Una loved the gardens of her home, but much more she loved the Wood.
To be sure, horses refused to step into its shadow, and men and women trembled at the thought. But to Una, the Wood had always been a place of solitary comfort, filled with memories of her childhood, and these days providing the one place where she knew she would not have to face anyone.
She stepped into it now and breathed deeply. Goldstone Wood smelled old. Not musty or antique. Certainly not like Nurse’s smell of dried lavender, nor even like the smell of the aged books in the library, with their spidery handwriting in faded ink. The Wood’s smell altered according to the season. Now, in early summer, when Una stepped into the shelter of the trees, she took a deep breath of rich, green air, full of health and a hint of some nameless spice that carried up from the sea below.
She crunched through last autumn’s dead leaves while greener growth swung at her from low-growing branches. There were no paths in Goldstone Wood, nothing but little deer trails. Una, however, followed landmarks with ease and never lost her way, not between the gardens and the Old Bridge.
She moved quickly through the forest this afternoon. The glory of summer surrounded her, but she could not appreciate it as she should have. There in the shadows of the trees, Una found herself half remembering, but unable to quite grasp, her dream.
Every night the same dream, or dreams so similar that they may as well have been the same, plagued her. Yet every morning when she woke up, she could remember nothing more than a vague uneasiness and a tightness on her finger where her mother’s ring gleamed. But the ring slid off and on as easily as it ever had, so she did not remove it.
Gervais’s departure surely was the cause of her restless nights, she decided as she approached the Old Bridge. Eventually her heartbreak over him would pass and she would sleep again, but in the meanwhile she must simply endure it.
She stepped onto the bridge. How long had it been since last she’d been there? She missed her younger days, when she and Felix ventured this way and played their silly games. Smiling, she remembered the day they had found and rescued Monster, who was now so much a part of her life.
Una sat down, removed her shoes, and put her feet in the water, enjoying the cool trickle. Then she took out her journal and nub of pencil and wrote:
I’m not going to forgive him. It’s my choice. He drove Prince Gervais away, and even if that has proven for the best, it was none of his business. So I won’t forgive him, and that’s that.
She stopped writing, for her thoughts took her no further. If only she could express what went on inside of her, she might find some relief. But no inspiration came, and she sat in silence for many long moments.
A wood thrush sang in the branches above her. She looked up and fancied she caught a glimpse of its speckled breast. It opened its mouth, and a series of notes trickled forth like water; then it flickered out of sight into the forest beyond the Old Bridge. Yet its silver-bell voice still carried back to her. She listened and suddenly thought perhaps there were words.
She turned to a fresh page in her journal and wrote quickly:
I listened long to your story,
Listened but could not hear.
When you chose to walk that path so overgrown,
I remained alone with my fear.
The thrush song went silent, then suddenly burst out again, farther away this time, deep in the forest.
Once more Una wrote as fast as words came to her mind:
Cold silence covers the distance,
Stretches from shore to shore.
I follow in my mind your far-off journeying,
But I will walk that path no more.
The thrush song ceased, and she stopped writing. She read over the lines and scratched her head with her pencil. A smile slowly filled her face. These verses were, she dared hope, good. What they meant exactly she could not guess. There were so many meanings in life, and so few of them meant anything. Why did life have to be so very confusing?
Nevertheless, Una had written verses for the first time in weeks, and perhaps not even Felix would sneer at these.
Crackling leaves caught her attention, and her heart jumped to her throat. The noise came from the far side of the Old Bridge.
Never in all her years of playing in Goldstone Wood, playing on this very bridge or on the near side of the stream, had she seen or heard anything beyond the bridge other than the occasional bird and, of course, Monster. She leapt to her feet, staggering a little, and backed away, her bare feet leaving wet prints. She peered into the shadows of the Wood beyond the bridge.
A figure stepped into view, head bent, watching its own footsteps. It came to the clear spot right before the bridge and looked up.