Diamonda

When I first saw her, the name caught like a prayer bead in my throat: Diamonda. I have never called her that out loud, of course. While she was in hiding with us, she used a simple maidservant's name, and now the troubadours have christened her Snow White. But those gossips were not there when we found her, arms and wrists smeared with blood, lips the color of crushed violets. She was not white as snow then, but I have spent my whole life prying gems from a mountain's belly. I don't need to see their faces cut and polished to know how they will shine.

Her tap on our door might have been the wind, or a branch in its fall, so soft was the sound she made. When at length I opened the door that night, she fell across the threshold, one arm landing so that her fingers nearly reached the fire in the hearth. Clotted with mud and covered with blood, she might have been old or young, man or maid. But then I found a cloth, stooped to wipe the dirt from her eyes, and saw what she was.

As I freed her face from the filth that hid it, my brothers' sighs were like the moans of souls raised suddenly from damnation to paradise. For the seven of us, grown to manhood without the scent or touch of a woman, she seemed a goddess, some glory streaming sprite who'd taken a wrong turn and stumbled into the real world, where goddesses could cut themselves on thorns, wander lost for days, take sick and shake with chills. How I wanted to rush outside and tear the dead roses up by their roots. How I yearned to bathe her in the pond at Fairny, to hold her until the water caught her fever and she lay sleeping in my arms.

Instead, I made a pallet beside the hearth and we stretched her along it as best we could. She lay, her head against our bundled cloaks, and stared at the ring of twisted faces, tiny bodies above her. Sometimes I wake in the night, as if an old wound is itching, and see again the horror that widened her eyes.

It was only seconds before her breeding asserted itself and the look of revulsion faded. "I am afraid I have lost my way." She wrapped the vestige of a skirt around her poor bruised legs. "I must ask your pardon and your charity." We all drew closer, our forgiveness palpable. She glanced at Corwyn and then at me.

"I am Erin," I told her. I stood posturing grandly while Dynll, more sensible in his adoration, grabbed the cloth from me, dipping it in the bucket of water we kept by the fire. "These are my brothers, and though we have dwarf bodies, our minds are as sharp, our hearts as stout, as any man's." Dynll pressed the cloth to her head, and I added a deep flourish.

But as I bent to her, I was consumed with a sudden, shameful jealousy and wanted nothing more than to wrest the cloth back from my brother's hand. I stood there twisting my belt like a simpleton, lusting to feel her hair against my hand, to wipe sweat from the glistening hollow above her lips. "My lady," I managed at last, "we are at your service for as long as you wish."

"You are kind," she said. "And I am blessed to have found such gentle hosts in this accursed wood." Her cheeks flushed and her dark fawn's eyes rested on me. Had she known then how many years she would stay with us, how long she would shine in the midst of our deformity, she might have chosen to brave the snow and forest again, instead.

Her fever lasted three days. On the last morning, I was fixing a loose ax handle for Ferin and so let him take her the broth. (I'd risen before dawn to spend two hours nursing potatoes and a few old carrots into what I hoped would pass for soup. When Rowan had fallen ill that autumn, I could not remember where we had stored the tormentil. But now, like a falcon with God's eye, I found the last of the herb under a hearthstone and boiled it all with the stock.) So it was Ferin she thanked for the thin soup and, though he insisted he did not deserve it, I believe to this day she credits him with her recovery.

When we came back from the mine that night, Diamonda's fever had broken and she met us at the door. If she had seemed a broken flower beside our hearth, she towered above us now, no longer a touchable goddess, but bright and inaccessible as truth.

"Bless you all," she said, her hair freshly combed and braided down her back. She turned to Ferin with a smile that twisted the innards of every man in the room and struck poor Ferin dumb. As she talked, he could no longer look the sun in its face and instead stared trancelike at his boots. "The soup you brought me this morning has worked wonders, Little Physician. For, as you can see, I'm quite recovered." She lifted the hem of her skirt as if it were a ball gown and spun around the room.

Her dance and the slice of thigh it revealed left us dizzy; no one could think of a response more clever than to moan and sigh as if we ourselves had fallen sick. "I wanted to fix you a feast to repay your kindness, but I am afraid all I could find was potatoes and cornmeal."

