andhiswife | Go lift your sails up for one last swell

And now the Poldarks are gone.

She doesn't even know how to process the losses anymore. She doesn't know why she's still here. How much more is she supposed to bear, exactly? There has to be a precise point where this all stops being worth the trouble. Hasn't she passed it, yet? Or is she still meant to believe this epilogue is some sort of generous gift, far better than an abrupt and undignified ending at the bottom of a cliff? Because she honestly doesn't know, anymore. She doesn't know if she wants a second chance if this is all that will come of it.

She especially doesn't know why they've left her the bloody house. She sits on the stoop, staring down at the keys in numb disbelief, and it's only because her friend wanted this that she can convince herself that this, too, isn't some kind of cruel joke.

Demelza would never be cruel. Not to her, not now.

Well. Not on purpose. Part of her can't help but wonder if this was something decided before Sam's disappearance, and they just hadn't got round to updating the paperwork. That would make sense. More sense than the thought of her knocking about what is unmistakably a family home with just a dog for company. It's absurd. What is she supposed to do with it all?

Go in would be the logical first step, but she hasn't yet worked up the nerve. After helping them move in, and visiting on several occasions, she has too clear an idea of how it ought to be. Not empty. Not silent. And certainly not hers.

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The emptied Poldark house was not terribly far from his own and Biffy had gone to check on it. It was such a handsome thing, made to accommodate a family that was bound to grow. But now, it was empty, as desolate as the farm house before he'd accepted it as his permanent residence. Though it had come to grow with warmth, he knew that the first moments were the worst.

"Greta," he said, catching sight of her by the door. She looked sad and lost and Biffy hurried to join her. "Greta, my dear, are you all right?"

She has no idea how much time has passed, how long she's just been sitting there, foolishly, before Biffy's voice draws her out of her own head. For a few moments, all she can do is blink up at him, his question taking some time to register.

"No," she answers, distantly surprised by how calm she sounds. She hasn't been 'all right' in weeks -- long enough to almost be comfortable in it, long enough for it to just be how things are, now. The keys clink together as she uncurls her fingers, showing him. "They--they've left it to me." That part just sounds perplexed, because it hasn't stopped feeling like utter nonsense. Demelza was friends with everybody. Surely she could have chosen someone better, someone who might actually make use of the space. "Why would they leave it to me?"

He didn't begrudge the long moment it took for Greta to answer. Loss was painful and all-consuming and there was very little that could rouse a person from sadness. He knew as much from Victoria herself, who had elevated grief to an art form. Though he hoped Greta wouldn't succumb to such a complete heartbreak, he understood her distance now.

"Because they wanted you to have it," he said. "The way that Scott left his house to me." Though he loved that house, he still remembered its emptiness, the conspicuous lack of its real owners.

That's right -- it wasn't so long ago that Biffy was one of two occupants in that large old farmhouse, though she understands it's a bit more lively there, now. She's not such a monster as to begrudge him his happiness.

Still, she can't keep all the bitterness out of her tone when she says, "I don't know what they expect me to do with it." She gestures over her shoulder, the implications obvious. It might be modest by Darrow's standards, but it is still far too much for one person. "It's just me. And a--a dog."

She knows how horribly dismissive that sounds, and she knows she isn't as alone as she feels. But it also isn't an inaccurate summation. None of her remaining friends are in need of housing. Her family isn't here, and she's not holding her breath for their arrival (as if losing them once wasn't bad enough). She doesn't know what living in this house might do for her besides emphasize what she's missing. And it hardly needs emphasizing.

"Pardon," Biffy said as a means of warning Greta before he actually put his arms around her. It wasn't terribly proper but propriety could hang when she was so obviously distressed. He kept her in the hug for a good long moment, knowing there was no instant balm for what hurt her but trying to offer comfort all the same.

"I know it's hard," he assured her, leaning back from the hug. "Inheriting a place meant for a family when you're alone. You needn't stay at the house until you're ready, or at all." Loss was a common thread of life in Darrow and if she were to decide it was simply too painful to do anything but put the house on the market, only the most heartless person wouldn't understand.

His own home wasn't such a far walk away and Biffy glanced in the direction of the farmhouse. "Would you like to come back to my home for a little while? Get your bearings?"

The hug is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one -- and certainly not the sort that requires pardoning. Her arms curl around him after only a beat of hesitation, curling into him a little. It's been too long since she had a hug, not least of all because she's lost one of her most reliable dispensers. And while she knows there are others she might turn to... well. Considering how awful things have been lately, it's hard not to harbor a superstitious conviction that the next person she dares to lean on will just so happen to find themselves sent home inside a week.

