The witch put down her mug and moved closer to the fire, rummaging in a pouch on her belt. “A good story requires the proper mood. Ah ha!” She threw a handful of powder into the blaze, and it flared like Dragonbreath, though without the additional heat. Tildy thought she caught the image of a Troll stalking amongst the flame and smoke, and based on the reactions of others, she knew she wasn’t alone. Everyone sat down, captivated.

 “It was many years ago, before you children were born,” she said to Tildy and Marklin. She gazed around the fire, her face lit from below. Adapting an affectation to her voice, she began. “Yes, before any of you were born. In lands not far from here. ‘Shardsfell’ they call it today, though it was named ‘Trawlsfaug’ by the Humans who lived there. Idiots,” she said, shaking her head. Hearing an indignant gasp, she added, “Literally, the name means ‘Troll’s Downs’, so they were heedless to the warning of their own language. Elves had even forewarned against those lands, calling them ‘Termandole’, which is an elegant way of saying ‘there be Trolls’.”

She stalked about, moving amongst her captivated audience. “Whilst some might consider me harsh for naming them so, they had ample counsel against settling there, did they not? But Humans are a headstrong race, we have all seen this. Prideful in their own knowledge, and often dismissive of wiser beings.

“All was quiet for many years in a village they named Harsdale and for the farms around. Where the Trolls had gone, none could guess, and fewer cared. They snapped their fingers at the old tales,” she said, imitating them to startle a woman who laughed, “and told new ones about why the creatures left. In their cups, they sang songs about the old villains. Mm, there was a particularly good one about an old Troll on a seat of stone. How did that go?”

Her musing was interrupted by laughter from Ospin across the fire. “Aha! The story gets on and m’lady begins to enjoy herself! But come, mother! Return to the tale at hand. Some of us might want our own turn on the stage tonight!” A few others chorused their agreement.

“Fine, fine,” the witch grumbled, but Tildy thought she was relishing the attention. “So, the people in Trawlsfaug dismissed the Trolls as relics of old folklore and thought very little of them.

“On the last cool nights of the month of Gustin, betwixt the sovereigns of Summer and Autumn, something changed besides the weather in Harsdale.” Tildy watched the flames shrink, and darkness crept back amongst the crowd like spilled ink. “At first it was only a few sheep in the hills and fields. Wolves some thought. Thieves, said others. But neither predators nor burglars take children from their beds at night. Nor do they smash in windows and walls like the crashing of mighty boulders.” She stalked among them, sometimes disappearing into the shadows.

“Some folk suspected strangers from a nearby town, ancient enmities resurfacing. Or the Elves who lived in a nearby forest, for who can trust those not of their kind? Tales were told, each more fanciful than the last, each creating more distrust amongst neighbors. Like an archer shooting shadows in the dark, they blindly cast suspicious in all directions.” The fire burned lower than ever.

“Some thought witchcraft,” she said, spitting on the ground. “Fools. But fools with children in need,” she finished kindly. The fire grew large enough for its warmth to be felt again. “Somehow, they found my hidden home in the woods near them, though to this day, I am unsure how. Or what led Demensen to me again,” she said to herself, looking pensive. “Yet, found me they did. I had hoped for a quiet life and told them as much in no uncertain words, but oh, that never truly happens, does it? Cooler words spoke after hot heads drove them to action. I was…persuaded to help.” The fire flared.

* * * * *

This caught Tildy’s attention. “Persuaded? How? They didn’t force you, did they?”

“No, they offered,” and she paused, as though carefully considering her word choice, “payment that could not be refused. And more than was warranted. I shall come to that soon. Do not interrupt,” she finished with a wag of her finger, using a tone that promised a wonderful surprise.

“They told me their tale of woe. I searched the village and found clues they did not have the wits to recognize. Troll footprints look like the craters of fallen boulders that have been plucked away. Bum da-bum, bum da-bum,” said the witch, imitating a Troll’s loping gait. Seeing their bemused faces, she said, “It might be humorous, if only they were not so monstrous!” She pantomimed Troll features with grand arm gestures, saying, “Those oversized domed heads, overlong noses, and overstretched arms that often drag upon the ground.

“I made the villagers stay behind whilst I followed the trail into the hills. Deep into the heart of Trawlsfaug. It was then I knew I had a real Troll to face.”

“How?” asked Marklin, enthralled by the story. Truth be told, Tildy was equally enchanted.

