Greenwoman of Gardenstem. The Lady Amaranth.” Outside, the clouds must have parted, for a beam of sunlight streamed in to illuminate the room. Whatever coolness there had been at this meeting, it disappeared with the baroness’s smile. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she rose to greet them, her dress and mantle receding into a bustled arrangement. Although her form shrank, her presence did not diminish. She stood before them, tall and unnaturally slender. She surveyed each of them below her, and when it was her turn, Tildy fidgeted beneath those penetrating eyes of swirled grey. The moment ended, replaced by some feeling of connection, as though they had once met, but neither remembered when.

* * * * *

At last she said, “Welcome, weary travelers to Southershard. I bid you each: leave your cares at our door, and for a time rest within the embrace of our fortress and dine at the bounty of our table. Much news of the world we shall share, but first you must be refreshed. After your strength has returned and the dust of the road washed away, we shall feast the Midsummer in your honor!”

Not one for formalities, the witch stepped forward, her matted hair looking particularly unkempt before the refinement of the baroness. “You have likely already heard, good lady, that we bring urgent news of an army—”

Lady Amaranth held up a hand but smiled with kindness. “I interrupt, for I have already been informed and beg you to forgive a host’s rudeness. Foremost, I seek to cleanse your worries and feed your hungers. We shall speak more of this, I swear.” The witch bowed, but Tildy could tell she was dissatisfied with the response.

The Obsequiant stepped forward and gestured to the guests. “If you will follow me, I shall—”

The baroness interrupted again, which Tildy assumed she did a lot of. “As Lady of the House, I claim the privilege of guiding them to their rooms.” He bowed again and left.

She descended the dais and said, “Useful creatures. So eager to please, yet always wanting to serve as buffer between their masters and others.” She put a hand on Tildy’s shoulder. “But how are we to become friends with someone standing between us, I ask you?” Tildy and Marklin nodded, not knowing how else to respond. “Good! Follow me.”

* * * * *

From a nearby table, she retrieved a three-armed candelabrum of twisting gold. At her touch, tall red flames burst to life, each unnaturally large for candles that size. She led them across the small chamber and up the stairs to an ornate door. Walking through, they found themselves on a grander staircase. “This is one of two matching staircases. Up they go, each a twisting helix along the inner wall, like a tunnel, with floors opening between them.” Not far from the door, they passed a patch of inner wall that appeared newer than the rest of the stone. Perhaps the castle was falling into disrepair. Tildy looked up sharply to reassure herself of the ceiling’s integrity.

They continued their ascent. At regular intervals to their right, glassed windows allowed narrow views of the noiseless world beyond. To their left, a never-ending wall that curved out of sight, both ahead and behind. Descending servants hugged it as they scurried by, eyes cast downwards.

 “You, my boy,” she said so warmly to Marklin that he blushed, “will be on the third floor in one of the bunkrooms. I’m afraid you’ll have the floor to yourself. All the squires are afield or stationed at the guard-gate. But I daresay you’ll find things to occupy your time here,” she said with a wink. The stairs leveled out onto a broad landing like a village square. Torches everywhere flared to life, revealing doors that ran away along the wall in either direction, which Tildy assumed were the barracks. Within the square, they saw low buildings that bore the painted heraldry of the knights stationed there. Also, there were weapon racks, target butts for archery, and other battle gear.

The baroness said to Marklin, “Find an unoccupied room while I show your companions theirs.” His eyes already wide as he viewed the floor, he took off without another word.

* * * * *

“We’re not staying together?” asked Tildy, uneasy as she watched him go.

“To be sure you could, of course,” Lady Amaranth replied. “But the Southershard has the perfect room for every guest, and I would hate for you to experience one not meant for you.” As she resumed her climb up the stairs, Tildy looked at her adoptive mother, who said nothing, eager to see more.

As they circled upwards along the staircase, the baroness pointed out various tapestries: some displaying the wear of antiquity, while others bore the dark stains of war. Frequently they saw statues and stonework animals displayed on pedestals or in wall niches, though the woman ignored most of them. Their detail was so exquisite, Tildy expected to see them breathing.

Able to see over the castle’s wall at this height, she also paused to have them admire the view of the mountains from several narrow windows along the way.