For that reason, she manages not to feel immediately bereft when he pulls back. She presses the heel of her hand to her eyes, catching the stay tears before they can get too far. She is so, so tired of crying. Then she nods. Stepping into the Poldark's home is more than she can bear at the moment, even with Biffy's support. Easier to just walk away, at least for the moment. It's not as if the house is going anywhere (or that it would be anything but a relief if, by some chance, it did).

"Thank you," she says, taking his arm -- the gesture a bit more proper, but still companionable.

"Anytime," he said, putting all the sincerity he had behind the single word. Wolves weren't the only creatures that needed packs, companions. Greta had just lost so many of those dear to her that Biffy thought it all the more important to know that he and his home were at her disposal if only she wanted them.

Gently, he patted the hand that rested on his arm and made to stand. "If you'd like, there's a spare bedroom still. You could stay a night or two if you needed. Or we can have tea and let you have your evening."

Greta rises to her feet, the movements stiff as her muscles protest the sudden change. That's what comes of sitting on a hard porch for however long. Biffy's a sturdy bit of support, though. At least she won't end up collapsing back to the ground on his watch.

She shakes her head at the offer of a room, just managing a wry, rueful smile. "I'd have to go home to fetch Sadie, anyway. Can't be leaving her alone for that long." The only reason the dog isn't with her now is because Sadie knows the Poldarks, and Greta didn't think she could bear the sight of the dog wandering the property in search of them. "But tea sounds perfect."

Biffy waited for Greta to get her bearings. There was a stiffness in the way she held herself that made Biffy wonder just how long it was that she'd been sitting there. Politely, he didn't ask, but he did pat the hand on his arm reassuringly, hoping to let her known that there was nothing to worry about with him.

"I don't imagine Sadie would like the farmhouse very much, or else I'd invite you both," he said. Between the werewolves and the cat, he didn't think even Daine's good influence would have much effect. "But we'll have a nice long tea."

Sadie has taken so well to Greta's other friends that it's still hard to believe she'd have an instinctive dislike of Biffy. But he'd know better than her what the average dog is willing to tolerate as far as werewolves are concerned, and she doesn't want to put Sadie through a stressful situation -- or Biffy through an awkward one -- on the off chance her dog might be different.

And even if Sadie was all right with Biffy, goodness knows what she'd make of Pawvus.

"How are things at the farmhouse?" she asks, partly for the sake of not talking about the shambles her situation has become, and partly out of genuine curiosity. She hasn't kept up with Biffy as much as she could have. "I know you've had some changes, lately." But they've been good ones, or so she understands.

Dogs were always hard to guess. Some of them saw Biffy as a packmate and some of them saw him as an outsider. He found it best not to aggravate the latter too much for everyone's sake. And even if Greta's poor dog survived the presence of two werewolves, two shapeshifters, and Pawvus, there was still Kitten. He wasn't even sure if Greta had met the little dragon.

"They're well. I hesitate to speak of my fortunes given the house we left but as you know, it's not so dreadfully empty as it used to be. Daine and Amalthea are there, as is my–" He paused, clearly still a little unused to using the modern term so casually for someone as important as Randolph Lyall. "My dear Professor Lyall."

Dreadfully empty sounds about right, and a brief wince flickers across her features. She'd wanted the distraction; if hearing of his own better fortunes would have served no purpose but emphasizing how bad hers have been, she wouldn't have asked in the first place. But she supposes manners would dictate some acknowledgment of the elephant in the room.

Besides, if his own home could fill up that quickly, maybe that means she could take the Poldarks up on their absentee offer without feeling as if she's consigning herself to anything miserable in the long term. Somewhere, buried beneath the sorrow and bewilderment, she can just about hear her own mother's voice telling her that she'd be ten kinds of fool to give up a house.

But she pushes those thoughts away for the moment, focusing on Biffy, instead. The uncertain pause coaxes a small, wry smile out of her. Boyfriend would probably be the local term, and she understands why he'd be hesitant to use it (just as she can understand why the more pointed but arguably crude lover isn't really an option for him, either).

"I shall have to meet him, one of these days." Perhaps not today; she's not at her best, and her instinct is to limit her own sphere of influence until she can be a bit less overtly miserable. "And make sure he's treating you well," she adds, though that isn't really in doubt.