She chattered happily as she led us to the table. She had only covered it with a cloth, but somehow it looked different—more precise, more to be reckoned with than it had ever seemed before. There were eight places set, and she escorted each of us to a seat as if we were noblemen attending a banquet. "Here's your place, Good Doctor Ferin. And this chair's for you, Rowan. Now, Sir Dynll, if you will be so kind. And Corwyn. And Gwiffert. Here, Lord Timias. And you here, Fair Erin."

Dynll was the first to come to his senses. "How," he asked, "did you remember all our names?" His forehead, broad and corded with veins, wrinkled like a beggar's belly. His eyes misted with admiration.

She laughed. "How do you think I could ever forget them? Night and day while I was sick, I said them over like a cate-chism."

I sank into the chair she had pulled back for me. "Fair Erin," she had called me. I was torn between hope and humiliation. Was she singling me out for a joke? I looked at my brothers, their swollen heads bobbing and gleaming in the lamplight. Was I, last born of seven freaks, the most freakish? Of the distorted carnival masks turned like dark flowers toward her brightness, was mine the most hideous of all?

Warily, I studied my Diamonda as she filled each plate with the pebbly pancakes she had coaxed from our potatoes and meal. Her eyes shone with pride and good intentions; there was no hint of the disgust that had flashed across them when we met. And her lips? They were parted in a smile, full as a child's and as impossible not to return. They exonerated her completely.

She had spoken without malice. But did that mean, I wondered late into the night while the others slept, that I was actually not hard for her to look at? I had seen the children at Genfall Fair whisper and draw back, tiny rosebuds closing all along my way. I myself had stirred my reflection in a stream, frothing the water until the shards of face under my hand could have been anyone's, even a normal man's. I knew better than to hope that she found me handsome or fine-featured. But still, alone with the sort of timid dream that springs to life only near sleep, I thought perhaps Diamonda might have found me a well-turned dwarf!

It was weeks before she trusted us with her secret, weeks that seem now the gentlest of preludes, idle days free from whispers and bolted doors. It was then that I took Diamonda ice fishing in the pond that lies past Fairny Caves. While the wind of envy rattled and moaned, closing its fingers around her hiding place, the two of us spent whole mornings in the blue shadow of the mountain beyond our forest. Careening down ice-covered bluffs on a makeshift sled, we traveled toward the dearest friendship I have ever known.

I remember how she would kiss me for luck, her lips burning my cheek before our descents. How she would throw back the cape from her face and laugh when one of our croppers landed us, splay-legged rag dolls, in the snow. How afterward, she would sip my chamomile tea, weaving our damp adventures into stories for my brothers. And how she would stay up with me long into the night, talking about such foolish, inconsequential things that I will never love anyone so much.

Not that she wasn't fond of us all. Not that she didn't take pains to memorize each of our likes and dislikes, our moods, just as she had our names. But—and I know my dwarfish dreams do not deceive me here—there was a special look, a way of smiling, a tone of voice, she saved for me. The others noticed it, too. Sometimes they teased, but more often they acknowledged the distinction, the primacy that Diamonda's silent preference bestowed. "What should I shoot for dinner?" Rowan would ask me, the huge quiver slung over his shoulder. "Does she like squirrel?" Or, after we had eaten and she was turning the spindle by the fire, Corywn would steal to my side. "How can I tell her without hurting her pride?" he'd whisper, his hands hidden in the dangling, overoptimistic sleeves of a jacket she had made for him. "You know how to put things to her."

It became a nightly ritual, the others climbing to the loft for bed while Diamonda and I stayed by the hearth to talk. And so, if she had something hard to tell, it was only natural that I was the one she chose to share it with first. But I would rather any of my brothers had taken my place that night, had sat beside her sipping tea, and heard her speak of leaving.

"I didn't tell you before," she said, watching the orange village at the bottom of the fire tumble into ruin, "because I couldn't bear to worry you." The light from the fire caught a swelling, a shine at the edges of her eyes. "But surely you see now that I endanger you all by staying. We must say goodbye, dear friend."

