“See? You say things what sound nice in dreams. I want to think that I’m more than I am. That I was meant for more than this hidin’ away all the time. That somewhere I can walk without wearin’ . . .” She stops and shakes her head violently. “But I know the difference! I know the difference between this world and the other. I’m a big girl, and I know.”
“They will never see you,” says her Dream, and his eyes are sad as he gazes up from the pool. “None of these others you call your friends. They will never look upon your true face.”
Her scowl deepens. “You say one more word against my dad or my Beana, and I’ll spit in your pool, so help me!”
“Very well,” says he in a voice most gentle. “We’ll have no more of that. Let me kiss you and end our differences, princess.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ain’t kissin’ you, that’s sure. I’m mad at you now.”
“Don’t be mad.” The speaker’s voice is as kind as his face. He puts out a hand, though it does not break the surface of the churning water. “You know how I care for you.”
“A likely story.”
“You know how I long for your visits. You would not leave me alone up here, would you?”
Rose Red sighs and slowly shakes her head as her irritation fades away. She feels too sorry for the speaker in the pool to stay angry. “You know I’ll come back. I always do.”
“And you’ll not tell anyone else about this place?”
She thinks of the boy and their trek up to the cave, and the Dream in the pool watches her face. But that was in the waking world, so she nods and says, “I won’t. In any case, Beana don’t like me to come up here when I’m awake.”
“Beana doesn’t know about me.”
“No. Beana don’t know.”
“And you’re not angry with me anymore, are you?”
“No.” She kneels down again and puts a hand out to the water. The steam curls through her fingers, and she feels the heat rising through her glove. The Dream extends his hand as well, but their palms do not meet. Then Rose Red rises again. “I’m goin’ home now.”
“Won’t you let me kiss you good-night?”
She snorts. “I ain’t forgiven you that much.”
With those words Rose Red leaves the cave and drifts back down the mountain. Back down the steep rock face, down through the forest and back around to the places most familiar to her in waking life. Back to the cottage nestled in its clearing, and onto her straw pallet in the loft above the place where the man she calls father snores.
Back to dreams less vivid.
5
WHY DID YOU BRING a beanpole to breakfast?”
Leo and his cousin sat in the breakfast room with only themselves for company. Dame Willowfair, Foxbrush’s mother, considered herself too delicate to rise before noon and rarely showed her face (and then, only carefully powdered and pinched) before suppertime. It was not uncommon for Foxbrush and Leo to go through an entire day without catching a glimpse of the good dame, or she of them, which suited all parties admirably. Dame Willowfair was a little frightened of boys.
So Foxbrush sat at one end of the breakfast table, eyeing his cousin, who slouched at the other. Leo, who was not a boy Foxbrush would accuse of being overly couth, had come to breakfast with the beanpole in hand and propped it against his chair while he ate. Leo had not spoken two words together, which normally would suit Foxbrush fine. His chatter tended to unbalance Foxbrush’s daily mental exercises, and it was a mercy when his cousin started the day in a silent sulk.
But today, Leo wasn’t sulking. He was merely quiet.
Foxbrush sipped his coffee (he drank it black and had done so since he was five years old, considering sugar and milk to be signs of a weak mind. Leo, by contrast, liked a little coffee flavoring in his milky sugar-water) and waited for Leo to answer. But Leo was staring out the window and chewing his toast in a distinctly thoughtful manner. “I say.” Foxbrush set his coffee cup down with perhaps a little more force than necessary. “I say, why did you bring a beanpole to breakfast?”
“A what?” Leo gave him a stupid look. But then, Foxbrush thought all Leo’s looks were stupid, so that was no surprise.
“A beanpole.”
“What beanpole?”
“The one propped against your chair.”
Leo looked at it, still chewing, then took another bite and answered with his mouth full. “That’s my sword.”
“Your what?”
Leo swallowed. “My sword.”
“You’re an idiot,” said Foxbrush, or at least he thought about saying it. The fact stood that—beanpole or sword—Leo’s stick was the only weapon in the room, and it was just long enough to reach across the breakfast table for a good smack on the head, which Foxbrush did not doubt Leo would be willing to give. So Foxbrush instead smiled in a superior manner and was annoyed to see his cousin smile back.
When Leo rose from his meal, took up his beanpole, and headed for the door, Foxbrush called after him, “Where are you going?”
“Out,” Leo said with scarcely a glance over his shoulder.