He caught that look and Biffy frowned apologetically. He hadn't meant to cast Greta's thought toward her own case of "dreadfully empty" but there had been no way to circumvent mentioning it to answer her question. Biffy only hoped she could easily be so lucky and find someone to share her space.

At least mention of Randolph seemed to truly distract her. Biffy let himself smile at the thought of Greta sitting down to tea with Randolph and quietly interrogating him. She was hardly as autocratic as Alexia Maccon but Biffy suspected Greta was absolutely capable of being stern enough to disquiet a man.

"Perhaps you could wear the scarf I gave you last Christmas, so that he knows you are an especial friend," he teased gently.

Greta's smile widens. Time has softened the memory of that colossal misunderstanding into something merely amusing, rather than embarrassing. And though the scarf remains one of the finest things she has, she's also grown accustomed to a certain degree of relative luxury. She'll be able to wear it without feeling as if she's kidding herself, once the weather cools enough for it.

Of course, when he'd gifted it to her, she'd assumed that, sooner or later, she'd be returning to her more humble Village life. All the more reason not to give herself airs while she was away. So much for that excuse.

"It'll be the season for it, soon," she says. Summer seems to be lingering a bit, and she hasn't yet pulled out her heavier dresses or other winter layers. "I'll have to air it out."

She considers adding that she trusts Biffy's judgment as far as romantic partners go, and that she doesn't really think this Professor Lyall is in need of interrogation. But then she remembers how things went with Dorian, and wonders if the ostensible compliment might come across as more back-handed than she'd intend it. Instead, she says, "I wouldn't be too hard on him. Just enough to make sure he's not trifling with you."

That mention, at least, had the desired effect and Biffy relaxed a little. He'd never pestered Greta about the scarf though he was glad that she did wear it now and then and hoped it would reappear when the weather got cool. He'd chosen a print that would be elegant but last more than a season, hoping she would enjoy it more than once.

"It will be lovely on you," he said with gentle confidence. What better thing was there for him to do, Biffy thought, than to help his friends see themselves as he did?

"And if it makes you feel any better, I don't think Randolph Lyall is capable of trifling."

"Thank goodness for friends with good taste," she says, giving his arm a pat. She's only half joking. Just because she can technically afford a certain measure of luxury doesn't mean she knows what to do with it -- at least as far as clothing is concerned. There are things she knows are fashionable -- to the natives, at least -- that she can't bring herself to find desirable, because they're just too odd. That Biffy managed to find something both fine and matching her own sensibilities is no small feat.

She just hums in response to his next reassurance. There's a hint of 'I'll be the judge of that' in the pitch and tone, though she doesn't sound truly concerned. In all honesty, she doubts she has it in her to give anyone a proper grilling anytime soon. As Biffy probably well knows. But it's nice to pretend she has her own life in such perfect order that she might do a bit of light meddling in someone else's.

The farmhouse is a comforting, familiar sight -- as is the cat that appears shortly after Biffy opens the door. "Hello, Pawvus," Greta says, crouching down to give him a little scritch. Less expected is the sound of another little four-legged something galloping down the hall, and Greta lifts her gaze, expecting to see another cat, or perhaps a dog.

Instead, what rounds the corner is an over-large lizard with a pair of tiny wings folded close against its sides. A dragon? Greta lets out a quiet hoot of astonishment, and the dragon pulls up short, paws skittering on the hardwood, its reptilian eyes widening as if it's just as surprise to see her as she is to see it. Greta wants to look up at Biffy for an explanation, but she can't seem to tear her eyes away from the little thing. She doesn't know what it could be besides a dragon, but it's so small.

"All part of the job," Biffy said with a note of casual pride. It was why he so enjoyed his title of 'personal shopper.' It gave him rather a measure of influence over someone's style choices, provided they listened, and it gave him the chance to help someone look like the best version of themselves. True, he was no longer styling them with curling tongs but he didn't mind that so much.

Once they were inside, Pawvus presented himself for affection and Kitten came galumphing around the corner before Biffy could even get a warning in. It left her staring at Greta who seemed to be staring back with equal surprise.

"That ah...Greta I don't think I've told you about the Dragonet that arrived for Daine," he admitted. "It was a bit remiss of me but I assure you, she means no harm. If anything, she's more curious than anything else." To the dragon, he said, "Kitten, where are your manners?"

The little dragon actually manages to look sheepish, ducking its -- her? -- head and letting out a bird-like cheep. It's a little unnerving. Biffy's tone was mild enough that the creature can only be reacting to what he's said, not how he's said it. Just how clever is she?

