The Second Generation

“Your pardon, gentlemen both,” Slegart said, rising slowly to his feet and holding up his hand to check one of the strangers in his speech. Turning to the servant, he said gruffly, “Well?”

The girl shook her head.

Slegart' s shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he muttered. “Well, p’rhaps it’s better so.”

The two strangers glanced at each other.

“And the babe?” Slegart asked.

At this, the servant girl burst into tears.

“What?” Slegart asked, astonished. “Not the babe, too?”

“No!” the servant girl managed to gasp between sobs. “The baby’s fine. Listen—” A faint cry came from overhead.

“You can hear 'er now. But... but—oh!” The girl covered her face with her hands. “If s dreadful! I’ve never seen anything like it—”

At this, one of the strangers nodded, and the other stepped forward.

“Parde-me, innkeep,” the stranger said in a cultivated voice with an unusual accent. “But some terrible tragedy appears to have happened here. Perhaps it would be better if we continued on—”

“No, no,” Slegart said hastily, the thought of losing money bringing him to himself. “There, Lizzie, either dry your tears and help, or go have your cry out in the kitchen.”

Burying her face in her apron, Lizzie ran off into the kitchen, setting the door swinging behind her.

Slegart led the two strangers to a table. “A sad thing,” said the innkeeper, shaking his head.

“Might we inquire—” ventured the stranger casually, though an astute observer would have noticed he was unusually tense and nervous, as was his companion.

“Nothin' for you gentlemen to concern yourselves with,” Slegart said.

“Just one of the serving girls died in childbirth.”

One of the strangers reached out involuntarily, grasping hold of his companion’s arm with a tight grip. The companion gave him a warning glance.

“This is indeed sad news. We’re very sorry to hear it,” said the stranger in a voice he was obviously keeping under tight control. “Was she—was she kin of yours? Pardon me for asking, but you seem upset—”

“I am that, gentlemen,” Slegart said bluntly. “And no, she warn’t no kin of mine. Came to me in the dead 'o winter, half-starved, and begging for work. Somethin' familiar about her there was, but just as I start to think on if—he put his hand to his head—“I get this queer feelin'. 'Cause of that, I was of a mind to turn her away, but”—he glanced upstairs—“you know what women are. Cook took to her right off, fussin' over 'er and such like. I got to admit,” Slegart added solemnly, “I’m not one fer gettin' attached to people. But she was as pretty a critter as I’ve seen in all my born days. A hard worker, too. Never complained. Quite a favorite she was with all of us.”

At this, one of the strangers lowered his head. The other put his hand over his companion’s.

“Well,” said Slegart more briskly, “I can offer you gentlemen cold meat and ale, but you won’t get no hot food this night. Cook’s that upset. And now,”—the innkeeper glanced at the still-swinging kitchen door with a sigh—“from what Lizzie says, it seems like there’s somethin' odd about the babe—”

The stranger made a sudden, swift movement with his hand, and old Slegart froze in place, his mouth open in the act of speaking, his body half-turned, one hand raised. The kitchen door stopped in midswing. The servant girl’s muffled cries from the kitchen ceased. A drop of ale, falling from the spigot, hung suspended in the air between spigot and floor.

Rising to their feet, the two strangers moved swiftly up the stairs amid the enchanted silence. Hastily, they opened every door in the inn, peered inside every room, searching. Finally, coming to a small room at the very end of the hall, one of the strangers opened the door, looked inside, and beckoned to his companion.

A large, matronly woman—presumably Cook—was halted in the act of brushing out the beautiful hair of a pale, cold figure lying upon the bed. Tears glistened on the cook’s kindly face. It had obviously been her work-worn hands that had composed the body for its final rest. The girl’s eyes were shut, the cold, dead fingers folded across the breast, a small bunch of roses held in their unfeeling grasp. A candle shed its soft light upon the young face whose incredible beauty was enhanced by a sweet, wistful smile upon the ashen lips.

“Amberyl!” cried one of the strangers brokenly, sinking down upon the bed and taking the cold hands in his. Coming up behind him, the other stranger laid a hand upon his companion’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry, Keryl."

“We should have come sooner!” Keryl stroked the girl’s hand.

“We came as quickly as we could,” his companion said gently. “As quickly as she wanted us.”

“She sent us the message—” only when she knew she was dying,” said the companion.

“Why?” Keryl cried, his gaze going to Amberyl’s peaceful face. “Why did she choose to die among . . . among humans?” He gestured toward the cook.

“I don’t suppose we will ever know,” said his companion softly.