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"Don't stray far, Maerose.” Her mother's voice echoed behind her again, this time closer.
Drawn to the sound, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her mother waving in the distance. She wore her favorite sage woolen dress, and her hair was pinned up loosely, some of it tumbling onto her shoulders as she stood watching. She raised one hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Under the other arm she carried the familiar basket that she used for collecting mushrooms and wild garlic.
Maerose wanted to go to her, but was controlled by her childish feet—feet that wanted to run on the mossy grass between the tall trees, only pausing here and there to pluck bluebells from the ground.
Birds twittered above her head and small creatures ran alongside her in the undergrowth, making her laugh with joy. She was having an adventure and ran as fast as she could, her hair streaming out behind her. Her chest filled with the heady scent of summer, her heart beating fast, as if she were a wild thing running in her very own magical summer forest.
When she got breathless and dizzy, she paused and scrunched her toes into the grass, staring up at the moving branches overhead. It was a pretty spot. The sunshine moved in pools of light through the overhead canopy of summer leaves. She followed them, moving in small circles to catch the warm light between the leaves, but stared up too long and grew light headed. The vision faded in out and grew darker.
Wrestling with sleep, her dreams became disjointed, and then she heard her mother's voice calling her again. Her father's, too. She struggled to see them, her arms thrashing against the covers. Then they were beside her. Her father was frowning, her mother kneeling on the grass holding her at arms length and examining her for damage. Her father was upset with her, but her mother seemed only pleased to find her.
Her father shook his head. “She has fey blood, this one, the way she wanders so fearlessly."
"Aye, that she does.” Her mother smiled and kissed the end of her nose. “Fey blood, from your grandmother's grandmother."
"I wasn't afraid.” She heard her own voice echoing in her mind. “Really, I wasn't."
"When you grow into a woman, you will learn how to be afraid,” her mother said. “But hold onto this memory, and this brave heart you have in here, Maerose. It will make you strong.” She burrowed a gentle fist against Maerose's chest, tickling her and making her laugh, before pulling her into her arms for a cuddle.
Maerose threw herself into the embrace, closing her eyes and breathing the scent of her mother, a mixture of baking smells and the crushed rose petals she dabbed behind her ears when her husband came in from his forge.
The image faded into darkness and Maerose felt an immense sense of regret, moving her head against the pillow restlessly. Heavy with sleep, her eyes opened into gloom. Sleep was claiming her again and she struggled to know where she was before it took her.
Light flickered off the inside of a strangely shaped roof overhead, as if a fire were burning somewhere nearby. A heavy covering was over her, a soft mattress at her back. It was warm and quiet. The sound of a log sizzling on the fire lulled her and she was tugged back into sleep.
* * * *
When she finally stirred from her deep slumber, her fingers instinctively clutched at the covers and she found they were the softest of furs, the most luxurious of nests within which to sleep. Swiftly recounting her dreams, she clutched to the memory of that special moment with her mother in the summer forest, then stretched her toes and stirred, her eyes opening. Blinking into the light, she saw that it fell through the shutters at the window. It was an unfamiliar view and she struggled to recall where she was.
Yes, she remembered. She'd been barely able to walk the last few leagues. Without her rescuer carrying her—if indeed he was a rescuer—she wouldn't have made it. She had dozed fitfully against his chest, but remembered him rousing her and then seeing the woodland frontage of a dwelling. Buried into the cliff side, it was a hidden shelter that had been made into a home. She barely remembered going inside, him lifting a dish of water to her mouth. Then ... nothing. Sleep had taken her.
Moving, she felt stiff, her limbs weary and her stomach empty. She rolled her head on the pillows, drawing the covers up against her chest when she saw that the man called Bron was sitting cross-legged in the center of the cave, in front of the fire. His eyes were closed. He was concentrating, as if meditating over the flames of the fire, which was set in a shallow well of stone. The smoke drifted up toward a chink of light in the roof of the cave. He wore a loose shirt and suede breeches; his feet were bare. His hair looked even blacker against the white material of his shirt. Nearby, a blanket and plump pillows rested on the floor, where he must have slept. He had given up his bed for her, which was far more than her last captor had done. Still, she could not fathom his motives.
He seemed to breathe deeply, as if inhaling. There was a strange but pleasant smell in the air. She had heard of the special prayer and the journeys within that the elders undertook. Was he one of them, a true elder who undid the evil Veldor had done in their name? Was he traveling within himself now, she wondered, and was that what enabled him to change form as he had, to rescue her?
His eyes opened as if he had suddenly become aware of her watching. He blinked and turned toward her. Smiling, he unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. Inside her breast a flurry of sensation hit when he smiled at her. Fetching a ladle of water from an urn, he brought it over. He put one hand at her back, encouraging her to sit.
She eased up from the bed and noticed as she did so that her dress was gone. He must have removed it, and her boots—and the rope, too. Her hands were free. Only her tattered petticoats remained and they barely covered her breasts. She clutched the fur covers closer, to hide herself from his eyes, and took a sip of water from the offered ladle. It was cool and soothing against her throat, and she drank again, swallowing until the ladle was empty.
"Thank you.” She looked up at him and wiped a drop of water from her lips, blushing when she realized he was observing her every movement with those dark, passionate eyes of his.
"How long has it been since you've eaten?"
She shrugged, trying to ignore the extreme sense of self-awareness that she felt under his gaze. “Not since I was at home.” She shook back her hair. “What is this place? Why are you—"
"Wait.” He put his hand up to interrupt her. “We will talk in a moment. First, you need to eat. I promise I will explain everything to you."
She watched him walk over to a corner of the cave where a makeshift scullery was set up. Pots and storage urns were stacked next to wooden crates full of winter stores. On the shelves above, smaller pots and dishes stood. He reached into a huge stone that had been carved out to make a cool storage place and removed a cloth cover from a platter, revealing a baked ham, studded with cloves. He carved some slices and put them in a dish. Fetching an apple down from a basket on a shelf, he sliced it and then added bright red berries that he pulled from another container.
Her belly growled.
He brought the platter over to her. “Here, eat while I make you a warm drink."
She took the platter from his hand, but clutched the cover closer with the other hand, fixed on watching him as he moved about.
He set a kettle on a trivet over the fire. Despite his awe-inspiring stature, he moved easily and comfortably from the fireplace back to the small corner of the cave that served as his scullery. She glanced around the rest of the place. It was comfortable, sparse, but giving the appearance of a solid home, with everything one might need to survive the winter. He had brought her to his home. But why?
With one hand she snatched up some of the meat as she watched him go about his task. It was salty and flavorsome on her tongue, welcomed