I was the first, then, to hear how the queen had driven away her lovely stepchild. Long before wetnurses whispered it to children at bedtime and courtiers banished it, with a wave of their ringed fingers, to the exile of stale gossip, the fairest woman I have ever seen told me her story. It did not surprise me at all to learn that Diamonda was of royal blood—for me, she shone as brightly in our thatched cottage as she does in the palace that is now her home. What did astound me, though, was the idea that anyone anywhere could wish her harm.

"How could your mother put a price on your head?" I asked. "How could flesh turn against flesh?"

"She is not my mother, Erin. My father used to tell me he dreamed my mother." The firelight found her frown, kissed it with honey. "When I was little, it made Father sad to speak of her. Each time I asked what she looked like, he would only lean on my arm and make me take him to the huge mirror in my stepmother's bedchamber. He would stand me in front of it and stare over my head into the glass. 'There,' he would say, 'That is what your mother looked like.'"

I cannot remember my own mother, but I know she was not a dwarf. I know because of the wine pitcher that Timias bought at Genfall. As Diamonda spoke, I glanced up to where it rested above the hearth. The comely woman holding grapevines on the handle might have been our mother's twin; all my brothers said so. When I was a child, something stubborn, some unschooled weed of pride, sprouted in me each time they told the story of my birth. Too weak to lift her head or open her eyes, my mother had smiled at them as she held me tight. "This one," she'd said, "is fine as a prince. He's a dear, normal little lad, isn't he, boys? I told your father it would be different this time. I wish he could see what a strapping son I have borne!"

"Ah, yes," my brothers told their dying mother. "Here's a healthy, normal babe for you at last." They had crowded around me, patting my ugly head, kissing my withered limbs.

"Just look at his handsome face," crowed Rowan. "And his body," admired Gwiffert, "how firm and straight it is!" "He will be as tall as an oak," promised Timias, tears blinding his eyes. "As strong as any man for miles," wept Dynll.

Only Ferin and Corwyn, too young to play the game, began to protest that the baby's head was much too large for its body, that its eyes bulged horribly from their sockets. So they were banished from the room and did not see our mother sigh, draw me to her, and whisper in my ear, "The best for last, sweet Erin. I saved the best for last." Dynll says I never cried until they took me from her arms.

The fire was a gray powder, but still I could not let Diamonda go. "There is no reason to run away," I insisted. "This poor place is probably the last spot on earth your stepmother's soldiers would look for you. Why, you could stay safe here forever while that greedy monster tears up the country for miles around."

"I wish it were true, but the smith's wife told me today there's a brigade of royal troops camped near Higman's Crossing." Diamonda poured the last of her tea over the ashes, then bent her head over the empty cup. "I wonder why the money isn't enough, Erin. She has all of Father's fortune. Why does she need my death?"

"Perhaps," I said, stiffening with pleasure as she took the hand I offered, "your stepmother is afraid you will change your mind about renouncing your inheritance. She has only to look at you to know there is no man alive who would not fight to the death to support you."

The more she smiled, the more I wanted to prove my words, to show her I meant what I said. "To the death, I swear it!" I yelled, struggling to my feet, Punch determined to fell giants.

"Many thanks, sweet Erin." She was whispering now; my battle cry already had the others stirring in their sleep overhead. "But your death would hardly please me." She stood then, too, and put her hand on my shoulder, which shook like a thing apart. "What you can do for my sake is sleep well tonight and help me tell the others in the morning."

Sleeping well was an art I lost that night. When they learned how close the troops were, my brothers decided to spread the story in the village that our visitor had gone back to her home and family. This precaution, though it proved necessary, forced Diamonda to live like a prisoner in our dark cottage. And I? I lay awake each night, grieving her loss. Who is warmed by a transient sun? What sort of reprieve was it to live with the knowledge she would have to leave us?

As the days wore on, Diamonda was no happier than I. Each morning, as we left for the mines, our royal stowaway seemed more nervous, less patient. She seldom complained, but her eyes were distant and uncertain, her songs turned sad, and she paced when she walked. "I feel as if I am on a draughts board with nowhere to go," she told me one morning. "At least let us steal out after sunset, Erin. We can skate by moonlight and you can tell me all the stars' names, the way you used to." She made it sound as though she were yearning for something that had happened years ago instead of weeks. And she made it impossible for me to say no.

