Part 5.

Bodies, indistinct in the thick darkness, lay scattered across the ground. I wandered among them, looking down at their faces - faerie or human, death had rendered them all brothers. Beyond my own control, I found myself heading for the faerie camp. The trees seemed silent and mournful around me as I passed underneath, and I did not even think to consider my danger until I found a faerie pointing a bow at me.

 

“I am Robert Carlisle,” I told him, calm as I knew how. He cocked his head, and I told him the king would be quite displeased if I ended up dead.

 

“We shall see, human. You came alone?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Go, then.”

 

I went ahead, and he followed after, bow at the ready.

 

I found the king sitting peacefully under a tree, for all the world looking like an old man passing a pleasant summer’s day. My anger flamed up inside me again, and I stalked over to him.

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

“I sent you as my emissary Robert, and they did not listen, more the fools they. A sovereign needs not treat with interlopers when force is at his disposal.”

 

“You killed them for a single tree, you’re telling me?”

 

“It was not a simple decision, Robert. I am only aware that your kind has a penchant for striking first, and I could not risk the grove - I had to remove their claws.”

 

“You know what this means, don’t you? It truly is war, now. One dead man, that’s one thing - a score or more? That’s another.”

 

I shook my head, heart still juddering from the exertion of the night. “Where’s Morgana?”

 

He looked at me strangely, eyes sharp, and then tilted his head to the west.

 

I found her up a tree. She reclined on a narrow branch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped about them. She rested her head against the tree, and looked upward - she did not notice my approach. I called her name, and she looked downward, head swivelling like an owl.

 

“Come up here.”

 

I craned my head upwards - she was ten yards up, at least. It was a risky proposition in broad daylight, and simply reckless in the pitch dark. But as I considered the faerie I had killed, such concerns seemed small indeed. I clambered up the tree, hands and feet careful, sensitive, grazing the bark as I searched for handholds. She watched me from her high perch, and I was grunting with exertion by the time I reached her. Just as I threw one arm over the thick bough she made her roost on, she stood up suddenly, introducing a feet-tingling sensation of vertigo in me.

 

“Be careful,” I hissed. She stood with her hands calmly at her side, not even bothering to place one on the trunk of the tree.

 

“I won’t fall, Robert.” I believed her. So she climbed higher while I struggled to keep pace, her climbing effortless and rhythmic, mine effortful and spastic. Eventually we neared the top of the tree, where the branches were as slender as her arm. Up in the canopy, I firmly shut out the prospect of looking down - it was inconceivable. So I merely looked upward, her dark form eclipsing the empurpled night sky, riotous with stars. I heaved myself up a last limb, leaning myself at an obtuse angle against one of the sturdier looking branches.

 

Morgana, silent in motion and spirit, made her way to me, leaning against me, her head in the hollow of my neck. We were like that a long time, cradled by the grasping branches.

 

“What happened,” she murmured. I thought about it, wrapping my arms about her, shivering as I considered the evening.

 

“I killed one of your own.” She did nothing, only burrowed deeper into my embrace.

“You speak as if you’ve never killed before.”

“I haven’t,” I said. The smell of her hair was heady as wildflowers.

“Was it honorable?”

I wondered at that. She breathed in deeply, reading my silence. “You’re more like us than you know.”

I fervently wished that were not true. “I must return,” I told her, gently disengaging from her and lowering myself down through the branches. Her pale face asked a silent question as I descended, one I chose not to answer.

 

Anna was relieved upon my return. The gruesome skirmish had shaken her solid foundations more than I had first thought, and we sat drinking tea, her hands unsteady. We said nothing as we drank, and said nothing as we went to bed together. She laid down, and I followed suit.

 

“The little one sleeps?”

 

She nodded, and I settled next to her. We both stared at the ceiling, taking solace in the warmth of the other. At some point she drifted to sleep, cheek on my chest, and I passed the remainder of the night awake.

 

The men called another war council the next morning. I was summoned from my drowsing by a tap at the window. For an instant, I thought it to be Morgana, but turned and saw it was only Fyodor. He had not yet washed the blood from his face. Gently as I could, I slipped away from Anna’s grasp, sorry to leave her; she was beautiful in sleep. Drawing a deep breath, I pulled on my shoes and made for Anatoly’s lodgings. Fyodor and Anatoly had survived the night, but many had not. A dozen dead, they told me, and a few more soon to be. Only a score of men remained able enough to fight, but they had no interest in licking their wounds.

