Midwinter

The Lady Anne sat primly in the sitting room of Cucu's boutique, pretending that she wasn't being ignored in the same way the Cucu was pretending not to ignore her. When she'd entered the shop, Cucu had shot her an amazed glance, then let her eyes drift past the Lady Anne to another customer. Anne was amazed at the difference a few brief years could make.

As a person of quality, it was tacitly agreed among the patrons and staff at establishments such as this that the Lady Anne should be seen before any merchant's daughter or alderman's wife. She was noble-born, and when she was the wife of the Captain of the Royal Guard, she was given the proper respect. Now she was the wife of a traitor and a criminal, and Cucu could barely countenance her presence.

While she sat, the fluttering that stirred in the Lady Anne's stomach grew to a tremor. She felt ill. Upon receiving the invitation from this Purane-Es, she'd naively thought that her troubles were simply and suddenly behind her. But the sidelong glances from the ladies in Cucu's fitting room spoke volumes against that notion. She wanted to take Purane-Es's invitation from her handbag and show it around the shop, shouting, "See this! I am still one of you! I still exist!" But that wasn't possible. They would all have to wait. And when they saw her at the arm of a Commander in the Royal Guard, a man of unblemished character and noble birth, there would be no cautious looks.

Or would there? Could there be any doubt of her status once she was feted thus? Certainly not. When that day came, just a few nights hence, they would all be smiling at her from behind their fans, asking her to dance in their reels, join in their songs. And then it would be her turn to look sideways. Mauritane be damned.

While she sat, touching her hair with a carefully bred carelessness, a man entered the shop, wearing the uniform of some low office in the Queen's Guard. No soldier, this one wore spectacles and had no braids to adorn his bald head. Someone's aide, no doubt.

The aide strode to Cucu as though he were her master and pulled her aside. They spoke in whispers, every so often glancing in the Lady Anne's direction. Cucu's eyes widened, and she gasped. The man bowed slightly and left as quickly as he'd entered.

"Is that the Lady Anne?" cried Cucu, clutching her hands to her chest. "My darling woman, it's been so long I didn't recognize you. Why didn't you say something?" Cucu took Anne's hands and guided her gently to her feet. "Let me look at you," she said. "Oh, now don't I feel like an idiot?" She clucked her tongue.

The Lady Anne stared blankly at her as she struggled to understand. "The man who was just here, who was he?" she asked, in as haughty a voice as she could manage.

"Oh, him? Just an aide belonging to Purane-Es. A little sprite tells me you're to be the guest of honor at his upcoming fete! I'm so delighted to hear it!" She nearly squealed in what passed for delight. Behind her eyes, Anne read fear and, as much as she hated to admit it, it pleased her.

Anne breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Oh, how they would regret having treated her so poorly. "Think nothing of your oversight, dear Cucu," she said. "I've been hiding out from the witchlight, just waiting for the perfect moment to reappear."

Cucu nodded heartily. "Come, dearie. I've got just the thing for you. Glamoured butterflies, little flowers along the hem that bloom when you dance. It will look perfect on your delightful figure."

The Lady Anne almost said it out loud. Mauritane be damned!

the admiration of the novice!

by the water's edge

"Silverdun! Behind you!"

Mauritane followed his warning cry with a sidelong thrust of his saber. The tip of his blade caught the advancing buggane in the side and it fell to the ground screeching. Silverdun wheeled around, saw that Mauritane had taken it, then continued his spin, planting his dagger in the belly of the creature in front of him.

The bugganes had attacked quickly, without warning. There were perhaps thirty of them. They fell from the treetops, bodkins in hand, their long, sharp teeth bared. They were dressed in tattered rags, with curly, matted hair and lumpy green skin protruding from every seam. Their only sounds were the low grunts of their attacks and the high-pitched squeal of their pain.

When they'd appeared, Mauritane had immediately dismounted and ordered the others to do the same. "Take the horses away from the fighting," he'd called to Satterly, tossing the reins in Satterly's direction as he drew his sword and knife.

From the relative safety of the rim of the small valley where they'd been ambushed, Satterly watched the combat with awe, hardly believing that he might someday take part in such an encounter. With the admiration of the novice, he mentally noted the vast differences in the fighting styles of each of his companions.