We waited until well after dark, then set out with torches across the snow. When we reached the pond, she ran toward it with a little shriek of delight. She stooped to put on the skates I had carved her from a yew branch, then, like a finch loosed from its cage, sped out onto the ice. "Hurry up, Erin!" Her shadow darted and wove over the shining ground. "Look—I have already learned to skate backwards!"

Though I would have been content to stand and watch her forever, I put on my skates and followed her onto the sheet of moonlight. I have been skating as long as I can remember, and though she learned quickly, I still had a few tricks to teach her. She liked my leaps the best; she held her breath before each jump and clapped like the villagers at a juggling show when I came down. I was skating to the farthest edge of the ice (having decided to leap across a log stranded in the middle of the pond) when I saw the lights.

They were a good distance away, that I could tell. But how fast they were advancing was harder to judge. I raced back to where she stood and grabbed her hand. I pointed to the torches, twinkling like stars on the slopes above the stream. "If they are on horseback, we have no time to get home," I decided, already skating away from the cottage. "We will hide in the mine."

We took off our skates and stumbled through the snow, cutting west toward the far side of the hills down which the lights were filing. "It lies just ahead," I told her, battering my way through drifts that reached my hips. She followed gamely, less encumbered by snow that came only to her knees. But fear had taken her breath, and she sucked in the icy air too deeply as she ran.

When we had reached the entrance to the shaft and worked our way down to a point where our torches were hidden from view, I stopped and made her rest. I climbed back to the surface to drag a branch across our tracks and seal the entrance behind us. "We are safe enough now," I told her when I returned, "unless your stepmother's men can see through stone."

She would not sit but remained pinned to the wall of the shaft, gulping air as if it were water, her body shaking, her eyes closed. When the pounding of hooves echoed in the cave, she ran to me and threw her arms around my neck. Her chest was heaving and I could feel her heart jump against me. As the men aboveground yelled to one another, I put my arms around her, too, and forced her to sit on the ground, soothing her as I would a child. "Shhh. Do not fret. I will not let them harm you."

I knew our mine as well as I did my own house. I was calm and certain of our hiding place. "There is no need to worry," I whispered, my breath spreading smoky fingers in the gloom. Still she shuddered and held me close, breeding in me a kind of madness, a sharp desire to prolong her anguish. For as long as the men remained dismounted and their footsteps crossed and re-crossed the ground above our heads, Diamonda melted into me. As long as they continued to yell and laugh, her sweet breasts were mine to press against, to feel with arms that fell slyly, secretly against her time and time again.

We remained undiscovered, and when the horses had clamored off over the hills, we were free to go home. But not free to risk again such foolish expeditions. Even Diamonda now saw the sense in her confinement and begged no more for moonlight skates. Our caution doubled and our lives rattled like dried pods. My brothers and I became prisoners, too, circling dully between the mine and the cottage, afraid to take trips to town, deal with traders, or let beggars in for food. In the center of our weary pattern, Diamonda grew more and more restless, her only entertainment the quiet talks she and I shared after the rest had gone to bed.

"Do you suppose," she asked me one evening halfway to spring, "that you and I want what is best for us?" She was mending a tear in the vest I had bought from a peddler. I had noticed often how the slow, regular passage of her needle through cloth turned her philosophical. Now something crumbled and gave way inside my chest as she pricked herself, sucked her finger, and sighed. "Do you suppose God has arranged it so that human desires are like seedlings bending toward the light?"

My body was a stream swollen with a sudden thaw, racing toward things it could not see. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Oh, I know it sounds wicked," she said, eyes once more lowered to her sewing. "I used to have a tutor; he was a priest. He told me that the body desires but the spirit is always satisfied. Do you think that is so, Erin?"

The sound of rushing water filled my ears. I looked at her, helpless with longing. It was a longing of the flesh, yes. But of the mind, too. And of the spirit, surely, since I would gladly have accepted transformation into the mindless, sexless cloth she worked, just to be nearer her. "What do you crave, dear friend?" I asked her, trembling at the thought that it might be something I could give.

She looked up from her mending, her whole face flushed the way it had been when she was ill. "You will laugh at me."

"I could never laugh at you," I protested. "Or deny you any thing you ask for. Only tell me what you want." Before I explode with need, I should have added, with the frustration of heaven glimpsed through a keyhole, a distant horizon that calls and calls.

