Authors: Kim Wilkins
“Do whatever you like,” she gasped.
He fumbled himself out of his shorts and moved into her slowly. She let her body relax and mold to his. A different pleasure
this time, a feeling of wholeness and rightness and emptiness leaving, like the most perfect embrace it was possible to know.
She wrapped her legs around his back and his breath was very hot on her neck.
“Don’t forget me,” he said.
“I won’t,” she said, even though it was a lie.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know.” She clung to him, feeling his hot skin through his shirt, allowed herself to be loved, to be embraced, as she knew
she may never be loved or embraced again.
They lay there for long minutes afterward. She thought about the paint drying in her hair but didn’t worry. She thought about
the door to the studio being unlocked but didn’t worry. There was nothing after this moment. This was the only moment, and
nothing before or after could ever count.
Then he pulled himself away from her and readjusted his clothes and sat slumping forward with his hands crossed between his
knees.
She sat up, looking for her clothes. They were strewn about the room. She left them there for the time being. “Jude? Are you
okay?”
He raised his head. She noticed for the first time that he had paint smudged all over his face. She touched her own face,
presuming it would be the same.
“I’m not okay,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away gently and stood up.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“When you came down here, you were dressed. You were going somewhere.” He picked up her clothes as he said this, and handed
them to her.
“I was going to stay with my mother.” She dressed herself quickly, awkwardly, while he watched her.
“Good,” he said. “We can’t . . .”
She took a deep breath. “I know we can’t. But we did. And you told me you loved me.”
“I have to be with Christine.” Her name came out very softly, as though he almost couldn’t bear to say it.
“Don’t be guilty.”
“Aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“It will mean nothing,” he said. “You’ll forget.”
“You’ll remember.”
“I already have lots of guilty secrets to remember,” he replied, “but you have to go now, and we should never see each other
again.”
Reality swerved in on her, and the last shred of that beautiful moment in his arms was snatched away. He was right. This was
ending, this was already over. The pain in her heart paralyzed her.
“Go, Mayfridh, please,” he said, and he blinked as though tears might be approaching. “Please go, it’s hurting me.”
She picked up her shoes. Her body felt stiff and awkward. “I’ll go,” she said.
“Please.”
She took a step toward him, stole one last kiss from his lips. “Good-bye,” she said
“Forget me,” he said.
And then she was moving back through the empty gallery, out the front door with her coat, and into the cold, dark street.
C
hristine lay down among the fallen leaves in the autumn forest and breathed, deep and full. The relief.
The relief.
She almost regretted coming; coping day to day with the reality of the pain had driven this feeling toward forgetfulness,
so she hadn’t missed it as keenly. Now, knowing she would soon have to bid good-bye to the freedom for always, a niggle of
anxiety—maybe desperation—worked its way into her stomach.
She opened her eyes and she was startled by how different the forest looked. The trees were almost bare, and the rich colors
had faded. Now everything appeared to be gray and sickly yellow. She sat up and peered into the layered mist. Some of the
trees were completely naked. Winter was drawing very close.
“Eisengrimm!” she called. She wanted to see the birch outside the great hall. If it was as stripped of its leaves as some
of these trees were, she feared that the last leaf was only hours away.
The gate opened, and Eisengrimm appeared, his gait still stiff.
“You’re not recovered yet?” she asked, standing to follow him inside.
“Nearly. Just a few bruises left. I feel fine unless I have to change, so I just stay Wolf and hope that Mayfridh doesn’t
need me to fly off somewhere.”
“The giant birch,” Christine said. “I need to see it.”
“You can see it from the chamber window. Winter is still weeks away. You’re not to worry.”
Christine stretched her arms over her head. “It’s divine to be here again.”
“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Tonight the village is celebrating the winter blessings. Will you accompany me?”
“I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t stay long.”
“There will be dancing and singing and plenty of hot mead. Have you danced since your accident?”
They were entering the castle now. Eisengrimm led her up the corridor to the winding stairs.