The witch stepped up to him, nearly nose-to-nose. “Oh, the smell! You cannot mistake the Trawlsfetor when it hits you. Like a wet sack of manure right to the face.” She accented her point by lightly slapping his forehead. Marklin laughed and Tildy crinkled her nose before joining in. The witch’s words were so vivid, she could practically smell the stink. She wondered to what extent the charm on the fire enhanced the story. “So, the odor. Downright terrible, but a clearer path than footprints! I followed my nose to a hillside cave. The Troll sat within, unmoving, but I could see the glittering black eyes in the dim interior. He did not indicate he saw me, so I also remained motionless.

“Finally, he spoke: ‘You have the patience of a Troll, esgilladwyn,’ he said.” The witch’s voice became guttural and Tildy couldn’t believe the sound came from her. In her witchy voice, she said, “‘No, neither of those. Simply an old woman, searching for a Troll.’”

Marklin said, “What’s an esgilladwyn?”

“I don’t know, hush,” said Tildy.

“But I’m curious!”

“Hush!”

The witch continued. “The Troll, he laughed. ‘Go away old woman. I’m tired and full and it’s too hot a day for nonsense.’”

She walked around the fire and stood before Ospin, “‘Oh, I do not know,’ I said. ‘I possess a fair bit of nonsense.’”

She faced the group. “This captured the Troll’s attention because they love rhymes and riddles, though they have not a creative bone in their bodies! He crawled to his feet to leave the cave. Standing straight, he must have been fourteen feet tall, and he wore a cowskin around his waist.” She craned her head upwards, envisioning the creature. “He must have weighed as much as six cart horses. His oversized head, too large for his body, was bald, save for some tufts around the ears. Similar hair protruded from his big nostrils, which flared as he breathed through a nose longer than my forearm! His brown skin glowed waxy-yellow, especially around his over-full belly, which he rubbed absentmindedly as he groaned.

“‘Nonsense?’ he said. ‘Let’s hear it. And be quick, else I’ll add you to my belly-swell.’”

* * * * *

A terrible thought came to Tildy, and she gasped. “Not the children!”

The witch made a soothing gesture to dismiss her concerns. “Oh, they were hidden. Quite fine—I shall get to them. It is not that kind of Troll story.”

“There’s more than one?” asked Marklin.

“Of course!” Ospin said. He chanted:

_There are ^those Trolls _like thems ^Trolls as _eat other ^souls.

_Or there ^are those _Trolls like ^thems Trolls _as don’t ^eat no _other souls.

_And there ^are those _Trolls like ^thems Trolls _as don’t ^know they’re _really Trolls.

They all laughed, especially Marklin. “So, your Troll was the kind that don’t eat no other souls?”

“Well, not Humans at any rate,” said the witch. “This one was partial to sheep, and he was overripe, like a melon fit to split in the sun.”

“Wait,” said Tildy, who felt confused by the rhyme. “Who are the Trolls who don’t know they’re really Trolls?”

“Ah,” said Ospin, “those are the most common and you have probably met several in your short life.” Seeing her puzzled face, he explained: “They look like Humans – or other beings – but act like Trolls.”

“I think we’ve all met many of those,” agreed a woman named Teg. Marklin nodded as though he recalled quite a few.

* * * * *

“So,” the witch continued with some irritation at the distraction from her tale, “I dug deep into my memory for an old rhyme. It went something like this.” She chanted in her Troll’s voice:

In her usual voice, the witch added:

Her audience cheered. When they had quieted, she said, “I finished the rhyme, and he stared down at me with large unblinking eyes. I called up to him, ‘Do you understand? I was a Troll in sheep’s clothing.’” She sighed. “They are such dim creatures.”

“Finally, he laughed. ‘Har har har! Dumb old Troll!’ He slapped his knee and laughed harder. He clutched his side. And that greedy Troll, that fat, overeating, filled-to-bursting Troll, laughed and laughed and fell to the ground. And he died on the spot!” the witch said, closing her hands with a clap.

“The Troll died from laughing,” said Harchen, rubbing his injured arm and clearly not believing the story.

“He didn’t!” cried Marklin.

“He did,” said the witch, pointing at him. “Every Troll believes themself the smartest of their kind, so they always delight in the stupidity of their brethren and sisterkin. But to this day, I am unsure whether he was laughing at the rhyme or the idea of me thinking I was a Troll!” They all laughed and Tildy saw even Harchen restrain a smile. Several people stood and toasted the tale.