Tildy had lost count of the number of circuits they’d made on the stairs. The ache in her side suggested they must be at the tenth story, though neither of the women appeared winded. “Here we are at last,” announced the baroness, leaving the stairway at another unlit landing. Holding the candelabrum high, she paused. A hundred or more torches sprung to life, hanging from the ceiling and walls. A long, broad corridor stretched away to a dimness at the far end.

Twin oak doors flanked the corridor entrance where they stood, each adorned with the relief of a sitting griffon that clutched a brass ring handle. “Floor twelve. One of my favorites. Two rooms split the floor in half, twins in every detail – furniture, mirrors, paintings. A rather eccentric theme, but it really is charming.

“The western room is unusable at the moment, my dear, so I’m afraid you’ll have to take the east,” Lady Amaranth said, opening the door to her right. Tildy’s confusion must have shown on her face, so she added, “It is tradition in these lands to have a guest’s room face the direction of her home. But I think you’ll forgive me when you see that you have a view of the Hearkenfell Mountains to the north.”

“Which direction does your room face?” asked the witch.

“Mine?” Lady Amaranth asked.

“Toward your home, I mean.”

“Ahhh,” she replied, pausing to let Tildy pass. “My home is the Valley of Southershard. All windows look to my home.”

Tildy entered and immediately stopped, awed by the space. Marklin bumped into her, puffing hard from running up more stairs than he probably expected. “Look at this room,” he said.

“Why is the other room closed?” Tildy heard the witch ask as she and Marklin began to explore.

“Well, you know how these old family castles get cluttered up over time,” said the baroness with a dismissive wave, as though everyone lived in such a home. “Paintings, statues, all sorts of gifts are sent to curry favor with the barons. Unfortunately, that room was turned into an oversized storeroom a few generations ago and there are piles right up to the doors! Alas, but you’ll only see one of the twins in this adventure of yours.”

Tildy finally found her words. “This room. It’s unbelievable. I’m staying here myself?”

“It is fitting. Of old, a baron’s children lived in these rooms. If the lord had them,” she added quietly.

“Oh,” said Tildy, catching a sadness in the woman’s words. She knelt by her backpack, which had been carried up for her.

“Worry not, young one, no one is ever alone here.” She offered a smile only Tildy could see. “Let us journey to the thirteenth floor, where we have the most excellent quarters for your dear mother. Castellan Fillofillo advised that you knew somewhat of magicks and mystiks.”

“The thirteenth?” repeated the witch.

* * * * *

Lady Amaranth led the way back to the stairs. “Oh, one as wise as you isn’t superstitious, I am sure.” Tildy hid a smile as the witch uttered one of her harrumphs. Among all the old wives’ tales and other ignorant gossips they heard, this was one of the regular assumptions.

“No. I have no more worries with that number than any other.”

“Good!” said the baroness with a broad smile. “You’re better prepared than several past occupants of the room.” She looked over her shoulder at Marklin. “The loremaidens tell us that seven people have leapt to their deaths from the balcony of this room. Which is the unlucky number, hmm?” She laughed, looking for the others to join in. Tildy barely smiled, troubled as she recalled Ospin’s story about the witch standing on the cliff’s edge.

 “The room takes up the entire floor?” Marklin asked, intrigued.

“Oh yes, but it is more than a bedroom, of course. It would be the home of the tower alchemist if we retained such a person. It contains a workshop, library, and other sundry items of the craft: the mundane and the bizarre alike!”

It was the witch’s turn to be intrigued. They paused at a pale door of banded wood bearing a black squared cross, beneath which stood three vertical lines. “Thirsellion. Thirteen, in the language of alchemy.” the baroness explained. Tildy also noticed black scorch marks around the edges of the door, as though the room had once been aflame.

Lady Amaranth produced an old silver key on a leather thong that bore charms of jewel and gold. After unlocking the door, she handed it to the witch. “Best not to leave this room unlocked,” she advised, grasping the brass door ring and turning it to release the latch. “There are unidentified things within, and I would prefer they stay there until the Grimborlen – whenever the End Of All Things comes.” The witch raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Not that I have any doubt you’ll be careful. I’m certain you won’t set the room ablaze like Scalamon the Scorched, distant ancestor of the Lost Monarchs and Second Necromancer of Southershard!” She laughed, which seemed an odd thing to Tildy, considering the man probably didn’t survive.