 

“Where do they make their camp, Robert?”

I shook my head. “You’ll never take them unawares - the trees themselves speak to them, and they move like ghosts.”

“Their camp.”

I sighed, considering the request. The grim cast to their eyes and hands stained with brownish blood convinced me. I told them.

 

“Good. We strike tonight.” I had not the strength to argue, merely nodded and excused myself. As I walked back to Anna’s home, I considered the woods - should I inform them of the impending attack? I decided not to - the faerie would have gladly slaughtered every man, woman, and child if possible. I was suddenly seized by a wave of lethargy, a weariness I felt in my bones. I needed to rest. I trudged into Anna’s house, and lay down upon the bed. I was asleep in moments.

 

I woke to find Mikhail observing me. The boy stood, elbows on the mattress, chin propped on his hands, watching me.

“What is it?” I asked him.

He shrugged, eyebrows and shoulders lifting expressively. I kneaded one eye with a knuckle, seeking to rub the sleep from it. Outside I heard the muted call of voices, and went to the window. Men plodded back into camp, their axes propped on shoulders. It was a common enough scene; only tonight their axe heads dripped with blood.

 

I exited the house and was immediately struck by the pungent scent of woodsmoke. Alarmed, I looked to the trees, and saw a great black column of smoke rising from the heart of the woods. A faint orange glow pulsed in the fast falling twilight. I shook my head, and began to walk.

 

The faerie camp was in utter disarray when I reached it - the wounded lay scattered across the ground, the upright hurried among them with water and bandages. Above them all, like great torches, the mighty trees blazed with flame. The heat was overpowering, twisting the very air with its strength. I saw the king standing at the foot of them, unmindful of the heat, his form distorted by the shimmers. I watched him raise his hands to the sky, fingers spread wide as if in supplication, the gesture of a servant of the gods failed in his holy duty.

 

The gods were benevolent, it appeared, for a hard rain began to fall, turning the ground to mud. The flames fought the rain, wagged their carmine tongues and danced their waving dances, but the rain was relentless, and slowly the trees were doused. They smoked, bark blackened and curling, and the king fell to his knees before them, shaking his head sadly.

 

The faerie paid me no heed - they were either in pain or tending to the pain of others, and so I walked through them unremarked. The king himself hardly registered my presence when I came to stand before him. He stared past me, blank as a winter sky, and heavily took to his feet.

 

“I warned you,” I said.

He nodded. “We shall settle this.”

“A truce?”

He shook his head. “Berwyn!” he shouted. I saw the great faerie make his way to us, face exultant with the aftermath of battle. Blood ran in channels down his face, but none of it his. He was unscathed.

“If not a truce, then what?”

“A duel,” the king said.

 

THE DUEL

——–

 

The disputes of the faerie typically end in this manner. Being free of the strictures of nation and honor, the faerie follow leaders. Faerie wars are often seen as a contest of will between two opposed leaders, and the duel is the natural end to hostilities. The premise is rather simple, and, I feel, admirable. Two faerie enter a circle, and one leaves. The victor wins not only the duel but the war, and the conflict is resolved. While this was standard practice among the faerie, I found myself doubting that the Russians would accept its terms. All the same, I was sent to treat with them.

 

I returned to camp, and located Fyodor and Anatoly. They had appointed themselves generals of this small war, and so I spoke with them directly.

 

“I am sent by the faerie.”

“What for?”

“To tender an offer.”

 

They shared a suspicious glance at this.

“What sort of offer?”

“An offer of single combat.” I explained. They furrowed their brows, and Anatoly asked me if I truly thought the faerie would simply leave off if defeated.

“They would.” I said it with such simple conviction that they could not help but believe me. The men had a terse discussion on the matter, and reached a conclusion.

 

“We accept.”

“Truly?”

They nodded as one. Surprised, I informed them that the faerie champion would arrive at dawn. They nodded again, and I was dismissed. I left and relayed their response to the faerie.

 

Berwyn grinned savagely as I told him. “Who shall they send?” he asked me.

I truly did not know, and told him as much.

“Very well. We shall discover the dead man’s name on the morrow in any case.”

 

I left, and wondered if it was to be a dead man or faerie.