But it's a little endearing, too. She doesn't look as if she means any harm. Nor does she come any closer. She just sits back on her haunches, lifting her tail up with her forepaws like a young child with a favorite toy.

"Is she a--a very young dragon?" The phrase that first came to mind was 'only a baby,' but if the dragonet is capable of understanding her, she'd best choose her words carefully. Still, she can't help asking, with a trace of incredulity, "And did you say her name was Kitten?"

"She's three years old," Biffy said. "Very young indeed." Bending down, Biffy gave the baby dragon an affectionate touch on the chin and then nudged her in the direction of Pawvus, who seemed well-aware that a game of run and chase was soon to follow.

"I'd forgotten that you hadn't met her," he admitted, clearly apologetic.

Greta flaps a hand dismissively. They've both had enough happening in their lives for something like this to slip through the cracks. "It's very nice to meet you," she tells the dragon, who chirps again and nods her head in acknowledgment. Before Greta can be too taken aback by the gesture, which has an oft-practiced look to it, the dragonet reverts to a more playful posture and goes galumphing after Pawvus.

Straightening, Greta smoothes her hands over her skirt and raises her eyebrows. "That must be interesting," she says, "have a dragon in the house. She seems like a clever little thing."

"Too clever by half," Biffy said, shaking his head with rueful fondness. "She can whistle open locks." When Daine had moved into the house, Biffy had honestly considered putting some kind of child lock on the cabinets to keep the dragon out of anything important. He had quickly been disabused of the notion of even trying.

"She's very magical, is Kitten, with great potential for a lot more when she grows. So Daine tells me."

"Oh, dear," Greta says, her smile both sympathetic and slightly appalled. She'd expect a dragon to have magic, but whistling locks open is rather specific. "At least she doesn't seem to be flying, yet." It's probably a small comfort -- between being able to unlock things and being able to climb, Kitten can probably get into just about anything. But at least she's not bouncing off the light fixtures.

"Will she grow quickly?" If she's still so small at three years of age, Greta would assume she won't be having any growth spurts that require a move out to a barn or somesuch. But goodness knows how dragons grow, especially where Daine comes from.

"Yet," Biffy agreed, shooting Kitten a look that said she better not try without Daine around. The last thing he needed was to be forced to explain a dragon with a broken wing to someone who could shapeshift into a bear if need be.

"Truthfully I don't know what counts as speedy growth for a dragon. She's the first one I've ever met. Go have a seat and I'll make us some tea. If you wish, you could wait until Daine returns too."

The dragonet blinks innocently up at Biffy, her wings still tidily folded, as if she wouldn't even dream of stretching them, let alone trying to make use of them. It's belies an intelligence that's almost unnerving. Dragons back home might be more clever than normal animals, but they were still animals. You wouldn't expect to see one feigning innocence.

On the other hand, it's also such a child-like gesture, the who, me? implicit, that Greta finds herself biting back a smile. She rather suspects the creature would fit right in amongst the children at the Gardens.

"Thank you," she says, settling herself on the couch while she waits for the tea to brew. Pawvus soon leaps lightly up beside her, butting his head up against her arm. Greta lifts her hand to scritch between the cat's ears. "When do you expect her?" she asks, wary of overstaying her welcome despite the explicit invitation. She wouldn't mind meeting Daine, though she's obviously not at her best and brightest -- but that's all the more reason not to linger here too long, as if her own dour mood might be catching.

Biffy gave Kitten a look that was equal parts paternal and remonstrative and, he knew, wholly ineffective. Kitten was terribly polite and respectful of the home she shared but he was not her parent and expected that the dragon thought herself only answerable to Daine, which was fair and true enough.

"I don't know. I could send a message but there's no knowing if her phone is with her. Shape shifters, you know?" he said, smiling knowingly. Poor Greta did know indeed, having first encountered Biffy that way.

"But feel free to stay the evening. If it gets dark, I can escort you back." His eyes twinkled. "Or even give you a ride."

"Greta."

Her voice was soft and low, gentle, and Amalthea stood there was if she had always been there, on the path before the house, her head tipped and her large eyes taking in the entire scene. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and she regarded the empty house.

People had lived here. She had never really gotten to know them, but she knew they had - she passed by often on her way to and from the farmhouse where she lived.

"Are they gone?"

Greta lifts her head, taking in the sight of her friend, standing on the path as if she'd simply sprouted there. She doesn't know if she should be grateful to see her, or just vaguely embarrassed. Here she is, stricken with loss yet again. It must be getting boring. You can only pull off a reprise so many times before the melody becomes tiresome.

