The
last rays of sunlight smoldered under a cloud-thickened sky. Mottled waves of
gold and amber stretched under darkening thunderheads, as if they were the first
breaths of flame in some ancient divinity’s forge. Settling with sunset, the
coal of the clouds at last caught fire, golden flames flaring into the red of
molten steel. That crimson and gold light spread so quickly that it soon
overwhelmed the sooty gray of the clouds, bathing the world below in the colors
of autumnal leaves. The diffuse light touched all that it could, tinting tree
and town, forest and field, lake and lane.

On the edge of one such lake sat
a cottage. It was a well appointed little home, too small to be considered a
manor, too large and neat to be a simple shack or hovel of the peasantry. It
was, in truth, a small country estate, a lakeside retreat meant as an escape
from the trappings of society, including servant and title. The cottage had
been in the Ythel family for generations, and its construction was of such
quality that the years drained from its sloped shoulders as easily as water
slid from its slate-tiled roof.

Tints of gold and red sunk into
the wood of the cottage that late afternoon. The wind stirred up ripples on the
nearby lake, making it appear to be surfaced with a surging treasure of gold
and rubies. A small boat bobbed insistently, tethered to its pier. Leaves
whispered rumors of coming rain to surrounding trees. Inside the cottage,
staring through the imperfections of a glazed window, a woman watched the play
of light and movement on the water.

She had serious eyes, gray like
clouds, which, having threatened rain, poured forth their contents and sought
the light of happier skies. Dark blonde hair streamed over her shoulders to the
middle of her back. Her lips were closed, though her expression at once seemed
to be on the verge of asking the meaning of life or answering the self-same
question. She stood half the way between five feet and six, and though she was
wearing a simple, brown, homespun dress, she wore it as if she were every inch
an empress. She was a beautiful woman, and she believed that her beauty
was as much a forging of her personality as it had been the accidental gifts of
birth.

She continued to stare out at her
domain, waiting for the hiss of rain on the waters outside, and waiting, also,
for something else. Her fingers played with a golden pendant, set with a single
red jewel. She moved her head behind the window, watching the glittering water
change shape and size through the myriad flaws in the glass. She sought in the
pane a place of perfection, a part of the glass devoid of error where she could
observe the truth of the water outside. She leaned and stretched. Her dignified
manner slipped away in curiosity and challenge. A small smile lit up her face.
Just as she had stretched as far and as awkwardly as she could, the door banged
open behind her, pushed in sharply by the gusting wind.

She spun to see a man framed in
the doorway. He was slightly taller than she was fully outstretched, and his
head was cocked to one side in question. He was in his middle-twenties, perhaps
a year or three older than she, herself. A look of embarrassment flickered
across her face only to dissolve in the warmth of her smile. Her eyes and face
lit up and she dashed to the door, catching the man in a near-tackling embrace.

He coughed a bit as the woman
holding him squeezed the breath from his lungs. Just when it seemed she would let
him breathe, she gave him another little squeeze and a small whistle escaped
his lips. He began to smile and silently laugh, the corners of his moustache
twitching with merriment. His eyes, a dark green, locked onto the gray eyes
before him.

His smile dropped slowly away in
wonder. The mischievous narrowing of her gray eyes rounded out in surprise. Her
grip loosened slightly. A shy look altered her features and instead of
squeezing him, she pulled him closer to herself, as if reluctant to ever, ever
let go. Warmly, he caressed her hair and brushed it from her face, continuing
to gaze down into her eyes.

They stood in that doorway in
uncounted time. The wind whistled to them from the corners of the frame. It
whispered to them in the leaves outside. Still, they clung to each other as if
all the hope in the world were caught between them. A chill rose in the air.
Moving as one, the embracing couple shuffled a few steps from the doorway, and
turned to close the door on the wind.

The man took off his work coat
and hung it on a peg by the door. He too, had dark blonde hair, though much
darker than the woman before him. It was so dark as to be almost brown. His
mustache and close-cropped beard, however, revealed strong hints of
reddish-blonde. He stretched his arms and neck, and smiled at the woman who
returned to watch out her window.

“I love you, Li,” the man said to
his wife. He said the words with heartfelt meaning, rather than the practiced
repetition of a household phrase. Again, her eyes widened. She turned to look
back at him, eyes soft and lips gently parted.

“I love you, Droth,” she
replied, her heart in her voice.

