A wind came up and snatched the roses from my hair, then pulled my hair loose as I ran. I did not care. I stopped an instant to throw off my shoes; they landed in a corncrib. I gathered my skirt above my knees and headed across a cornfield. The stalks had not been cut yet; they blew wildly around me, their yellow leaves like hands, reaching out to me. The sky was still cloudless, but its blue had darkened; twilight rode hard behind the wind.
I was running from my own thoughts as much as anything. I simply wanted to untangle myself from the web I had touched. A single, sticky, quivering strand of it was all I needed to warn me away. I did not want to think about people. I wanted the trees, the scents and colors, the shifting shadows of the wood, which spoke a language I understood. I wished I could simply disappear in it, live like a bird or a fox through the winter, and leave the things I had glimpsed to resolve themselves without me.
The trees were bending like great fans in the wood. Clouds of gold and red and brown sailed along the wind. I slowed as I reached the privacy of the trees. A woman running across the cornfield in her mother’s best dress is subject to human speculation; in the wood, the trees did not care. I could wear anything, think nothing. I walked until my hard panting eased, and then I began to run again, knowing what I wanted.
As fast as I moved, dusk raced me there. Night’s season had begun; the days took what light was left them. I saw a last tender brush of sun slowly fade on the thick fall of rose vines over the well. Even stripped of leaves and roses, they would hide water, their naked thorns guarding against any touch. I did not dare get too close to the vines; the wind rattled through them, shook them, sent them whipping erratically in the air. One caught my hair, another my skirt, until I tore free and moved upwind, and settled down into the dead leaves.
Leaves blew against me from all parts of the wood and clung; I did not care. I only wanted to sit there, at least until the wedding was over, and Laurel came back home and Corbet went elsewhere. I did not want to see them together; I did not want to think about what I had seen in their eyes. It had been an aberration of the moment, something broken that could be instantly mended. As it would be, before I went home.
The wood darkened; the winds poured from every direction, not wintry yet, still carrying scents of ripe apple, blackberry, warm earth. But they sang of storm and bare branches and cold, shrivelled days. They were the harvest winds; they came to carry away the dying, sweep the earth for the dead. I had never heard them so clearly before; they seemed to have their separate voices, each wind its separate shape. I huddled in the leaves beside the well, watching the world darken, the moon rise slowly above the trees, leaves flying like flocks of birds across it.
I began to see faces.
Moonlight streaked the winds; in the mingling of moon and leaf I saw things that were neither, riding the wild winds. Night-black horses moved fluidly above the ground, silver harness sparked a silver light. Faces as pale and beautiful and distant as the moon flowed past me, as beautiful as Corbet’s face. I heard their voices, the heartbeat of hooves, indistinct in the fall and whirl of leaves, the tense, singing winds. I could not move; I could scarcely remember anymore if I were human, or something the wind would snatch up and carry away into the season’s end. Then a wind more fierce than any other blew the rose vines apart so that I saw the moon floating on the trembling water.
A shadow detached itself from the wind, dipped its mouth to the water and drank. Harness rang with small bells. I lifted my eyes from spark to spark: light on a stirrup, a rein, light on a pale moonlit face chiselled of ivory and ice and night.
I heard words, a lilting question, laughter as light and delicate as blown petals. I understood nothing. I crouched, staring, trying to make myself small, invisible, trying to turn into wind. The rider’s slender hand rose over me. Something fell, glittering gold, dropped into the leaves beside me. I did not move. The rose vines tangled together again, left no hint of water. The winds darkened, galloped past me, great dark steeds with streaming manes and tails, their eyes reflecting moonlight. The leaves flowed after them from the ground, from the trees, a dry river rushing into autumn.
I did not move for a long time. Leaves piled against me, and blew away in passing winds. Leaves hid a shining, then revealed it, then hid it again. I waited, feeling my heartbeat, thinking nothing because I did not know what to think; I did not know if there were words for what I thought. Leaf has no words, nor does dark. I tried to become both of them, while clouds hunted down the moon, and it escaped, and they caught it again.
I felt my bones finally, aching to move, insisting on their human shape. I reached out then, still without thinking. I brushed away leaves until I found what lay buried beneath them.
I could not see it well; cloud had captured the moon again. I stood up and slipped it into a pocket. I wore my mother’s dress, I remembered vaguely. I had danced at a wedding, in the sunlight. Then I had run across the fields into night, and I had seen, I had been given . . .
I shivered and took the first step home.
At some point, walking across our father’s fields, I moved back into time. I saw lights in the house. I had no idea how long I had been gone. Perhaps they thought I had slipped away with someone, and no one had wondered. Perhaps they had assumed the most likely: that I had gotten tired of the crowd, and had gone wandering in the wood. I would come home safely, as I always had . . . I walked slowly, wearily, following the path of the moon; it stopped above the farmhouse as I stepped onto the porch.
I saw my sister turning away from the fireplace as I opened the door. Her face looked flushed, troubled. She had worried her hair loose; it tumbled around her face, only one ivory clip holding a wilted yellow pansy over her ear. She stared at me; I heard Perrin, sitting in a chair, murmur something. Our father rose and stepped toward me. Someone else moved in the shadows, and I closed my eyes a moment, for I had left nothing behind when I had run: It was all here waiting for me.