* * * * *

As the baroness raised the candelabrum and the room’s torches flared to rainbow-colored life, Tildy immediately understood her concerns. Despite having grown up around arcane objects in the cottage in Dappledown, most of the contents in the room were unfamiliar to her. None appeared capable of escaping on its own, however, which made her wonder whether they hid behind the black doors, of which there were many. Or perhaps the woman had seen something lurking amongst the shadows, of which there were more.

 She saw the usual instruments: scales, mortar and pestle, knives of fair and foul kind, specimen jars, ancient books and withered scrolls, candles and oil lamps, charts filled with familiar and extraordinary symbols, and a brass telescope that appeared too large for Human use. But the other items filled her with equal parts awe, terror, and disgust as she walked around the room.

There was a tall contraption against one wall, an odd combination of wooden frame and glass, etched dial, and blades swinging below. Tildy decided to call it the ‘knife clock’.

A large glass cylinder stood along the far wall, seemingly filled with misshapen heads suspended in orange liquid. Near that, a half-dissected beetle carapace the size of a cat lay atop a workbench covered with unusual utensils. Next, she peered into an open cabinet with strange objects on every shelf, many stained by some dark task, long completed.

A dusty stuffed octopi with two heads had been mounted to the wall, each with a blinded eye and sharp beak. Three other larger creatures stood around it, each a greater nightmare than the previous.

And in the darkest corner, a black bed with pillows the color of dried blood. They even looked crusty to Tildy, and she dared not approach.

“Cozy,” said the baroness. “I will leave you to the conversations of friends in a new place. I will see to the feast, by your consent.” She nodded to each but gave Tildy an indulgent smile. “Be sure to bring your appetites and your tales of the road!” She then disappeared down the stairs.

* * * * *

Tildy and Marklin exploded into speech about the baroness, the Obsequiant, and most of all, what they’d seen of the Last Shard. The witch silently scanned the Thirsellion from where she stood. Tildy wondered if she was hovering near to prevent them from exploring the wonders and horrors of the room. A commotion at the door turned all their heads.

“Most apologies,” said the Obsequiant, who lingered on the threshold, but did not enter. A crowd of people stood behind him, many bent or weary, as though generations of toil lay upon them. “Bathing preparations have been made, and I daresay you will want to remove such travel-stained clothing as soon as may be, ulamed-ulamed,” he finished, nodding his head.

Tildy and Marklin looked at the witch. “Scoot!” she said, encouraging them from the room with her hands and a smile. As the group of people led them downstairs, she heard her adoptive mother ask, “I did not observe a bathtub here.”

“No, indeed,” said the castellan, his voice grave. “Old tales tell us that no fewer than three bath basins have been in the room, and terrible accidents befell each! After the third accident – it was found smashed into the courtyard below – the residents stopped replacing them.” Tildy giggled as they disappeared from view behind her.

* * * * *

At the next floor, two men separated Marklin and led him downstairs, his eyes lingering on one of the women who remained with Tildy. Seeing his dopey face, Tildy’s smile faded. However, there was no time to dwell on that as four women whisked her toward her room, practically carrying her. Three of them appeared of an age to the witch, and the fourth was barely an adult. She did all the talking. “Now then, young miss, we’re to bathe you and scrub you good an’ red. M’ mistress bade us to clothe you proper, and let’s see if we cannot do something with your,” she gestured at Tildy’s short mess of hair, “that.”

Tildy smiled at the young woman, who had sad doe eyes and an expectant expression, as though she were hoping that someone was about to say something that would change her life. And when she smiled, her mouth did the motions, but there was no sign of happiness in the expression. Feeling sorry for the woman, she decided to make friends: “I’m Tildeneth, but you can call me Tildy.”

The women all shook their heads, and the youngest said, “Afraid that wouldn’t be proper, beggin’ yer pardon, young miss.” Before Tildy could say another word, the party had stopped beside an enormous bathtub in a secluded corner of the room. Two women fetched water from an enormous cauldron resting above the floor’s blazing fire-ring, as the other two began undressing her behind the protective screen.

“Hold – just a – wait!” was all she could manage before her cloak was yanked over her head. Her overdress was next, while firm hands unlaced and removed her boots, which wasn’t easy when their occupant wasn’t ready. As socks went flying, keeping her balance seemed more important than arguing. Before she knew it, she wore only gooseflesh. Figuring it was too late to protect her modesty, she settled for crossing her arms over her chest and birthmark. Then they half-dragged her to the tub, dumping her into very hot, sudsy water.