He asked her what she was
watching out the window, and she pointed out the imperfections in the glass.
Together, they canvassed the window, looking for one clear image of the world
outside. When Li found a spot she was certain was perfect, she turned to point
it out to him, her hand, in the process, poking him in the eye. He laughed
painfully and she fretted and apologized. She begged him to let her see what
she’d done, and tugged at his hand to move it from his eye.

“No way,” he replied. “I’m not
giving you a second chance.” He continued to cover his eye and leaned over to
kiss her forehead. “Don’t pout,” he told her, “it’s unbecoming.”

She glared at him. They both knew
it wasn’t true. She was beautiful on her worst days, and she was stunning when
she pouted. She had been aware of it for most of her life, and had used it to
her advantage when necessary. She continued to pout at him, watching behind
calculating eyes the concentrated effect she had on him. She saw his resolve,
quickly thrown up in defense, and watched as the edges tattered and crumbled.
She was sure she had him, but he kept resisting. In the end, she resorted to
the simple expedient of tickling him. His hands dropped from his eye, revealing
it to be watering heavily and bloodshot. Her playful manner stopped short in
guilt and she began again to apologize.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.
Show me the good spot in the window,” he begged her. She turned and pointed at
a clear portion of the glass, and Drothspar leaned forward to look. He could
see that the glass was probably clear, but his bloodshot eye, and its
sympathetically watering twin, refused to focus on the outside world.

“I’m so sorry, Droth, I really
didn’t mean to hit you,” she said sincerely. “Isn’t there anything I can do for
you?” She caught the smile forming in his moustache. “We can talk about that
later, Dear,” she said properly, but not without a hint of promise. “What can I
do for you
now
?”

“Well,” he said, “if you’re
really going to insist on making this up to me… you could take my turn to
cook,” his voice trailed off hopefully.

“I cooked last night,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, “and it was
wonderful. I’m sure my eye would feel better if it could look at something as
good as your cooking.” She put her hand on her hip and looked at him archly.
She seemed about to challenge his last statement, but then she realized she was
caught. She smiled wryly and sighed.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll
cook. Besides, it’s the least I can do after you went through all the trouble
to cover the garden and pick up the honey.”

Guilt swept over Drothspar’s
face. He leapt to his feet and stared hard at his coat, thinking fast. He was
looking for some excuse to go back outside when she turned and saw his
expression.

“You
did
get the honey,
didn’t you?”

“Well, Li, I was a little busy
canvassing the plants you know. There
are
quite a lot of them.”

“Drothspar,” she said in a
flaring voice, “you promised me! That’s the third time this week you’ve
forgotten. You know Mrs. Fern will be out of honey by tomorrow!”

“Li, I’m really sorry. I promise
I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“No, Droth, not this time! You’ve
said that every time you’ve forgotten. It’s not that far, you get yourself out
there and get some now.” Her voice had risen a bit higher than she had
intended. She saw the look of surprise on his face, and was surprised herself.
Drothspar, for his part, had been considering sneaking out, but became stubborn
when her tone became scathing.

“It’s going to rain,” he said,
knowing it was a challenge.

“I don’t care,” Li retorted,
knowing she had been challenged, but refusing to back down.

“You never do,” Drothspar said
and regretted it instantly. He knew it was a lie and so did she. He winced.

“What did you say?” she asked,
her voice pitching up slightly higher.

“Nothing,” he said sheepishly,
knowing he’d gone too far and just as certain she’d heard him anyway. Li felt
her mind dash for a moment, and then accepted the first thing it handed her.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem
if we’d have stayed in the city.” A cold feeling gripped the pit of her
stomach. She saw the pain pool in his eyes. She watched him close his eyes to
the pain. Without a word, he snatched up his work coat and headed for the door.

He had to get out before she
could touch him. He was too hurt to be reasonable, too angry to trust anything
he could say. If she touched him, he’d have to melt, turn his hurt and anger
aside, and he was too young to know exactly how to do that. He did the only
thing he thought he could; he left.

He reached the door a few steps
before she got to him. Wrenching it open, he burst out into the gusting night,
closing the door firmly behind him. He had managed not to slam it. That might
at least earn him a few points when he got home. Even as the door closed, a
slate shingle fell from the roof, narrowly missing his head. Turning away, he
walked quickly toward the forest and the Ferns’ farm.

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