Gossamyr. Michele Hauf

than her telltale wings. “Why ask you that, my lord? Oh, no, just…tidying up a bit. What of you? You’re not looking for Gossamyr?”

      “Nay.”

      “Marvelous. Oh! Er, fine. Just fine.”

      Now he understood. Mince sought Gossamyr.

      “I’m out to the yard.”

      “What for?”

      “Oh? To check…for something. Erm, the peacocks must be shooed from the roses.”

      “She is gone, Mince.”

      “She?” The matron paused by the door, turning to him with delicate fingers curled into one another. “Who, Lord Wintershinn?”

      “Gossamyr has gone to the Otherside.”

      “No, I—I just saw her. I’m sure she’s here somewhere, swinging from the roots—I’ll start there, my lord. She never disappears for overlong.”

      “I sent her.”

      Mince gaped, seeming to momentarily choke on her own breath. “W-why? How?” she breathed. “Did you…tell her everything?”

      “She seeks the Red Lady. I sent her through a Passage. You know her truth will keep her from returning to me.”

      “Oh! But she needs to know! You’ve sent her to face the very woman—Oh, dear.”

      SIX

      Forgoing the village of Aparjon for what Ulrich claimed to be another not three leagues to the east, the duo plodded through unmarked grasses and followed a low rabbit-ravaged hedgerow for some distance until a narrower, lesser traveled road attracted them. There were no trees as far as she could see. The world was very silent. Eerily so.

      Ulrich called ahead to Gossamyr. “We should seek shelter for the night, ’tis nearing matins.”

      “You don’t think we’ll make the village?”

      “Likely not.”

      Sensing the man’s exhaustion, Gossamyr conceded. “Very well.”

      Tugging Ulrich’s cloak about her shoulders seemed to hold the crumbling pourpoint together. She hoped. She had dismounted earlier and now walked, finding the exercise more fitting than joggling along on the miserable old mule. She sensed the beast tread alongside the Infernal, and did not wish to put more of a burden on it than necessary.

      The fetch preceded her at a clever distance. She had ever thought fetches only recorded noteworthy events. Mayhap Shinn missed her as much as she was beginning to miss him? To have the fetch follow her at all times?

      Miss her father? It had been but part of a day.

      The only thing she missed right now was the illumination of Faery. This mortal night clung to Gossamyr on all sides. Crickets chirped and unseen rodents scampered along the grassy borders of the rutted path. She could not see Ulrich for the gloom, but judged him less than twenty paces behind her.

      His suggestion to stop was not entirely unwarranted. She did feel the strain of her journey tug at the muscles in her calves and shoulders. Yet the struggle to stride freely while keeping the cloak wrapped—blight!

      Gossamyr dropped the ends of the cloak and let the sweeping fabric dangle. If her garments were to fall off, then so shall it be. For she wanted to skip, to revel in this atmosphere that welcomed like a warm embrace.

      “Oh, Hades, be gone.”

      Gossamyr smirked at Ulrich’s hissed remark. The man had babbled most of the way. He had a strange compulsion to compare things, or rather label them as either “the same” or “not the same.” She could not figure what he was about. But she had to confess, having a companion eased a bit of her growing discomfort. Alone in a new land. Physically capable, but…her thoughts had begun to return to a place of safety.

      She missed Mince. The matron was ever there, a companion, a confidante. A willing foil when Shinn would question Gossamyr’s day, and she had snuck off to tournament. And always there to bring her whatever she may request, to know before Gossamyr spoke her need.

      Spoiled? Never before had she heard that term to describe one who is given all she needs. Such as a lady who travels with a cagedfaery in tow?

      Hmm…not like that. Nor did she smell.

      An eerie feeling of disquiet shimmied about Gossamyr’s body. It wasn’t as though she were frightened by the darkness. Nor could she summon worry for any beastie that might leap out from the shadows at her. In truth, a tiny niggling at encountering further outcasts from the Netherdred did bother. Unfamiliar, this world. And yet, intriguing. Horizontal and stretching for leagues that fell off the horizon as if the Edge. Mayhap it was an edge? Veridienne had detailed the stretch of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich’s navigation.

      Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France: the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger. If she wasn’t careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about Glamoursiège. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and chivalrous—had caught her then.

      Who would catch her now?

      “No.” Ulrich’s voice had receded. “Not now. A crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same.”

      With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.

      No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.

      Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle to a fine pulse, ever there. ’Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend into her veins.

      “Be damned with you all!”

      Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in sight. But she could hear him…talking to someone?

      “I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up, up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the night!”

      “Ulrich?” Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.

      She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover. Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.

      “Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so pushy!”

      “Ulrich?” Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines of Ulrich’s head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.

      “You. Yes, you next!”

      “Whom are you speaking to?” There was not another person in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.

      When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.

      Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if it connected with this world. Why could she not—

      “If