* * * * *

Tildy righted herself and sighed as the scalding water leeched away dirt and soreness alike. Wiping bubbles from her face, she saw she wouldn’t relax long, however. The women were returning, armed for battle: the youngest holding Tildy’s silver hairbrush, another carrying a lumpy piece of soap, and a third bearing a scrub that looked more stone than sponge.

The young woman chatted away merrily as the three of them attacked Tildy’s dirt and grime with practiced expertise. “M’name’s Ramora, lady’s maid. The one at your feet’s Gadrella, and the one in the middle – no, Bidge, that’s a birthmark, you ol’ biddy. Well, she’s a bit daft.” The woman glared up with one wild eye. Ramora grunted as she pulled the brush through Tildy’s short, but very tangled hair. “We’ll have you cleaner than a shorn sheep on a rainy day.”

As she gritted her teeth at the pulling, scraping, and scrubbing, Tildy was sure this wasn’t similar to that at all. “What exactly is a ‘lady’s maid’?” she asked.

Ramora blushed. “I take care of milady’s personal needs. I bathe and wash her. Perfume ‘er. Brush and pluck her. Dress ‘er right. Many things.” She poured a thick liquid onto the brush and returned to her task.

Tildy’s smile twisted into a grimace. “I can’t imagine, erf. Not doing all those things on her own?”

Ramora frowned. “You don’ know, miss. You don’t know how a baron lives. Like royals, they are in many ways. I’m lucky to have this job. Many others have it worse. It’s a real compliment to you that she sent me, don’t mind m’ saying.”

“I might mind less if the compliment weren’t so painful.”

“Can’t blame the soap when you’re dirty as a droak. I swear, your hair is changing color as I clean it.”

“Dunk?” asked ol’ Bidge.

* * * * *

“Dunk,” Ramora replied. Before Tildy could ask, her head was pushed below the water, but she was immediately pulled up again. Spluttering, she wiped her eyes and saw Bidge cackling with glee. Her bath concluded, the three women dried her with indulgent towels of ambrosial cotton – a welcome relief after the vigorous scrubbing – as the fourth woman reappeared with an armload of dresses. “All right there, Sig?” the lady’s maid asked. The other woman nodded as she trudged forward to lay the garments on the bed.

Bundled in more towels, Tildy was led to the bed for dress selection. Ramora gave her an appraising look that made her feel naked again. “Right,” she said, as the others began holding up dress after dress. The young woman shook her head again and again until, “Stop! Yes, the clear blue, I think. Milady will like that.”

Before Tildy could comment on the selection, the flurry of activity resumed with Ramora directing the others. When it was over, and for years afterward, she wondered how the three old women dressed her so quickly. It felt like she’d learned a complicated dance.

The four attendants stood back to admire her, all smiling. Ramora said, “Aye, you’re practically a true lady of the castle. The baroness made this dress herself, miss. She has a proper seamstress of course, but she likes to do a bit of threadwork herself. A real wizard she is with cloth and needle, though perhaps I shouldn’t say it like that.”

“No, perhaps not,” Tildy agreed, distracted as she admired herself in the immense mirror, which had more glass than she’d seen in her life. She loved how the colors of the slippers and dress perfectly matched her eyes and hair, but the style was over-fancy for her taste, with its long trailing sleeves, elaborate brocade, and intricately detailed needlework of birds in flight. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to unfold her wings in this dress, and with alarm she realized she could have accidentally revealed them during her bath. However, she dismissed this minor detail when she admired a garment so lovely. She looked, well, she looked pretty. She’d never thought anything but the opposite about herself.

“You know,” the young woman said slowly, “I wouldn’t’ve thought that dress color could work with your hair, but as I see you in it, I think it’s perfect. Like it were made for you.” Tildy froze, wondering if she had subtly shifted her appearance to match the dress, as she often accidentally did. She started to feel less comfortable in the garment and leaned closer to examine her reflection.

* * * * *

Ramora stepped in front of her and said, “Let’s get you laced in!” Tildy looked up sharply, thinking she was fully dressed already. Their tasks complete, the other women left as the lady’s maid circled her like a knight inspecting her squire. Tildy watched her in the mirror, uncomfortable with the renewed scrutiny. The woman tutted. “You’ve not got much in front or on top for me to work with,” she said indicating Tildy’s chest and hair, “but that’s a fine shape as far as my mistress is concerned. You should hear her carry on about fancified women displaying their bosoms like, well, I won’t repeat those sorts of the words, but she disapproves of the style many women set themselves to. I suppose a little lift won’t do no harm.” She walked behind Tildy and pulled painfully at the laces in the back, shaking her as she continued to pull.