Then I opened my eyes and looked at him. His eyes withheld expression. He stood silently, leaning against the stone mantelpiece, not far from where Laurel had been before she saw me.
She breathed, touching my tangled hair, my torn dress, a weal on my neck, “Oh, Rois . . .”
I saw her eyes redden. Perrin and my father said at once, explosively, “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” I said shortly. “I went for a walk in the wood.”
“With who?”
“No one.”
“You left the wedding and you didn’t come back and you didn’t come here,” Laurel said. “You disappeared.”
“I’m not good,” I sighed, “at weddings. I’m sorry.” I looked at our father and said again, helplessly, “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been alone all this time?” He stretched a hand toward me. “No one — troubled you?”
Nothing human, I thought. I shook my head wearily, his failed daughter, his fey child, who had left her shoes in a corncrib to go dancing with the night. “You know what I’m like.” I dragged leaves, the last rose, out of my hair. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
They were silent, gazing at me, sensing more, but I had no more to give them. Corbet moved, and my eyes went to him. I saw, in some timeless moment, the shifting shapes of human and inhuman in his face, as if he looked up at me from within the well and the water trembled constantly over him.
He moved abruptly; my eyes dropped. I did not look at Laurel, but I felt her gaze. I moved closer to her, found her hand, and touched it.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
I heard her sigh. “Never mind. You’re safe, at least.” None of us were, I knew then. “You must be hungry. Come into the kitchen; I’ll find you something.”
The men shifted, Perrin rising, Corbet moving from the hearth, my father turning down a lamp. “I’ll leave you, then,” Corbet said. “Since all is well.” There was effort in his lightness. He caught my eyes again, briefly, as he crossed the room. “I was worried,” he added, and I knew that he knew I had run from him. “I stayed to help search for you, if you did not come back.”
“You would know where to look,” I said softly. I watched Perrin kiss Laurel, and follow Corbet out. Our father closed the door behind them. He looked at me a moment, bewildered, anxious, wondering, I guessed, where the elegant woman he had danced with had gone, and what changeling child had taken her place.
He came to me, patted my shoulder a little, awkwardly. “Are you sure —” he began gruffly.
“I’m all right,” I said. “There’s nothing to tell.”
He turned away, darkening the house, leaving the matter to Laurel.
I had nothing to tell Laurel, either. I ate cold ham and bread, and listened to her tell me how worried they all had been, how kind Corbet had been to stay with them, since he knew places where I went and no one else knew where to begin to look. I chewed wearily, waiting for her to stop talking. She poured wine, and watched me drink it.
Then she said gently, “Don’t fret. Everyone runs from such things now and then; it’s only human. People gather, and drink, and dance, feelings begin to fly like trapped birds, things get spoken without words, music suggests things that simply can’t be . . . Lovers suddenly wear too-familiar faces, and other faces promise other worlds. . . .”
I swallowed a dry lump of food. I couldn’t look at her. I said finally, “Maybe that’s all it was.”
“I’m sure it was.” She touched my hair, stroked a strand back from my face. I looked at her then. She smiled, making me smile, though my throat burned, and I could feel the slight, secret weight dragging at my skirt. She drank her wine, and added, “You’ll never guess who caught the wedding bouquet.”
“You?”
“Beda.” Her smile deepened at my expression. “And Shave Turl caught the straw crown that Crispin threw. He wore it for the rest of the afternoon, and tried to dance with every woman who didn’t need a cane. Crispin’s brother, Salish, asked where you were, and so did Ley Gett, and Tamis Orley — they wanted to dance with you.”
I said nothing; she might as well have offered me shadows to dance with, since that’s all they would have seemed after I had danced in Corbet’s eyes. She sighed slightly, and drank more wine. She seemed, despite her dishevelled hair and worried expression, to have grown even more beautiful: There was a look deep in her autumn eyes, as if she had sensed the storm in a cloudless sky and gathered her powers to head into it.
But, in that quiet kitchen, it seemed impossible to believe what I had glimpsed. She loved Perrin, Perrin loved her; she would never hurt him, or our father. I would dance with everyone at her wedding, and I would run from nothing. I made a sound suddenly, a rueful laugh, wondering if I would dance barefoot.
“My shoes . . .”
“Where did you leave them?”
“In Ley Gett’s corncrib.”
Laurel laughed. “He’ll think they fell out of the sky.”
She put the food away and lit candles. I trailed upstairs after her, feeling footsore and very tired, too tired, suddenly, for love or terror or even for dreams. I washed in a daze, and left my mother’s dress lying like a wilted rose on the floor. I crawled into bed with my eyes closed.
A hand, pale and slender, reached into the numbing dark of the first moment of sleep, and dropped something that glittered gold in the moonlight as it fell toward me.
I sat up out of sleep before it finished falling. I pulled myself out of bed, knelt beside my mother’s dress, and reached into the pocket. I could not see what I found there; the room was black, or else my eyes were still closed. I took it to bed with me, slid it under my pillow, and slept then, hidden in night, in leaves, without dreams.
In the morning, I found only a dried, crumbled leaf beneath my pillow.