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  Then his grandfather came and took him to the cabin. He didn’t speak a word for two months, but the Bard cared for him without pause. He took him everywhere, and was always there after a nightmare to comfort him. But his grandfather wasn’t there now. After a couple of weeks in his home country, the Wanderer forced himself awake whenever he heard the door slam. But the old terrors lurked and he felt more alone than ever.

  The Wanderer knew he could go home. As the Bard’s grandson, he would always have a place in the village. But every time he remembered the cabin, he saw nothing but darkness. He wondered how long had passed since a fire had burned in the hearth and imagined how cold the stones would feel under his fingers. Then he would follow the road leading to another place where nobody knew him.

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune when he crossed paths with a kindred spirit. It made a welcome reprieve from his isolation.

  ****

  The Wanderer awakened to a languorous morning. He could almost believe he was on the other side of the world, stretching and dozing until hunger called him from his tent. He expected the girl to be up, but she wasn’t. Seeing the stallion grazing amongst the trees, he knew she hadn’t left. He stared at her tent while finishing off the last of his bread and cheese. He’d hoped to meet her before leaving to forage, concerned how she’d react if she came out to find his tent across from hers. Since there was no way to know how long he’d have to wait, the Wanderer took his sack and ventured into the forest.

  The sun made streaks of light through the varying layers of green through the canopy descending to the forest floor. He breathed deeply, enjoying the spice and tang of woods and earth and rainfall; then he immersed himself in a sense of wellbeing he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. There was bounty in the trees, and families of mushrooms sprouting in the soil, from the bark, and among the mossy blankets covering rocks and fallen trees. The Wanderer always felt close to his grandfather when he foraged. He heard that deep voice calling from his memory, teaching him the distinction between poison and nourishment amongst the mushrooms and berries. His sack was full within a couple of hours, but he continued exploring the trees surrounding the clearing, enjoying the sounds and smells and taking note of where he would forage later.

  He returned to camp late in the afternoon. He saw her stallion in the trees, but the girl was still nowhere to be seen. Reluctant to lose the peace he found in the woods, the Wanderer hummed a tune while building up a fire and cutting up some of everything he’d found. Mixing it all together in his skillet, he set his hash on the iron weave. His supper was ready as sundown glowed through the trees and cast a warm light in the clearing. The hash was subtle, with layers of taste to savor, but he wished his stomach were a little fuller when he was done.

  The Wanderer glanced at her tent and considered looking in on the girl to make certain she was all right, then thought better of it. Night was coming on and his intentions might be misunderstood. But he would check on her in the morning if she hadn’t surfaced by then.

  ****

  Drifting into the dreamtime, all was black. The Wanderer knew he wasn’t heading for the terrors of the past because of the heat, and warmth always meant safety. Then he came to the massive hearth and sobbed when he saw the silhouette in front of the fire.

  Before he could speak, the Bard waved him closer. Sweat beaded his skin as soon as he sat down beside his grandfather, but he didn’t care. When they embraced, the old man felt strong, just like he did when the Wanderer was a child who needed comfort after a nightmare. The Wanderer wanted to hold on to the old man forever, but the Bard pulled away and gripped him by the shoulders. His grandfather’s eyes had changed; his gaze was more penetrating now that he saw from another world. When he spoke, his voice rang as clear and resonant as the Wanderer remembered.

  “Kid, there are some folks I want you to meet.”

  The Bard waved his hand through the fire, yet remained unscathed. Without warning, he pushed the Wanderer in, where he tumbled through the flames, but suffered no pain. When he fell out on the other side, he found himself in the night.

  The bitter cold gave him violent shivers. Wherever he was, he assumed a storm must have just passed because he noticed the snow piled high on the ground. The sky was black and dotted with stars. Then he saw the villa. The stately residence was illuminated from the lamps lined along the outside stairs carved from green slate. The steps were clear of snow and two servants in furs stood on either side, puffs of air smoking from their mouths. Candles glowed from the windows, and the Wanderer heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from inside. Inside sounded like a celebration. The Wanderer’s hunch was confirmed when a carriage drawn by a quartet of horses made its way up the path and the footmen stood taller. The noble crest on the door of the carriage seemed familiar, but the Wanderer couldn’t remember where he’d seen it.

  “Happy Solstice, Patron,” the footman said. “Your uncle is eager to see you.”

  “I can’t believe it’s been a year since I last came,” the visitor said, stepping outside.

  Although he smiled and his manner was pleasant, the Wanderer sensed he didn’t want to be there. Then the nobleman looked at the sky and grimaced.

  “I loathe cotillions,” he muttered.

  The Wanderer smiled. This was the youngest Patron he’d ever seen, only a few years older than he. The Patron was tall and powerfully built with long arms and broad shoulders. He must have forgotten his gloves, or perhaps he didn’t care to wear them. His bare hands were as muscular and calloused as a farmer’s. This Patron was rugged, lacking the fleshiness that usually contorted the features of noblemen. When he went up the steps, the Wanderer knew he should follow. Getting out of the cold was a relief, but he was overwhelmed as soon as they entered the villa.