Tildy looked down, suddenly seeing more skin revealed, squished, and pushed up than she felt comfortable displaying. Even worse, the top of her birthmark was visible. A deep crimson blush spread from her face to every inch of skin she could see.

“Here miss, let’s see if we’ve improved the—” Ramora broke off, suddenly noticing the shock on her face. “Oh miss! I’m sorry, I forget myself and your age and my manners, and oh my word! I do apologize.” She put her hands to her mouth. “Me carrying on in such a candid way. What my lady would say to me talking to a girl your age like this! I’d be ever so grateful if you didn’t mention this to her.” She looked up expectantly.

Tildy was unsure what to say in response. It had been quite an experience being dried and bathed and dressed! And she certainly wasn’t prepared to mention her bosom aloud. She shook her head, finding her breath quite restricted. Ramora exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank you, miss. Thank you!” She immediately started loosening the laces, and Tildy watched her torso return to its normal shape while her lungs filled with air. Self-consciously, she pulled the front of the dress a bit higher. And a bit more.

The maid stood beside her. “Now about your hair. How – how d’you – do it?” She stared into the mirror, uncomprehendingly, at what she certainly considered a rat’s nest atop her young charge’s head.

Tildy, grateful for a change of subject, simply said, “I kind of, you know.” She held out her hands and twiddled her fingers about. “Mess it up neatly.”

The maid looked horrified.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, hair well and truly messed up neatly, Tildy exited the room, looking otherwise like the daughter of the lady of the house. She followed Ramora down to the dining hall on the second floor, where the witch and Marklin already stood by the door. The way he impatiently kicked at the floor, she imagined they’d been waiting for her.

Her adoptive mother hadn’t changed clothes, but she had scrubbed her face, and her flyaway hair appeared a titch tamer. Within the grey curls rested a wreath of white and yellow flowers. “Oh my,” she said, seeing Tildy.

Marklin, in squire’s clothes and bearing his trusty staff, didn’t immediately recognize her. He wore a conical hat adorned with similar flowers. Hearing the witch’s reaction, he gave Tildy a second look and promptly dropped the staff. “Your bath went better than mine,” he said, fumbling to pick it up as his hat fell off.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she replied, blushing at her experience.

“He’s lucky they returned his stick to him,” the witch said, still admiring her. She placed a similar wreath on Tildy’s head. “I’m not sure they have ever had such a battle.”

“My!” the baroness said approvingly as she moved out of the shadows of the dining room to greet them. “You certainly are unrecognizable. Isn’t she, Billious?” she asked Marklin, who nodded several times. “You look like you belong here, at least tonight. Let us dine and share news of the lands.” She stepped further into the light, displaying a less complicated and more elegant dress than earlier. Alternating broad diagonal stripes of cream and pale green encircled her body, a motif of long overlapping leaves that reached the floor and trailed behind her as she walked toward the long table in the center of the hall. Her auburn hair defied gravity, swirling upwards in a sophisticated twist held in place with flowering green tendrils.

She raised her candelabrum, which bathed her in red before all the torches of the room burst with fire. Mighty columns came into view, stretching upwards to the distant ceiling they supported. The sconces upon them barely held at the bay the night that crept through the windows beyond them.

Ahead, the inviting glow of the table put Tildy’s mind at ease, an oasis that quenched the blind eye’s desperate thirst for light. Marklin eagerly approached the table, though the witch looked around, ever on the alert. Tildy watched the graceful baroness, the beautiful embodiment of imaginations from a hundred books she’d read: thought made very real flesh, a noble lady stepping from the page to the floor at her feet. And it was wonderful.

Without any further indication from the baroness, several servants materialized to draw back chairs for the guests, while others helped their mistress into an unusual seat comprised of a broad cushion atop four wooden legs. As the hem of her dress expanded around her feet like an opening flower, she said, “I prefer a more casual meal whilst the baron is away.” She sat cross-legged amidst a nest of smaller pillows, and Tildy was jealous of its indulgence. The woman continued: “I trust you will not mind, though I daresay four walls and a roof might be comfort enough after so many days in the wilderness!” Marklin laughed with her, but Tildy only smiled, thinking of the four walls hiding the treasure chest where she’d found Mum. Mum! Her heart fluttered as she wondered whether the amulet still lay hidden in the pocket of her travel-stained dress.