"Perhaps it is wrong to want more than we already have," she said at last, no longer looking at me, staring instead at the smoking hearth. "But my dream is so stubborn, so dear, I cannot give it up. I think I know what love is, Erin, though I have never tasted it." Still she could not bring herself to look at me. The cause, to my mounting joy, was not my appearance or any aversion she had to it. The flush on her cheeks, her downcast eyes, suggested instead that her native modesty struggled against a consuming passion. "How strange, how sad that I am most awake when I sleep, when he whose touch I have never known opens me like a flower."

One of my brothers turned in his sleep above us. The wind outside howled and beat itself against the door. The moon stopped rising and waited, caught in the window. "Who?" I asked. "Who is he?"

"Someone I know," she told me, staring still at the ashes, "as well as I know myself. Someone who has helped me bear sickness and poverty Someone whose face I carry like a dear, familiar secret wherever I go."

What had been a pale shoot of possibility was now a monstrous delight that out-howled the wind and filled me with a vanity and courage I had thought reserved for larger men. "I never guessed," I said, standing and walking to her, "that you were yearning for what is near to hand!"

I bent to her now, a good child rewarded suddenly with his fondest wish, a pious zealot about to collect the answer to his prayers.

"You are right," Diamonda told me. "He is no further than my dreams." She, too, had gained courage and was finally looking me full in the face. "His kindness, his devotion, are as close as my heart. His handsome smile, his tall and graceful form—they wait only for me to close my eyes."

Poor deluded dwarf! Now the current that had buoyed me up closed over my head. A drowning man, I sank down beside her chair, my face in my hands. "'Handsome'?" I repeated. "'Tall'?"

"I knew you would laugh at me." She shook her head, stroking the velvet vest in her lap. "In truth, Erin, I do not blame you. Here I am, a penniless princess dreaming of a man I have never even met!"

Again she shook her head. "Sometimes I think I will manage it, my friend. I think I can be content to stay here with you and your good brothers. And then I go to bed and he is with me again, wooing me away, calling me past any delight I have known."

That night, though I mouthed platitudes and urged Diamonda not to abandon hope, I buried mine. Just before dawn snuffed out the moon, I smashed the wine jar with the beautiful woman on its handle. I threw it with all my might against the hearth and watched it shatter against the stones.

Perhaps Diamonda, too, lost heart. Perhaps she began to fear she would live forever with her diminutive admirers, and never meet her handsome dream. Perhaps that prospect was worse than returning to the trap she had sprung. Why else would she have let in the old beggar woman? Why believe in winter apples, when all around her was ice and chill? Unless, somewhere, in the secret reaches of her dreaming heart, she had chosen to die?

The others found her first. I had taken to waiting behind, watching to make sure no one followed us home. When I walked in, my brothers were standing in a hushed ring around her. She lay as if, overcome by weariness, she had decided to take a nap on the floor. Her cheeks were still flushed, her skin warm. The apple had rolled from her hand and stopped, wine-colored and immense, just short of the ashes in the hearth. Though it looked fresh picked, plump with sun, a horrible stench filled the room. Had she noticed the smell when her first bite broke the skin? Had she welcomed the poison, inhaled it like perfume as she fell?

The foul odor and the purplish skin of the fruit made me certain it had been tainted with belladonna. Of the seven of us, I had learned the most about healing and herbs. But Diamonda was beyond my help. If she had been felled by henbane or hemlock, I would have set to boiling nettles in hopes of reviving her. If her heart had been stopped with mistletoe, I would have asked Dynll to climb Corwyn's broad shoulders and reach me the mandrake roots we had hung to dry from the rafters that fall. But I knew no remedy for the poison that had by now spread its silent tyranny to every part of her.

I placed my thumb on her wrist and my ear to her breast— how many times in the years ahead was I to find my head against that precious pillow, hearing nothing but my own racing heart! My brothers closed around us, expectant, hushed. I told them she was neither dead nor alive, but gripped by a poison that had stolen her faculties and sealed her body like a tomb.

We put her to bed as we had when she first came to us, stretching her across a pallet by the hearth. It was not until she was covered with all the blankets we could find, until she slept like a frozen bird beside the grate, that I heard the strange roar start up among us. When the rest drew back silently and left me standing alone beside her, I realized it was me I'd heard, wailing like a wolf and beating my fists against the hob.