Her hand uncurls, the keys jingling as they roll off of her palm to dangle from one crooked finger. That ought to be explanation enough. She wouldn't be sitting here, the sole keyholder of this entire house, if everything hadn't gone horribly, laughably wrong.

But she can't just sit in silence, either. Amalthea doesn't deserve her unfettered moping; she's seen enough of it already. Her first attempt at speech fails, her voice hoarse from disuse, and she has to clear her throat before she can get out an audible, "Yes." She grips the keys again, letting them bite into her palm, and huffs out a humorless semblance of a laugh. "And they left me the house."

"I'm sorry," she said gently. She had not had anyone disappear on her yet, but she knew that it was possible.

Greta had been through so much already. This seemed unfair. And it seemed strange for her to think of anything as unfair.

Amalthea slipped closer, standing next to Greta as she looked up at the house.

"Would you like company?" she asked. "Do you need to walk through it?"

It could be worse. At least they all left together, as a family, instead of being fractured by the city's whims. Honestly, she ought to be happy for them. They're home. Just because it's more than she can hope for doesn't mean she'd begrudge her friends that.

But she still misses them, and she acknowledges Amalthea's sympathy with a tired nod.

"I think I would," she admits, though she winces at the thought of going inside. She knows exactly what to expect; she's visited often enough to know the layout and have some idea of what's in every room. But she doesn't know if having Amalthea with her will make seeing it all abandoned any easier. Maybe it would be best left for later, so she can weep over their things in peace without anyone else feeling obligated to comfort her.

God, she hates this. She hates being The Sad One. It's like being back in the Village again, before everything, catching pitying looks from the women who had children so easily, practically by accident, while she and her husband remained curiously bereft. Poor her. What's wrong with her, anyway? Something must be wrong.

Greta rubs her hand over her face. "I don't know. Maybe." There's no way to say I don't want to without sounding petulant, so she doesn't.

Amalthea watched her, then after a moment she held out her hand.

"Let's go somewhere else," she said. "The house will still be here, and you have the keys." There was no need for Greta to go through it now, if it was too much. "Walk home with me, or-- or we can go somewhere else."

She wasn't entirely sure where to suggest, but anywhere but here might suffice.

Greta's not sure she likes the gratitude that washes through her at the offer. It feels a little too much like cowardice. But she takes her friend's hand and pulls herself upright, the movements stiff, her muscles protesting the sudden change of plan.

The farmhouse is a tempting prospect. She'd be among friends there. But it might also serve as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a bustling home might find itself empty.

She doesn't like uncertainty. For a moment, she almost misses the Witch. The thought of a simple explanation, however terrible or inadequate it might be, is undeniably tempting. What she wouldn't give to have a glorified shopping list of items that might break this new Curse she seems to be suffering.

"Cabeswater?" The word drops from her lips before she can really think about it, and she wonders if that's asking too much. But she doesn't take it back. That particular Wood is probably the closest thing to home she's likely to find, here. And she thinks it would be a comfort to see Amalthea in her proper shape again.

"Alright," she agreed easily. There was something strange happening, far on the edges of her notice, but she would not turn down the chance to visit that forest, even so. Perhaps she might understand it better if she spent more time there.

Amalthea changed course easily, following a familiar but unworn path toward the forest. She kept her hold on Greta's hand.

Greta gives Amalthea's hand a grateful squeeze, letting her lead the way towards the forest. The path isn't especially clear, more of a game trail than anything else, but she trusts Amalthea knows where she's going.

It's been a while since Greta has visited Cabeswater. Once she realized she wouldn't be going home in any meaningful sense, those fate-tempting trips started to seem a little more fraught and a little less wise. Now... well, she's not miserable enough to want to leave, but she no longer truly believes she can influence the city by way of her physical location. If it decides it's done tormenting her and sends her away, it won't matter where she happens to be standing.

At any rate, it's good to be up and moving. Her muscles loosen, the soreness in her body eases. It occurs to her at some point to put the keys in her bag, and their occasional, muted jangling is easily lost amid the sounds of the forest. And though she can't feel the forest to the extent Amalthea can, she starts to get an inkling of when they might be nearing the border.

"I don't think I've come at it from this direction before," she says quietly. "Are we close?"