* * * * *

The baroness gestured for them to sit: the witch on her left and Tildy and Marklin on her right. Cloths were tucked onto their laps while sumptuous aromas heralded the arrival of other servants bearing steaming platters. “You might recognize some of the foods here tonight, though perhaps you are unfamiliar with the dishes to which they are ingredients. You will find many roots and tubers, stalks and stems, true food of the earth. The bones of the Stonewards come from the earth, and it is the earth from which we take nourishment, as it is with my father’s family.”

Tildy hadn’t seen so much food in one place. They had not wanted for food in Dappledown, but the witch believed in moderation, as well as the conservation and composting of their food sources. She looked over several potato dishes, some with thick cream, some with gravy. Shallow wooden bowls with raw or steamed vegetables: carrots, celery, and sprouts. She thought she saw a plate piled high with parsnips in a savory sauce. Turnips and radishes were artistically carved into animals. Translucent slices of water chestnuts and ginger circled a platter of thick roots encased in rocklike carapaces. Twisted greens tied with bitter-sprouts. And on and on. She nearly drooled. There appeared to be far more food here than the assembled group could consume!

“No meat?” whispered a grinning Marklin.

“Oh ho!” the baroness laughed, pointing at him with an asparagus stalk. “Of course! Growing lads love cutting flesh, tearing meat, or feeling blood and juice dripping on their chins.” Her eyes sparkled and he blushed.

The witch interjected on his behalf. “He might have stated it otherwise, but the lad’s never complained about a belly full of cooked meat.”

“Though he might complain with a belly full of rabbit food,” the baroness laughed. “I daresay you would like the baron’s menu more than mine! But alas, young man, you are not my highest guest of honor.” She raised a glass of wine to the witch and said with solemn formality, “I humbly offer my garden’s treasures to one who will truly appreciate them.”

Apparently touched by the gesture, the witch blushed, something Tildy had rarely seen. “We heartily accept.” As though on cue, a quartet of pipe and strings began playing cheery music from a corner of the room and servants began dishing food. Marklin enthusiastically approved every item offered to him, his eyes growing as his plate filled. Tildy found herself nearly as eager, though the sleeves of her dress vexed her. When they weren’t sliding over her hands, the excess cloth seemed determined to drag across her plate every time she moved. Deciding to favor cleanliness over dignity, she surreptitiously pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and tucked the material into them.

* * * * *

At Lady Amaranth’s urging, the witch regaled her with their adventure thus far. The baroness claimed to be only vaguely aware of the disappearances between Wayfahren and Southershard.

Tildy noted that she left out the crofter’s criticism of the baron. She understood the impropriety of accusing one’s host, of course, especially at a welcoming feast. But that wasn’t all. Her journey into the Willowwacks was omitted completely, including the Dryad, which was one of her favorite parts. She thought the baroness, being from a place called Gardenstem, would enjoy that tale, but she trusted her adopted mother’s judgment in such matters. She was pleased that Marklin was playing along, but saw he was simply too busy stuffing every inch of his mouth with food.

Curled up in her nest of cushions, Lady Amaranth played her part perfectly, oohing and ahhing at the right moments. Tildy watched her, trying not to stare as she continued to search her memory for the woman’s face. Meanwhile, she noted their hostess ate very little, picking-and-playing, the witch would have called it. The baroness looked impressed when the story concluded, and exclaimed, “That was worth a minstrel song or three! Another time, I should like to hear the full tale, not the condensed dinner version.” She offered Tildy an indulgent smile and toasted her. “To Tildy. It is my turn. My tale for you is short, at least tonight, and only an epilogue to what you have recounted.” The witch’s eyes narrowed, and Marklin slowed his fork.

Seeing she had their attention, she said, “Southershard might have doubted tales from the wild this last year, living in sunshine whilst shadows crept out from the dark places of the world. Without the order of the Crown, and with the Steward so far away in the north, the vile creatures become bolder here in the south. And now our ignorance comes to ruin! Perhaps more to my good husband than to you, for the very army you described lies encamped beyond the valley wall, between his hunting party and us.” Tildy and Marklin gawked at each other. “None shall enter or depart the valley, but by their leave.”

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