* * * * *

“After that it was a simple matter of going into its cave where I found thirteen children, as I expected. They were sleeping, which was a mercy, considering the stench. I rushed them from the black reek and returned out of the hills with none of them too worse for wear.”

“Amazing,” said Marklin in awe.

“And the grateful villagers gave you a reward?” asked Tildy, not wanting to miss this detail.

“Aye, they did. An ancient septagram pennon.” The witch peered around, noting the unimpressed faces of her audience. “It was quite valuable, even in its tattered condition.”

Marklin, who had been gaping like a stranded fish, finally found his voice. “A pennon? You faced a Hill Troll for a lancer’s flag?”

“Yes, well, as a lucky charm it was more than adequate recompense for the simple task.”

Tildy studied her adoptive mother’s face. Something lay hidden within her expression. There was more to the object than she let on.

“Huh,” Marklin replied, apparently accepting the response because he had a more important question. “Why did the Troll take the children?”

“I spent several months in Harsdale with them after that, an unnecessary protection against other Troll attacks. I didn’t mind, for the children and I had grown fond of each other. During that time, I pondered this very question,” the witch said. “Tucked into their fleece blankets in darkened rooms, the Troll might have thought they were sheep and did not know what to do when he learned otherwise. He might have curiously peered through a window and accidentally demolished the wall, thinking to rescue them from a ‘mouthless cave’ as they call houses. Or perhaps he was simply lonely. Children generally make better listeners than adults.”

“This feels like a sad story,” said Tildy.

“I might agree,” said the witch, sitting down beside her. “Many days, I regret his death.”

“Oh, for gentle hearts and flower dresses,” Harchen said derisively, casting a stick into the fire. Someone booed him. “It needed to be put down before it caused any real harm. Do you think it would have let the children go, regardless of its motivation for stealing them?”

“I do not know.”

“I rather think I do,” he said, clenching his fist. “It certainly couldn’t have cared for them, either. More like to have sat upon them than raise ‘em. Your actions saved several lives.”

“And cost but one. Do not think to lecture me on something on which I have dwelt for decades, young man.” There was a bite in her words that indicated the conversation was over.

Tildy had recognized Harchen’s headstrong approach to things, but even he was unwilling to challenge the witch’s tone. She watched him walk around the campfire, where he stood glowering into the flames, his jaw champing like he was eating rocks. She thought about the Troll’s fate and the children’s song that Fietha taught her. But the reminder of his absence spoiled her mood for singing.

* * * * *

The villagers also returned to their places around the fire. Tildy and the witch sat quietly as Ospin approached. “Your Troll spoke the Baselands tongue very well,” he noted.

“Hush,” said the witch, though Tildy caught her smile. “Nothing ruins a good story like ‘me am Troll’ talk.”

Ospin chortled. “Aye, you’re right about that!” He observed the others and nodded approvingly. “Well done, in any regard. Nothing puts a worried mind at ease like a good folktale by the fire.”

Hearing him, Harchen stumped back over. Whatever stewed in his brain was finally boiling to the surface. “Does it?” he asked, his voice harsh. “Stories of stolen children and hidden Trolls? Barely a moon goes by we don’t hear of some new monster roaming our lands, and people are being snatched! How shall we take comfort with that on our minds?” He jabbed a finger at Ospin, but he then glared darkly at Tildy. Bewildered, she was about to speak, but felt the witch’s hand gently squeezing her leg.

Ospin held the man’s eyes, calm before the onslaught. “Children need stories in which they learn monsters can be defeated.”

“Save your cautionary tales for your own children, Ospin.” Harchen spat. “Monsters, you say? Aye, they can be beaten, mayhaps. But what about treacherous Fay?”

* * * * *

Tildy regarded the witch as the squeeze tightened. But her adoptive mother only had eyes for Harchen, so she turned to face him. Surely, he had no idea what the witch was truly capable of, but to think that she was one of the Fay-folk? She was obviously neither Fairy nor Dryad nor any of those other magical peoples.

“The spellwise and dwimmer-crafty cannot be trusted! Those like her!” he shouted, pointing a finger at them. With some surprise, Tildy saw that he indicated her and not the witch. “She’s one of them!”

Tildy was more curious than shocked by the accusation. “One of the Fay?” She wanted to laugh but decided better of it.

His eyes raked the crowd that was again forming around them. “I saw her. I saw them.” His companions appeared puzzled. Some regarded Tildy, some the witch, and some Marklin, who walked up with cheeks bulging of food.