"We are," she assured. She could feel the shiver of the forest ahead of her and she slowly released Greta's hand so that she could start shedding clothes. She had never quite determined if they would come back with her if she transformed while wearing them, and the last thing she wanted now was to find herself naked, again, with a long walk home.

She left them in a pile and moved forward, her long hair providing some modicum of modest covering. But she didn't need it for long. As soon as she felt Cabeswater she closed her eyes and thought of herself. The change was swift, but even once she was her proper self, the unicorn shivered all over.

Whatever troubled her, she pushed it aside and turned toward Greta, waiting for her.

Oh, and now she's just going to... right. Greta averts her gaze, cheeks prickling a little despite -- or perhaps because of -- Amalthea's apparent lack of concern. Then again, why would she be concerned? Greta's seen the transformation before, if not in this direction. She'd hugged her, last time. This is far less intimate by comparison. Still, Greta keeps her gaze elsewhere until the tell-tale flash of light draws her eye back to Amalthea. And by then, she's back to normal, and it feels a bit less rude to stare.

Amalthea looks back at her expectantly, and Greta picks her way forward, her steps faltering for just a moment when she crosses that invisible border. It's been some time since she felt that little jolt of magic, that shift from wood to Wood, and for a moment, she fancies that it felt a bit... different. A faint, perplexed line appears between her brows, then fades. It's probably just her imagination. Or she's misremembering. It's not as if she's been a frequent visitor these past few months.

She shifts her focus back to Amalthea, the sight of her enough to bring a smile to her face. It's small, and a little weary, but it's there. "It's always a relief to see you looking as you ought to," she says, drawing close enough to rest a hand on the unicorn's shoulder.

Something felt wrong, and she felt it more in Cabeswater than anywhere else. Like something was looking for her. Tickling the edges of her awareness. But the forest looked normal, smelled normal, sounded normal. She pushed it out of her mind and paid attention to Greta instead.

"It feels like a relief," she admitted. She leaned close and gently nuzzled Greta's cheek. It also felt good to see the woman smile, breaking the sadness that hung around her.

Greta stills, both surprised and rather touched by the nuzzle. It feels like more than she deserves. Attention -- let alone affection -- from Amalthea always feels like more than she deserves. Which is why, though she's tempted, she resists the impulse to just throw her arms around the unicorn's neck and bury her face in her mane.

Instead, she contents herself with the hand on her shoulder, lifting her gaze to the canopy. "I haven't been here in ages," she admits. "I'd almost forgot how it felt."

"I have been coming less," she confessed. "But it feels good to be like this again." Perhaps she would continue risking it; perhaps it was all in her mind and she just needed to let it go. Greta's gentle touch was comforting, warm against her shoulder.

"Do you stay away from it? Or have you not had the time or inclination?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," she says, dropping her gaze. "It seemed... well, once I heard about what happened back home, it seemed like it might be tempting fate, to come back. And I've been busy." Busy trying to make a life for herself here that might at least distract her from the ghost of the life she could have had. Busy watching the new tethers snap just when she'd thought she'd secured them.

It still feels like tempting fate to be here. Does it even matter, at this point?

Amalthea has no such excuse, though, and Greta's brow furrows. "I hope you haven't been forgetting," she says, and though her tone tries to be playfully scolding, there's genuine concern in her eyes.

"No," she assured. "I haven't been forgetting... But there is something." The unicorn turned her head, looking deeper into the forest. Her ears moved as if she heard something beyond a human's knowing.

"It calls sickly to me. I don't know what it is or what it wants, but I hear it most in the forest."

"Something besides Cabeswater, you mean?" Greta asks, frowning, now. The forest has always seemed friendly enough to her -- as much as any magical forest can be. It wasn't malicious, at least. It didn't hold any true horrors. But sickly is an evocative term, and Greta resists the urge to roll her shoulders, as if to banish an itch. "That sounds... unpleasant."

A thought occurs to her, and she turns back to Amalthea curiously. "Is it... could you heal it? Is that why it calls to you?" She doesn't know how much of the lore from her world translates to the one Amalthea comes from, but unicorns do heal, don't they?

A shiver rippled over her at the thought of going to it, of getting near enough to try to heal it.

"No," she answered. "If I went near enough, it would try to grab hold of me and not let go." She was certain of that, more than anything. It was not a weak sickness, but a corruption she felt. And it wanted her.

"It is not... a natural thing. It is not a sick animal or sick tree. It is a darkness."

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The Baker's Wife

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Page generated Jun. 7th, 2025 01:27 am

More than the moon

Go lift your sails up for one last swell

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