  The Wanderer caught the scents of cinnamon and clove burning from the lamps. He’d never been to a masquerade before, except through the Bard’s stories. Staring down the cascade of creamy stone steps, this Solstice Ball surpassed anything he had ever imagined.

  Gentlemen covered their hair with silver wigs; they wore stark white shirts with dress breeches and coats in somber black. For all their fancy dress, the men faded next to the women. The ladies pranced in gowns of deep jewel tones, moving with sluggish ease, holding their skirts with white-gloved hands. The swell of breasts rose from the mounds of silk and velvet, yet they were ghostly from the powder dusting their décolletage, their necks, and their faces. Their lips were stained red, their hair piled high on their heads.

  The musicians strung the first notes of the song to prepare the guests for the next dance. The Wanderer was amused when several women discovered the handsome young Patron at the top of the stairs. They were slow to look away, their lashes fluttering - inviting him to ask for them to dance. But he glanced at the Patron and saw from the expression on his face that he was blind to them. The Wanderer followed his gaze and immediately understood why.

  He had known many women in his travels around the world. All of them were lovely in their own right. All of them had a grace and allure that was unique to women. He admired most he had known, and even loved a few. But this was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  The Wanderer almost wondered if she was human. Her face implied a world beyond the mists into shadows and dreams. Her bones were elongated; the angle of her cheeks was stark beneath her tilted blue eyes, and in line with her jaw slanted from her ears to the point of her chin. Her high forehead was teased with the arched brows of a coquette, her nose was long and upturned at the tip, and her lips were curved in the smirk of an imp. Her skin was luminous, naked of powder. Her pale blond hair was gathered in lace where her neck rose from her shoulders.

  Her gown was airy, bringing to mind the springtime courtship between sun and water. In the shimmers of blue and green and flashes of quicksilver, the Wanderer saw a creek reflecting grasses and hints of morning light. The girl seemed to glide across the floor when she hurried to her place in line, her skirts s
lithering around her hips and legs.

  Even her dancing was liquid grace. When the music started, her arms arced from the sway of her body and her gown made eddies around her waist before swirling away. There was deliverance in her eyes that betrayed the ecstasy of a woman deep inside herself.

  The Wanderer followed the Patron to the hall and they edged the mass of twirling couples. With the ladies holding their skirts high and fanning their perfumes around them, it was difficult to breathe. But the Patron never lost sight of that face.

  The Wanderer noticed a pink flush across her cheeks. The girl sensed she was being watched. At first, she didn’t seem troubled by that; she was more occupied with keeping her feet safe from the oafish dancing of her partner. But the Patron kept up his vigilance, and the blush deepened and her features grew tight. Finally, the dance was over. The girl curtseyed to her partner, and spun around to face the stranger who had been staring at her for the last quarter hour.

  The Wanderer flinched in the face of her fury and braced himself for the onslaught of scorn. Instead, he was relieved to see her wrath dissipate when she saw her admirer. In less than a moment, her color returned to its porcelain glow and she smiled. But the Patron stood paralyzed, his mouth opening and closing but not sounding a word. The girl smiled even wider. There was challenge gleaming in her pale blue eyes, a challenge she expected her suitor to meet.

  “Come on, Friend,” the Wanderer murmured. “You can do this.”

  As if he could hear him, the Patron pulled upright, proving his instinct to conquer was stronger than his fear. He walked tall when he approached that beautiful girl, his gait at leisure.

  ****

  From the abyss between sleep and consciousness, he heard the humming growl. He was confused by the sound until the heavy cloth collapsed, and he woke up with the burden of his tent upon him. Flailing through the canvas, the Wanderer pushed his head and shoulders through the flap into a whirlwind of dazzling colors.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

  His heart pounded and the Wanderer was suddenly dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut until the feeling passed.

  “How strange. I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  The Wanderer recognized her voice. The girl he followed into No Man’s Land had finally come awake, and she was now standing over him with one hand wrapped around her necklace. He swallowed hard. She had the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen. She opened her palm and dropped a crystal in the folds of her shirt. Her glare seared into him.

  “So what are you doing here?” she asked.

  The Wanderer felt foolish on his knees with his tent collapsed around him. The girl’s presence was unnerving. Even though she was angry, she made his flesh come alive as soon as he saw her.

  “Making myself at home,” he said, stepping out of the heap. “Same as you.”

  He noticed that she was dressed like him, in a loose shirt and pants, but she also wore a holster, a small pouch slung around the belt at her left hip, and a pistol and dagger held in sheaths on her right. The Wanderer glanced at her face and saw the corners of her mouth twitching. She might be an adventurer, but not of his kind.

  “I don’t have anything worth stealing,” he said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied. “Maybe you should get going.”

  The Wanderer sighed. The thought of packing up was exhausting. If he complied, he would be alone.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you…” he said, trailing off. The girl raised her brows. “But I saw you going into the woods the other day and—”

  “Yeah, I saw you too,” she interrupted. “Did I ask you to come with me?”