The witch stepped between the man and Tildy. “What are you on about, Harchen?”

“Did you know, herb-witch?”

“Know?” she replied, her voice cool.

“What she is!”

Ospin glanced at Tildy and gave her a smile that was a shaft of sunlight in a Summer storm. “She’s a thirteen-year-old girl. You forget your manners, friend.”

“Manners be charred! She’s been hiding amongst us like a normal girl. Look at her hair!” Ospin and the others exchanged confused looks.

“I am a normal girl.” Tildy said, standing and crossing her arms. She glared at the man over the witch’s shoulder before her nervous eyes shifted away. She began to understand his anger, or rather, why he told himself he should be angry. And it wasn’t just that her hair had lengthened during the Sarsenith attack.

The frown on her face softened as Marklin stepped forward, his mouth stuffed. “You neem to bag op and shub your stupid mouf.” Tildy smiled in spite of herself. Damaged arm or not, the man was twice his size and glowering like a thunderhead. Yet her friend stood his ground. He swallowed his food and said, “She can’t be Fay without pointy ears, you lout.”

Harchen scowled at his fellow villagers. None shared his outrage, and to Tildy, they were simply curious or apprehensive. “She was flying.” He punctuated the word as though cursing. This got everyone’s attention, though if anything, they looked more astonished. The witch scowled and Marklin glared like a puppy standing up to a larger dog, an endearing look. Not getting the reaction he wanted, Harchen added, “Like some half-blooded Fairy-girl!” He spat.

Tildy rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine! Fine. Here.” She leapt into the air, revealing her wings. Exhilaration flooded through her like it always did, yet above these people, she felt both self-conscious and uninhibited. She soared and all eyes followed.

She did some loops, a twist, and a flip before landing in front of Harchen. She noticed that the witch’s hand sat frozen within a pouch, as though prepared to intervene. “There. A Human girl with wings. Now you have your proof,” she said, feeling her face redden in anger. She glared into the tall man’s eyes, though she was aware that a few people had taken a step backwards. Even Ospin was speechless.

Harchen needed a few moments to find his own voice. When he finally spoke, his words were strangled. “All her skin’s gone scarlet like a cherry. She’s no better than that thing we fought today! Than those other things on the road, hiding and waiting until the right time to attack!” He glared around at his companions, but they stood frozen in shock. “By the Black Hand of Delosh,” he cursed, “she’s not one of us!”

Tildy roared at him. “That thing we faced, and I stopped! I might have saved all your lives. Your life,” she added, pointing at Harchen’s bandaged arm. He recoiled as though fearful of her touch. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

“I do not need to name that thing a tree,” she said, indicating a nearby evergreen, “for everyone to know what it is.” She looked around him at the others. “Are you like this one? Faithless when confronted with something new?” She whirled around to face Harchen again. “Did you even think about the words you were saying before you vomited them out at us?”

The tall man kept eye contact for many long heartbeats, though Tildy knew by the twitch in his cheek that he would flinch first. Feeling her own resolve fading, she finished with, “I am proud of what I am because I cannot be proud of what I am not.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed Harchen’s face, and she thought she might have gotten through to him. But pride often tramples reason, and with a loud “Bah!” and dismissive wave, he stormed from the campfire.

Tildy watched him go before giving the other villagers a scathing look. Seeing no hint of animosity, but getting no eye contact either, her bravado deflated, and she left them to find her bedroll. She sat with her back to the fire, hoping to block out their voices because she’d didn’t want to hear them gossiping about her. The familiar sound of creaking bones caused her to turn.

* * * * *

“May I sit down?” her mother asked.

Tildy nodded, but decided she wanted to say her piece first. Her words came in a flurry. “I don’t care if I shouldn’t have done that. He’s an ignorant nobcudgel and I’m not going to spend the rest of this trip pretending to be someone else. I’m tired of hiding, even in my own home.”

Her mother groaned as she lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged. “You are right to feel that way, but this could have gone far differently if the other twelve had agreed with Harchen,” she added in gentle admonishment.

“I’m not afraid of them. We could easily—”

“Have you already forgotten what I said a few short hours ago? You should be afraid for them.”

Tildy hung her head to hide frustrated tears. “I don’t like how he treated me.”

“Nor should you! You said the things I have not had the courage to,” her mother said, caressing her cheek. “People often judge things by what they are not, rather than what they are. People like Harchen think they are the sole definer of what it means to be Human, and to his mind, he thought he was doing good for his companions. While he might have had virtuous intent, nevertheless, evil could have come of it.