It was Ferin, always best with his hands, who built the crystal cocoon in which we placed her. "What if there is a change?" he had asked. "What if she wakes and needs us? Erin says she isn't dead, and I will not bury her alive." So we felled a maple, and he carved a bed for her. While he fashioned wooden angels and rosebuds, the rest of us contented ourselves with bringing home what gems we could and setting them in a necklace for her to wear. When the bed was done and we had laid her in it, Ferin covered her with a casket all paned in glass so we would be sure to notice if she stirred.

Fearful lest the queen discover our sleeping treasure, we hid her bier in a small shed behind the cottage. There, each of us in turn stood guard beside her, waiting for miracles. But Diamonda never moved. As winter withdrew slowly like a beaten cat, and green buds pushed through the forest floor, she dreamt on, unchanged. When the woods around her sounded with restless mating calls, she lay as beautiful and perfect as a stone saint in church. When spring had spent its promise and summer, too, we kept a fire going and wrapped our hands in wool while Diamonda felt no chill. At last, when ice stretched once more the length of Fairny Pond, only the seven of us were a year older than when we had laid her in her bier.

I kept the juice of the apple in a stoppered vial. I mixed herbs, concocted tinctures to find an antidote for the poison it contained. As the years passed, scores of squirrels and rabbits met their death at my well-intentioned hands. First I would poison the little beasts and then work my latest cure. All to no avail. It gave me hope, though, this foolish doctoring; it convinced me that I worked for her recovery. For as long as I kept meddling with my potions and powders, I told myself, I was surely as anxious as the others for Diamonda's deliverance.

Though, in truth, I had less reason to be. Because so long as she lay still and lifeless, I could be with her the way a man—a real man—was meant to be with a woman. Or very nearly. As nearly as a repulsive dwarf dared. If it has been torture to remember this, then it is damnation to tell.

For whenever it was my time to stand guard at her bed, I lay beside her instead. How could I see her, desirable beyond endurance, and not lift the cover that separated us? How could I stoop to kiss her cheek and not beg her forgiveness by burying my face in her breast?

It was always the same. I began by swearing I would not come near her. I stood at one end of the hut while she lay, streaming radiance, at the other. I told myself I could do as the others did, could serve my love without demeaning her. And so I clung to my side of the tiny room, wrestling demons that would have given a giant a stout match. When I turned, it was only because I thought perhaps she had wakened and might need me. All innocent concern, I would make my way to her side and lean over just to make certain she had not called faintly from beneath the glass.

She had not called, of course, but lay as always, a candied sweet. The jewels we had scavenged from our poor mine seemed cloudy against her lustrous throat. Day after day, the hope was fresh each time I looked inside the glass, each time I watched for the damp print of breath on its face. And so, telling myself I might have missed her cry, her muffled call, I swung open the casket and bent to feel her pulse.

Once so close, I kindled like an oil-fed blaze. Perm had made her bed long and broad, broad enough for two. Tingling with shame and a rough, unstoppable need, I climbed in beside her. Too late then to curb the hunger that guided my fingers. Too late to reprimand the wicked, insatiable dwarf who stroked and kissed and licked. Her hands, her face, her perfect breasts that waited just beneath the corded neckline of her loosened gown.

Is there a reward for taking the devil's hand but refusing to

dance? Is there a place in hell, less loathsome than the rest, for those too small of soul to finish the evil they begin? If so, I am spared the ultimate punishment that would be mine if I had once been able to take Diamonda in her bier the way I did each night in my restless, guilt-stained sleep.

Because I did not. Always, when I reached lower and, with a thousand tears and apologies, began to lift her skirts, I saw not my own dream but hers. As I touched her, shaking with fervor, I watched my hand become large and fine. The fingers lengthened and straightened into those of someone else, the palms grew lineless and white. And as I tried to lower myself onto her, I felt my body change. My legs were charged with power, thick and long and coiled with strength; my arms lost their withered crook and looked as smooth and graceful as an acrobat's.