“No,” she said, “but that’s okay because I was never a good dancer. Two left feet.”
The last phrase troubled Eisengrimm, even though it had translated into his own language. “Two of the same?”
“It’s just an expression,” she said, giggling. “Sorry.”
“Oh, I see. Here.” He indicated Mayfridh’s white bedchamber. “This is your chamber for as long as you choose to stay. Mayfridh
insisted.”
Christine flopped down on the bed. “This bed is so comfortable.”
“The chest under the window is full of Mayfridh’s old dresses, from when she was in her teens. She thought they might fit
you. Choose one you like for the party. I’ll come for you in an hour or so. That’s if you’ve decided to attend?”
Christine bit her lip. It sounded like fun, and both Eisengrimm and Mayfridh had reassured her she still had plenty of time
to get home. “Okay. Okay, I will.”
“I’m glad. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”
Christine rose from the bed—so much easier without the ache in her back—and flipped open the chest. The dresses were mostly
in shades of gold and russet. She wriggled out of her work clothes and pulled out a dress of tawny red. The weave was rough
against her skin but a quick search of the rest of the chest revealed they all had the same texture. Right down at the bottom
of the chest she found a gold circlet for her hair. She went to the window in her new clothes and gazed out. Sunset was deep
gold; the birch had lost only half its leaves. She let herself relax. From far away the scent of wood smoke drifted. The quiet
was all around her; no traffic, no voices, no hum of electricity. Just leaves in the wind, faint birdcalls, the steady rhythm
of her own heart. Peace eased into her bones, made her spirit warm. Only now, in such a moment of tranquillity, could she
appreciate how jangled—physically and emotionally—she usually felt.
And this moment was temporary. And there was a Real World full of people and commitments to remember.
She sighed and turned her back to the window. Another trunk near the bed caught her eye. Eisengrimm wouldn’t return for an
hour. Surely it would be all right to explore a little.
In the trunk she found books, all written in English. So this was how Mayfridh had kept her native language. The collection
was strangely anachronistic in this medieval setting; mostly eighteenth- and nineteenth-century volumes, but some more recent
editions of children’s books by Enid Blyton and C. S. Lewis. Christine wondered how she had acquired these, or maybe Liesebet
had acquired them for her. They were dusty and looked like they hadn’t been touched for years.
She lay on the bed with a Famous Five book and waited for Eisengrimm to return. By the time he opened the door, she was nearly
dropping off to sleep.
“Christine?” he said gently.
She sat up and yawned. “Sorry. I was just so comfortable.”
“I’m glad you were comfortable.”
“I’ve never slept without pain. Not in thirteen years.”
“Do you still want to come to the party?”
“Absolutely.”
“Come on, then. I have a carriage waiting.”
“A carriage?”
“It’s the appropriate way for a special guest of the queen to travel.”
Christine smiled. “Oh yeah? The first time I came you had me brought to the castle in a pig sack on the back of a cart.”
Impossible to tell if Eisengrimm was smiling as well.
The carriage stopped at the bottom of the slope where the cobbled village road started. Eisengrimm leapt off and urged the
driver to help Christine down. At first she opened her mouth to insist she needed no help, but then she told herself to enjoy
it. Let them treat her like someone special. She’d spent a long time being someone very ordinary.
Half-timbered cottages with thatched roofs lined the street. Deep shadows advanced along the road in front of them. People
bustled in and out of their homes, taking firewood down to an enormous bonfire near the town well. Christine and Eisengrimm
arrived at a low-roofed tavern, overflowing with noisy drinkers.
“Come, Christine,” Eisengrimm said, leading her toward the door, “I shall introduce you to some of the villagers.”
Christine thought they would have to push through the crowd, but everyone stood aside to let Eisengrimm pass. Merry and happy,
they bent to stroke his tail or touch his back, saying, “The best for the winter to you,” and “Many blessings.” At the bar,
Eisengrimm stretched his paws up and ordered Christine a drink. When he returned to all fours, he called out, “Good afternoon,
everyone.”
