Gossamyr. Michele Hauf

      “You take marvel at your own wonder.”

      “It is just, the air…I feel light.”

      “Pray tell what the air is like whence you hail?”

      “Not like here,” she called out and jumped to the grass to skip through the cool blades.

      Flight had ever alluded her, no matter how often she had attempted it. Which had been often in the rose garden behind the castle buttery. Mince had once witnessed her fruitless attempts and had laughingly joined in. The matron’s small wings, attached to a generously rounded body, had served little more than to lift her shoulders. She could not leave the ground, either. It had bonded them in laughter, and a smirking confession from Gossamyr, which revealed her jealousy of the winged ones.

      “You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn,” Mince had stated simply. “You needn’t envy; you are envied.”

      Mayhap. But Gossamyr had not missed a single averted gaze or cruel stare in her lifetime. Envy hurt. And the only way to overcome was to prove herself. She needn’t the Wintershinn name to stand proud; to defeat the Red Lady would prove her worth and perhaps put to rest the suspicious whispers.

      She spun now, and leaped into the path immediately before Ulrich. He had no wings, and yet, he took to the air in his strides. And that made him all the more appealing.

      “The dirt from the fight,” Ulrich commented as he angled forward to study her. “It covers your face.”

      Gossamyr wiggled her nose. Another sneeze tormented.

      “It is bone,” he said of her dirty covering. “It hides your glimmer.”

      “Bone?”

      “That means good.”

      “Then why not say good?”

      “For the same reason you say mortal. We have our own slangs, do we not?” A click of his tongue beckoned Fancy onward.

      Gossamyr paralleled him but a leap to his left. He suspected; she knew that he did.

      “I wager you are safe from wonder so long as you do not favor bathing. Though your clothing—”

      “Will be changed anon. I need only locate a seamstress. Mayhap something bright, like yours.” She glanced over Ulrich’s attire. The cloak swung merrily with his strides, intermittently revealing the tight striped hose he wore.

      “I’m afraid a change of costume won’t be so easy in Aparjon,” he said. “’Tis a very small village, as most villages are. It is not fortified, which will prove bone. Our entry will not be questioned. If I recall from my travels there is a stable behind the one lone tavern that rents out to riders. Plead to Luck to find a horse for purchase, especially a swift one. As well, it may be difficult to get a room for the night.” He turned and scanned back down the road.

      “Dead as a doornail,” Gossamyr reassured. And who decided when a doornail was dead? “What lends you to believe I wish to stay the night in the next village?”

      “You said you were tired?”

      “Yes, but a rest and some hearty fare will serve. I am off to Paris.”

      “Indeed?”

      Ulrich handed Gossamyr Fancy’s reins and skipped ahead, turning to walk widdershins in front of her. His cloak billowed as he gestured and filled the air with the rumbling tones Gossamyr found she favored more and more.

      “I cannot resist questioning when there is so much of interest about you, fair lady. Whence do you hail? And, skill aside, what finds a lone woman trekking to Paris with so little fear of danger?”

      “I am in search of a…woman. She goes by the moniker of the Red Lady.”

      She picked up her pace in hopes of the man stumbling, but he tread backward with ease. His arms pumping, his robe splayed open with each stride, to reveal long legs and ankle-high suede boots with pointed toes.

      “And where in Paris does she reside?”

      “I know naught.”

      “Paris is a big city. Mayhap I can help you locate her?”

      “How might you discover a woman you’ve never met?”

      “I found you.”

      “But you weren’t—”

      “I’ve a location spell that may be of use.”

      A spell? Caution fired. “You said you are not a wizard.”

      “That I am not.”

      The last thing Gossamyr needed was to align herself with a practicer of magic. She had come to stop the damaging effects done to Enchantment, not contribute.

      “But I did pay attention when His Most Magical—er, my former patron—needed to locate a lost dream or dragon.”

      “You practice magic?”

      “Not enough to make it real.”

      But did his attempts tap Enchantment? And with the rift, the damage caused was increased immeasurably. Mayhap choosing to share the road with this man had been a mistake. Where was the fetch? If Ulrich proved a threat, would Shinn intervene?

      Quickening her footsteps, she commented, “I fear the woman I seek be more dangerous than a fire-breathing dragon.”

      “You say so?”

      “I’ve said enough. We must keep to ourselves. We’ve only to accompany one another to the next village.”

      “You’re not keen on friendship, eh?”

      Gossamyr shrugged. Not with a man who practiced magic.

      Mince was the only friend she had ever known. Not even a good friend if one considered Shinn paid her as nursemaid. Gossamyr had been schooled and trained exclusively by her father, and kept from most situations that would see her surrounded by vindictive fée. The few times she went to market or escaped to participate in a tournament were such wonders. There were food stands offering honeyed petals and toadstools carved like miniature castles. Lavender creams and smoky beetles enticed. Children were rare, but few ran about laughing and playing challenging games. Women dressed gaily and men ogled them with soused grins. Brownies socialized with hobs and the curiously tall dryad would draw a lingering stare. Who could be bothered to look for a friend?

      Besides, Gossamyr was ever studied from afar—like a curious bug—but rarely approached with a smile.

      You are half-blooded, and that is fine. You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn. They know you will ascend to the throne one day, and they respect you, for you are of Shinn’s bloodline. Still, the fée will never completely accept you. It is best you avoid the central markets in Glamoursiège. Half bloods, while rare, are cruelly teased.

      Unless a fée was attracted to her because of her mixed blood.

      You are exotic, Gossamyr.

      He is a Rougethorn. They dabble in magic….

      “I say—” Ulrich turned and rejoined her at her side “—that a man can never have too many friends.”

      “I am not a man.”

      “You fight like one.”

      “Bespell your tongue to silence,” she hissed and then under her breath murmured, “Or I shall do it for you.”

      “I’ve rudimentary knowledge of magic. Would that I could bespell myself!” he called out grandly. “’Twould be akin to smiling myself into a swoon!”

      But Gossamyr wasn’t listening. Evening traced the atmosphere with an orange line on the horizon. Surrounding gray illumination loomed. An eyelash moon slit the sky. Soon the countryside would be black. A unique experience, for the light bugs that populated the Spiral forest produced such illumination Gossamyr