“Auld Nancy,” said Grayling with alarm, “are you unwell?” The old woman was so forceful that Grayling believed nothing but grave illness could stop her.
“Nay, I am but spent and weary. I am older than I look.” Gray wisps poked out from the woman’s wimple, the hairs on her chin trembled, and the skin on the backs of her hands was coarse and freckled. It was difficult to imagine that she could be older than she looked. Grayling’s heart thumped once. What would become of them if Auld Nancy could not go on?
With a whoosh and a whoop, Pansy, grown pale and haggard, dropped down beside Auld Nancy. Grayling looked at the heavy clouds above and then at her companions on the ground. Despite the need for hurry, they would go no farther. What should she do? What would Hannah Strong do? Nay, what would she bid Grayling do?
“I will find wood for a fire,” Grayling said, “and a bit of a clearing off the road where we can rest.”
“And I,” said Desdemona Cork, as fresh and lovely as if she had just woken, “am footsore and hungry. I will go now and find me some supper.”
Auld Nancy glared at her. “Selfish wench! You would leave the rest of us to eat grass like sheep? Even enchanters, haughty and sly and thoughtless as you are, must have a care for others now and again. ’Tis the rightful thing to do.”
Desdemona Cork huffed and blew a strand of dark hair from her face. She stared at Auld Nancy for a moment, blinking her eyes and frowning, and then said, “’Tis not that I do not care about other people, but I find I rarely notice you.” She shrugged a lovely shrug.
“Notice us? Notice me?” Auld Nancy pointed a gnarled finger at the enchantress. “I am shower breeder, cloud pusher, fog mistress, ruler of the elements, and I can call down rain, constant rain, upon your head now and forevermore! Would you notice me then?”
There was a long pause. Grayling held her breath. Finally Desdemona Cork said, “I agree to provide supper for us all. Will that satisfy?”
Auld Nancy nodded.
“How will you do that?” Grayling asked.
Desdemona Cork twitched her shawls. The air sparkled and smelled of roses. Of course, thought Grayling. Enchantress.
Traffic was sparse, but now and then horses and carts passed by, and merchants and farmers, peddlers and soldiers and other folk heading from here to there and there to here. A fine gentleman on a gray horse drew near, heading east. Desdemona Cork twitched her shawls, and before Grayling could puzzle out how, the enchantress was seated before the gentleman on the horse, no longer headed east but instead north into town. Such a useful skill to have, enchanting, thought Grayling. If I could enchant someone, she wondered, what would I have him do? Bring me cool water? Brush my hair? Roast me a chicken?
Grayling watched until Desdemona Cork and her admirer disappeared. “Do you think she will come back?” Grayling asked.
“More important, will supper come back?” added Pansy.
So Pansy did have some wits after all. Grayling gave the girl an encouraging smile, but Pansy was once more looking down at her feet, her lips plumped in a pout.
Light rain began. Pook the raven woke, shook drops off his wings, and turned mouse once more. “’Tis quite an experience for this Pook, the shape shifting,” he said. “The tingling and trembling leave it breathless and most exceedingly tired.” He climbed into the pocket of Grayling’s kirtle and began to snore. She smiled. I myself have enchanted a mouse, and I find I like the company.
While Auld Nancy and Pansy rested under the shelter of the tree, Grayling headed into a thick grove to gather fallen wood for a fire. The trees grew close together, and the air was damp and chill. In her valley, the trees reached out to embrace and caress her; here they grabbed at her skirt and pulled her hair. Grayling pushed her way through, picking up small branches and twigs as she went. The air grew darker and colder, and she shivered.
The trees thinned out at last and gave way to a small clearing where a goat feasted upon the remains of a garden. Behind were the tumbled ruins of a hut. A breeze stirred the leaves on the trees with a rustling like the ghostly whispering of dark secrets. Prickles ran down Grayling’s back. She peered over her shoulder and around. No one was here. Still she was uneasy, as if she were being watched. She’d been foolish to venture so far from the others.
“You, girl, here, to me!” Grayling jumped. The call had been more growl than voice. An old woman stood at the edge of the clearing, half hidden in the trees.
“What has happened? Who has done this?” the woman asked. “Was it you, or be you here to release me?” She broke off in a fit of coughing as Grayling went closer.