Every pair of eyes in the room was suddenly turned toward him and a hurried hush fell.
“I’d like to introduce Christine Starlight,” he said, “a visitor from the Real World and a special guest of the queen.”
The crowd broke into cheers and applause and began to huddle and gossip again. Christine took a sip of her drink—warm, spiced
wine, rich with the scent of cloves—and was glad to be in a bar not choked with cigarette smoke. Apart from the woody aroma
of a few pipes, the air was clean. There was something organic about the tastes and the smells, and she relished it.
The door to the tavern opened, and two musicians with pipes pushed through the crowd to a square of empty floor under the
mullioned window. More cheers. They cramped themselves into a corner and started to play merry music. Within seconds dancers
were crowding into the space.
“Is everybody drunk?” Christine asked.
“Yes, except you and me.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, lifting her glass and draining it. “How about you?”
“No, I’ll stay sober and look after you,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.
A tall man with a gingery beard approached them. He was dressed in a plain brown tunic and pants. “Did I hear your name was
Starlight?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied warily.
“It’s a beautiful name. Care to dance?”
Christine shrank back from him. “I don’t know . . . I can’t dance and—”
“Can’t dance? Have you never learned?”
She glanced at the dancers, who were whirling and stomping around each other to the music. “I don’t know the steps,” she said.
“We’ve all had our winter blessings,” the man replied. “I can enchant your feet.”
“Enchant my . . . ?” Christine turned to Eisengrimm. “Is that safe?”
“Perfectly,” he said. “Go on, Christine. Dance. It’s not difficult.”
The man was holding out his hand for her to take. She drew a deep breath and grabbed his fingers, and he pulled her onto the
crowded dance floor.
“I’m having the first dance with Starlight,” he announced, though his voice was nearly drowned out by the music.
“I want to dance with Starlight too,” somebody else called.
“Me too!”
“Well, I’m first!” The man bent to the ground and touched Christine’s feet. “These are strange shoes,” he said.
Christine looked down at her shiny patent leather Mary-Janes. “Um, they’re Real World shoes.”
“Real World shoes,” he repeated, awestruck.
Then a warm tingle suffused her feet and they started moving without her. She almost shrieked, the feeling was so strange
and frightening. She was no longer in control of her own feet, and resisting the movements put her off balance.
Her dance partner stood and steadied her. “You must surrender to your feet,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll fall over.”
Christine tried to do as he said, and found it wasn’t so hard. It reminded her of when she was a little girl and her father
had danced with her toes balanced on his. The memory was achingly sweet and she tried to enjoy it in the split second before
the other, less pleasant memories of her father came. But then, her feet started moving, and there was nothing to think about
except the dance.
Soon she was whirling and stomping and kicking up her toes with the rest of them. The first time her feet took her spinning
expertly to the edge of the dance floor and back she nearly doubled over laughing. Her dance partner was laughing too, and
some of the others around her. The music changed to a more stately tune, and another man was bending to touch her feet, and
she was performing a slow, measured dance with him. On and on the music went, now slow, now fast, now soft, now loud, and
everybody wanted “to dance with Starlight”: old men, tall boys, fat women, toothless twins in hats made of thatch. Her feet
were enchanted over and over again, and she laughed and surrendered to the dance, grabbing frantic sips of mead whenever someone
handed her a cup. The experience was marvelously physical. She couldn’t have put her body through this for even five minutes
in the Real World without her back moaning. Her very blood seemed hot and merry, and she suffered a moment’s guilt thinking
of Jude back home waiting and worrying about her. She pushed the feeling aside and danced, and danced, and danced as the last
of the amber sunset faded through the little diamond panes and lamps and lanterns were lit all around. Finally, though, she
was exhausted. She saw Eisengrimm waiting at the edge of the dance floor and approached him.
“Could you unenchant my feet?” she asked, as they were already tapping to the music.