And my face? I cannot tell you bow I saw it, but I did. And I felt the transformation as clearly as you feel an icy spring rush against your skin. My bloated head grew slender, handsome, my eyes and nose as perfect as Diamonda's. I was, for a moment, what I had always yearned to be—Diamonda's dream. Locked inside this new and chiseled form, I watched my sweet love reach out to me. She stirred in her sleep and put her arms around me. But as she drew me to her, blind and doting, the horrible dwarf twisted free and ran from the hut to stand sobbing with his back against the wall until his watch had ended.

Year after year, her dream vanquished me. Night after night, I lay in my bed, rubbing and rocking, while Diamonda, chaste still, waited for her prince. If I had been the one on watch when he came, I would have known him, disguised or not. As it was, he wore a deep-hooded cloak and told Gwiffert he was a healer from Wainport across the mountain. By the time my brother had raced to the house to fetch us, the stranger had the casket open and was holding her in his arms.

He had thrown the cloak back from his face, and his light, curly hair was like a flame above the dark tangle of hers. His features were as I had always seen them—bright, comely, and ripe with enchantment. She was already awake and looked, for one dazed moment, away from her redeemer toward the seven manikins clustered at her waist.

As she turned, so did he, and twin suns beamed down on us. Her lips parted but she did not speak, as if she had forgotten during her long sleep how to form words. Then, after roving over us all, her eyes seemed to fix on me. A nameless shadow darkened her smile, and the shame of my old longing swept me.

"How long have I been sleeping?" Now her eyes found his again, though we could have answered her better.

"They say for years, my lady," he told her, his gaze locked on her face as if it were the north star. "Though, to tell the truth, I think I have slept all my life until now."

She laughed. It was not the same delicate, embarrassed laugh I remembered, but long and sparkling and laced with delight. "It seemed like no time," she told him. "I dreamed of you and did not want to wake."

***

Now she lives with him. Sleeps beside him and wakes when he does, her legs tangled with his, her hair caught under the pillow they share. When he holds tribunal, he keeps her next to him and will not render judgments until she and he agree. Sometimes, when she questions his decision, they argue and draw apart, strange, hooded looks clouding them. But it is nothing, a storm in a summer garden, the confusion of leaves before they fall and lie together, limp and spent. Diamonda dreamed him before they met, brought him with her out of her dark sleep, and cannot live except in his light.

So when she visits us, he comes, too. And when she sits with me, as she did today, sipping tea in her old place by the fire, he sits, too, folded improbably into a small chair near hers. At times he watches her face when she speaks, at others he turns toward me, his shoulder brushing hers, easy and familiar with her touch. At last he stands, smoothing his doublet and taking her hand. She begs for a few more minutes, pouting prettily as he pulls her toward the door.

So they are gone and my brothers have dragged themselves to bed, logy with the cakes and sweetmeats she brought. They chatter in the loft a while, like nesting birds, then settle into sleep. I tiptoe—though all the bells in Haywick could not wake that welbfed crew—to the hearth. I loosen the stone that hides the bottle, then hold the wine-colored poison to the firelight. It shimmers like an amethyst in my hand.

The fire mutters to itself and somewhere outside a dove whisties drowsily to its mate. In all the years Diamonda slept, I never missed her as I do now. How I loathe myself for wishing she were still waiting for me beneath the glass! Should I drink to the stunted passion which prefers a caged bird to one that flies?

I open the door and carry the bottle with me to the hut. The moon is a regretful rind as I turn the key, then stand beside her old bed. Under the glass on the silk sheet is a long black shadow where she used to lie. Shall I drink to the ghost of yearning that stirs in me even now?

The casket's cover is heavier than I remember, or perhaps my trembling only makes it seem so. I put the bottle on a table, push the cover back on its hinges, and smooth her sheet with my hand. Her spot is icy cold, her warmth is somewhere else tonight. Perhaps I should drink to my six brothers, who will weep dwarf tears when they find me here.

I take off my boots and, with an old eagerness, let myself down. Instead of lying to one side, though, I take her place, my head where hers used to be, my feet straining toward the angels at the bottom of the bed. Through the open door, I see the slice of moon and hear a mouse or fox shuffle dry leaves across its path. My hand just reaches the bottle. I raise it to my lips and down it all, then close the casket's cover. Here's to the dreams that will sear my sleep when Diamonda mourns for me and presses tight against the glass.