  “No, but I thought we’d make good company.”

  “Well you were wrong.”

  The Wanderer hesitated. He had never met anybody in his life who disliked him. Confronted with somebody who did, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Then he remembered she addressed him as a wanderer, not a vagabond. He noticed that the girl faced him directly and met his eye with a steady gaze. The way she talked also belied animosity— the low pitch and desultory rhythm of her speech pleased him. If anything, the girl acted somewhat bored. He saw tension in the arms crossing her chest. Her muscle twitched in her jaw. He sensed she struggled to maintain her detached poise.

  “Can’t we just start over?”

  “No,” she snapped. “You need to get out of here.”

  The Wanderer shook his head, wondering if he was in another dream. But he looked again to see the girl’s demeanor was unchanged, and her eyes stared right through him.

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Because I have no use for wanderers. Now move along.”

  She turned and headed for her tent. The Wanderer stared at her back, too stunned to move for a moment. For weeks, ostracism chiseled at his spirit, but she was an outsider the same as he, and her dismissal birthed a fury he never knew he had. Before he knew what he was doing, he caught up with the girl and swiveled her around to face him.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” the Wanderer said. “Do you own these woods?”

  “Let go of me.”

  The calm in her voice made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Then he remembered the horse and rider, backlit by the sun and running across the ridge before turning towards No Man’s Land.

  “You crossed the border through the woods, didn’t you?”

  The girl said nothing, but her pupils narrowed.

  “I saw someone disappear in the trees,” he continued. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Are you threatening me, Wanderer?”

  She spoke softly, yet there was no mistaking the menace in her tone. The Wanderer didn’t care, driven as he was by a wrath of his own.

  “I don’t want the Lawmen any more than you do,” he said. “But you can’t tell me whether I can stay or go.”

  He released the girl and made his way back to his tent.

  “You’re a fool, Wanderer.”

  The air hissed when she spoke. The Wanderer was pleased to know he had shaken her composure. But her venom gave him pause. His spine heated where her eyes burned into him and he had to force himself to focus on the fallen heap. He heard her running and his ears prickled. The muffled squeal of leather followed, then the click of her tongue. The ground quivered when a giant stallion was spurred to action. The pounding of its hooves resonated in the Wanderer’s feet for what seemed a long time after the girl had gone.

  Chapter Two

  Her hostility was relentless.

  When the Wanderer woke up in the morning, he was relieved to find his tent undisturbed. He heard the girl moving around the site, but doubted she was in a better humor. He lay inside his tent until the grating of metal on metal irritated him enough to get up. When he came outside, he was blinded again from the piercing rays of light. The girl was sharpening her dagger, and the blade caught glimpses of sun as she swept it along a rod.

  Two slain rabbits were draped across her lap. She must have gotten up before dawn to hunt. Finally, the grating that worked on the Wanderer’s nerves stopped. The girl tested the edge of the blade, satisfied that it was sharp enough, and then she set to work on the rabbits, pulling their hides off with sure strokes of the dagger. The Wanderer watched, mesmerized. He’d never met a woman who could hunt before, and her skill made it clear that she was very comfortable with it. After a few minutes, the Wanderer saw the girl’s stare riveted on him while the blade of her knife carved meat from bone.

  The hairs prickled on the back of his neck and he averted his gaze. The Wanderer ignored her the best he could and went to the fire pit. He was surprised to find some acknowledgement of his presence in the camp. The girl had staked two forked branches on either side, leaving the iron weave for him to cook upon. By the time he got the fire going, she was ready. Pieces of rabbit were impaled along a spit she’d carved from a thick branch and set between the prongs. Without thinking, the Wanderer put his hash beneath th
e meat to catch its drippings. But the girl glared at him and pulled her spit away until he moved his skillet to the side of the fire. Once their food was done, the Wanderer hoped for a trade. So ignoring her previous slight, he offered his hash.

  “Do you want try some of mine? It would go well with the rabbit.”

  The girl flicked her eyes between him and the skillet, then walked away and settled down at the base of a large tree. She took her time with the rabbits. She tore through the tender meat with her thick teeth and chewed slowly. She even licked her fingers when she was done. Although the girl didn’t glance his way, the Wanderer suspected her exaggerated manner was a performance meant for him. Her piece of theater made him so angry he had to wait until she left before he could eat. By then, his hash had gone cold.

  The Wanderer was more confused than affronted by the girl’s deliberate antagonism. As the days passed, he was determined to ease the tension between them.

  “Your accent is unusual.”

  The morning was warm. Indian summer. The girl was hanging clothes she had just washed in the creek. She stood in profile to the Wanderer. He was surprised how refined she looked from this angle. Her features had none of the raw primitivism she showed when she faced him directly. To invite conversation, the Wanderer kept his tone light. He waited for the girl to turn, but she continued with her chore.

  “I can tell we’re from the same country,” he continued. “I’m usually pretty good at figuring out the region people are from by how they talk, but I can’t place yours. What parts did you grow up in?”