body that had made his dance steps wobble—almost as if the air was too heavy for him to acclimate.
Had this man really Danced? Or did he merely babble nonsensities? To make a determination proved yet difficult. Too new this mortal realm, and this man but her first mortal. Nothing to compare him to. He could be luna-touched for all she knew.
But he had returned to her side, thrice over.
“You have been placed in my path for a reason. I must accept and move on, for urgency is fore. Come!” The mule followed as she walked onward. “Do you ride to the nearest village?” she asked, her pace slowing to mirror the mule’s laborious trudge.
“Mayhap I do.”
“I’ve great need to know how far away it lies. What is the time from here to the next village? How many suns will rise before I arrive?”
The horizon held his attention. Young, he appeared, though the gashed flesh on his hands lended to hard labor, or struggle. Definitely struggle, to gauge from the condition of his face. He could well be her peer.
“Aparjon,” he offered, without looking her way. “That be the next village. And following…who knows.” His heavy sigh intrigued Gossamyr. “I go where I am led. Tell me true, you have not been sent to retrieve me to Faery?”
“You continue to assume I am from Faery when I tell you I am not.” She winced at the lie. And she fooled herself to believe the blazon was not visible even with the highest agraffe secured. “I am on a mission.”
“Ah. A woman on a mission. And she wields a big stick, so watch out world!”
Ulrich scruffed a hand through his tangles of dark hair and offered a genuine grin. A missing tooth to the side of his front teeth spoke of certain battle. “You are not like most women.”
“Why say you such?”
“You are confidant and commanding.”
She bristled proudly at his expert observations.
“And…well, you do twinkle.”
“And you bleed.”
He touched the cut on his forehead and studied the minute flakes of blood on his fingers before dismissing it with a shrug. “A mere scuffle, which found the opponent most unfortunate.”
“You sure it was not a tangle with a prickle bush?”
“Would that it had been so. I hate bloody banshees.” He narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. “You’re not a banshee, are you?”
“No. Merely mort—like you. What of that bruise?”
Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man’s face. He grimaced and shook his head. “If I told you a woman gave it to me, would you believe such foolery?”
Gossamyr shrugged. “A woman like myself?”
“I see your point.”
“Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to wonder if you’ve the sight?”
“That dance changed everything. I’m still a bit dansey-headed from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!”
So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.
Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.
“Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the fair folk could fashion such a garment and make it strong and so flexible.”
Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fashioned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible and comfortable.
“It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or otherwise dressed in such a manner,” he stated. “Women conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves. And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons.”
She had not considered as much. Why had not Shinn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne’s bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all Shinn’s visits to the Otherside, he should have known.
Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The Glamoursiège arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery wings upon a sword and shield; a holly vine wrapped about the sword signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs, and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose braies from catching on brambles or sticks.
The bestiary had illustrated mortal women wearing dresses sewn from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr wore gowns when it suited her—for balls and celebrations. Rarely though did such cumbersome garb suit her.
Had Veridienne insinuated herself to the Otherside with ease? But of course, her mother had known the ways of this world, for she had been born here. Gossamyr sensed now it would require much more than mere study of pictures and text for a rogue half-blood fée to find equal success.
Keep the blazon concealed.
“As well—” Ulrich leaned forward “—you travel alone, and are far too lovely to put off a man’s advances.”
“Let no man test my mettle unless he wishes to pull back a nub. Or, lose another tooth.”
Ulrich whistled through the space in his teeth. “I believe you, my lady. I believe you.”
She stepped through the grass and leaned in close to him. “Stop smiling.”
“Can’t.”
“Try.”
He spread his arms wide to exclaim, “Tis the bane of my existence, this smile.” He paced a grand circle about her, as if announcing to the masses an exciting performance. “For all the tragedy I have endured it did little to remove this false glee. For it is false. I feel only sadness in my heart.”
“Be that the reason for your mournful tune when first you approached?”
He stilled in his circle of footsteps. “You heard?”
“Your world is filled with echoes—er, this world.” She grimaced and punctuated her frustration by stabbing her staff into the ground with each word. “My world. The continent.”
“France?”
“Indeed.”
She caught his bemused grin. Far more appealing than his frown or shouted oaths. The sudden thought that this mortal appealed to her only vexed. You’ve no luxury to dally!
“As for my smile, women drop like flies in a swoon when they see my pearly chompers.”
“Are you sure it is not your smell?” Peering through the corner