“This is why, above many other reasons, I have been reluctant to introduce you to the world, Tildeneth. Perhaps that time has fled whilst I have stood still.”

“He must have seen me after I got sick. I snuck into a stand of twilight birch and flew. Only for a few moments, but I guess it was enough.” Tildy sighed so deeply, it felt like her toes were exhaling. “That’s not the way I would have chosen.”

Her mother chuckled. “Yes, a flying girl is quite a shock to simple folk.”

“Marklin didn’t react that way.”

“Do not think that escaped my notice!” She wiped Tildy’s tears away. “But the lad already knew.”

Tildy looked up. She never missed a thing. “I accidentally flew when I faced the Sarsenith.”

Her mother shook her head and Tildy waited for another rebuke. “Ah well, better to see his reaction soon before late. By your words I presume he reacted encouragingly?” Receiving a nod in reply, she said with some admiration, “He is loyal, that one.”

“Did you see how he stood up to that man?” Tildy asked. Her eyes still glistened, though her tears had finished.

“Yes, very much in the way I warned you about.” She looked toward the fire, searching for him. “Not that it was likely to go another way, but it is too late to change things there,” she said to herself. She faced Tildy again. “Remind him to keep his knowledge to himself. His little joke on the road about flying might have given us away. Sooner, that is.”

Tildy took a moment before responding: “You’re not angry?”

“Angry?” her mother replied, eyebrows raised. “No, I cannot be so. When it comes to your abilities, Tildeneth, I urge prudence at all times. People do not want you to be yourself; they want you to be like them. In this way, society remains at odds with nature, which thrives in its diversity.”

Seeing Tildy’s discouraged face, she added, “Take heart, my daughter. With old horrors walking freely in this world, I think people need reassurance that not all unfamiliar faces belong to monsters. That strange abilities do not an enemy make! I think a smile borne upon the wings of a girl would give them hope.” With that, she sprung up like a grasshopper and hurried back to the fire.

* * * * *

Tildy watched in wonder, noting once again how the witch’s energy unexpectedly ebbed and flowed. It reminded her how exhausted she was herself. She flopped back onto her bedroll with another deep sigh. As she studied the stars, the significance of the conversation struck her. I think a smile borne upon the wings of a girl would give them hope. This change in her mother’s opinion came from nowhere, like a dragon falling from the sky, as the saying went. She’d always been so over-protective.

It was at once freeing and burdensome. The permission meant that Tildy was responsible for making her own decisions, instead of dutifully following the rules. Figuring that out was going to be harder than expected, though she supposed she’d already done it when confronting Harchen. That choice felt right, even if the other villagers hadn’t greeted her with open arms. If only they had reacted like Marklin. Marklin. She very much didn’t want to think about him and his mussed hair and his remarkably blue eyes. Wait, remarkably?

He faded and the face of the Sarsenith swam before her. Its final words rang between her ears, though she daren’t dwell on them yet. Not for the last time, she hoped they would fade from memory before she had to consider their meaning. Thankfully, sleep overcame her first.

* * * * *

The following days on the northward road passed more quietly than they should have. Tildy walked, keenly aware of the watchfulness of the woods and hills. No sound of life did they hear, and the villagers spoke little. They feared some unknown malice that pressed down upon them, and though they had previously mustered their courage, she could see it unraveling with each mile. She understood that they were returning to lands where they’d been terrorized, and they expected some other horror to descend upon them. If one didn’t already walk amongst them in the form of a thirteen-year-old girl, she thought with bitter dismay.

On the evening of the seventh day since they’d met the Dethelwain villagers, they made camp in the shadows of an old outpost stable. The unstable walls made it an unsuitable shelter, though it blocked the West’s wind, at least.

Ospin told the witch they were near the Dethel Road and they would depart the following morning. Tildy wouldn’t be unhappy to see the back of them. Most of the villagers had accepted her for who she was, though they kept their distance and turned quickly away if she looked over. After a week of it, she felt like an uninvited child at a party for adults: tolerated but supervised for misbehavior.

 Harchen, however, continued to make his feelings plain. He gave her an exaggeratedly wide berth – his hard eyes locked on her whenever he passed. He also made snide comments about “people not being as trustworthy as they were in days of old” or referring to her as “that one”, though never while the witch was around. Tildy didn’t take the bait, but oh, it was so often a challenge.

* * * * *

Tradition in the Hillsend lands dictated that they share goodbyes the night before parting. The witch and Ospin, in particular, exchanged many words of thanks and promises of welcoming hearths, should their paths cross again. Tildy would miss him, if no one else. He often reminded her of Fietha with his fondness for jokes and song. And his need to hear himself talk.

The witch strode away into the dark, and his eyes followed her until she disappeared. He looked over at Tildy, contemplative. Making a decision, he walked to her. His face bore none of its usual amusement. “May I sit beside you?”

There was a seriousness in his tone that Tildy had not heard, either. She nodded, to which he replied, “Thank you. There is something you need to know, and I have not been able to tell you.”

The hairs on her neck prickled. This was something more serious than the revelation of her wings or Harchen’s dislike. She wondered whether he had waited until the witch was absent. “What is it?” she asked, her voice the cautious whisper of one who fears the reply.

“Did your mother tell you how we met in the woods near Wel Mallyne? The day you sank the Sarsenith?”

“She said that you were told to distract it.”

The man’s eyebrows crinkled together. “True, but to our eyes, she appeared more a wandering crone than anyone of knowledge or note. We should, perhaps, be forgiven for giving little heed to a dazed person, whose mind were coming back from somewhere far away.”

“Dazed?” That didn’t sound like her, but Tildy had grown up watching the witch confuse people with unusual behavior.

“More importantly, I wanted to speak of how I perceived her. I emerged from the woods and saw her, just standing.”

“So?” The hairs on her neck prickled.

“Tildy, she stood at the top of a cliff, looking down at the Errentflow River far below. When I hailed her, she had a fell look upon her face. ‘Twas one I’d not seen since defending the walls of Drum Farrock before the Fall of the Royals. But y’never forget a stare such as that. I’ve seen the same expression many times upon the faces of comrades who couldn’t stand the unknowns of a siege. Couldn’t outlast the hunger,” he paused, looking up into the night. “People thinking they foresaw the inevitable darkness before us.”

Tildy inhaled a deep breath, understanding where he was taking their conversation, though she could tell he deliberately took his time getting to the point. She’d found that adults often did this to soften the blow of horrible news. But anticipation often intensified the fear.

He continued: “People bearing that expression have heard the call of the Abyss and they feel compelled to jump. For us, the curtain wall. For her, perhaps a cliff.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I apologize for springing this news upon you. I fear for your mother and want to prepare you, if I can.”

Tildy thought of the witch walking away and her blood ran cold. Her stomach threatened to retch. Instead, tears flowed as she finally heard someone put into words what her heart already knew.

He studied her face for a moment. “But this is not unexpected news, I see.”

She looked away, wanting to see anything but the concern on his face. “She has these moods, not frequently, but often enough to give my mind unease. They always fade and she’s herself again, but my heart tells me that one time, they will not.”

“My heart says the same.”

Tildy looked back at the man, desperate to see some glimmer of hope in his dark brown eyes. “What can I do? I can’t lose her to this!”

“I can offer less comfort than you’d like, Tildy. My counsel is of action and of laughter and song, not in affairs of the heart or mind. But take solace: She is a wise person, like an Elf in many regards. And accustomed to such woe, I expect, like the well-aged often are.” Tildy interrupted with a choke that was part sob and part laugh. He understood and smiled. “Perhaps ‘well-aged’ is not a term she would like.” He sighed, looking to the ground for the right words. “I am sure these fell moods weigh heavily upon her. I do not doubt that she is ever seeking a way to rid herself of this black melancholia. You realize, better than I, that she is cleverer than most; herbskilled and bookwise.”

Ospin knelt before her and cradled her hands. “As certain as I am that she will not yet heed the void, I know a person who shines a candle in the black abyss of her despair.” He patted her cheek, and then he was gone.

* * * * *

Marklin came over as she dried her tears. She wasn’t sure if he noticed. He tore at a strip of dried meat like a hungry dog. “What was that about?” he asked. His casual tone suggested he was oblivious to her distress.

“Nothing,” Tildy replied, quicker than she would have liked. He paused mid-bite to study her face, especially her eyes, which were probably red from crying. However, when she said something about needing sleep, he accepted it.

It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was true enough. It had been another long day and she wanted to sleep it away until it ended. As she lay down for the night, she tried not to think about her mother’s despondent moods. Like many evenings before, it was impossible. Something else tickled at the back of her mind. A feeling of being watched, maybe. An unquiet breeze shifted the grasses around them, and the world held its breath.

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