 

The sunrise came at last, unexpectedly strong - a fine day for a man to die. I stood in the middle ground, waiting idly - a sharp wind picked at my coat and went whistling by my ears. I heard the tread of heavy boots, and turned to see the man emerging from the logging camp. I had never seen him before, but he was gargantuan, appearing larger than Berwyn in every respect. He was attired as a cossack, and walked with the coiled preparedness of trained military. A sabre hung at his belt, slapping against one thick leg with each step. He came to stand in the no man’s land between forest and camp, still as a statue. I looked into his eyes and saw only death.

 

The rustling of leaves announced Berwyn’s arrival. The huge faerie, bare above the waist and thickly muscled, emerged from the trees. His body was painted with all manner of fantastical shapes, wrought in purple ink. He bore no weapon, I noted. He smiled at me, and I nodded in return. Behind him, a great mass of faerie arrived. They would prove only to be spectators in the coming contest, however, and their hands were as empty as their champion’s. The citizens of the camp began to emerge from their homes, faces showing excitement or great sorrow. Berwyn approached me and then passed me, walking straight up to the cossack, who observed his approach with the wariness of a snake.

 

“Tell him I need inscribe the circle, and require use of his weapon,” Berwyn commanded me. I relayed this to the cossack, who received the information with a faint tilt to his head. He considered it, gravely, and then withdrew his sabre in a flash. Berwyn did not so much as blink at the naked steel before his face, merely extended his hand. The cossack laid the weapon hilt first into his hand. Berwyn gave a low whistle at the feel of the sword in his hand, and tested its heft and balance, nodding approvingly. The cossack nodded as well, acknowledging the quality of the blade. I shook my head - two males preparing to engage in combat handing back and forth a weapon like comrades might a bottle. I would never understand honor, I realized. Berwyn took the sword and turned his flank to the cossack, walking away like a general examining his soldiers. The cossack stood, straight-backed, as his enemy began to inscribe the circle into the earth, dragging the sword point through the dirt, walking a wide arc. All of us in attendance stood breathless as this ritual was carried out, and all that could be heard was Berwyn’s soft tread and the heavy sword point scraping through the dirt. At long last, Berwyn finished the circle - the cossack followed its line with his hard eyes, thoughts inscrutable. Berwyn tossed him the sabre, which he caught thoughtlessly. The faerie then backed into the circle and came to stand at the very center of it. He put his big hands low and before him, assuming a grappler’s stance. And then he beckoned the cossack forward.

 

The big russian blinked slowly, as if considering an invitation to tea. He then unbuckled the sword and laid it down, so as to fight fair. Standing nearby, I felt my stomach drop - after witnessing Berywn’s prowess, meeting him without good steel in your hand seemed tantamount to suicide. But the russian stepped inside the circle, unaware of his error. A sharp grin came to Berywn’s face, at once a rictus of concentration and an expression of true joy. The russian came on, inexorable. As he drew close enough to embrace the faerie, the cossack suddenly exploded, leaping forward with one hand cocked behind his ear. Berwyn was too quick, however, and sidestepped the strike. The russian recovered quickly, too quickly to be believed, and thew another punch before Berwyn could make his counterattack. The faerie was not quick enough to avoid this blow, and he was struck in the ribs with breathtaking force. I could sense the collective astonishment of the assembled faerie as Berwyn staggered to the side, reeling in pain. The russian came on, relentless, throwing a left hook. Berwyn dodged, barely, throwing his face clear at the final instant. He responded by bulling forward, flashing out an elbow which caught the russian squarely on the jaw. The russian fell backwards a step, but seemed unfazed - Berwyn seized the opportunity and threw a knee squarely into the cossack’s solar plexus. All gathered heard his breath burst from his lips, a ragged explosion. Berwyn, uttering an exultant cry, threw a vicious strike at the unprotected crown of the russian’s head. As the faerie’s fist stooped with the murderous velocity of a hawk, I drew in a breath - the end was near.

 

Or so I thought. The russian’s hand snapped upwards and caught Berwyn’s wrist. We all gasped, and Berwyn himself seemed surprised. The russian threw a savage uppercut, which snapped Berwyn’s head back, sending him backwards a few steps. The russian straightened up, one hand held to his stomach, and Berwyn shook his head dazedly. The two stared at each other with a peculiar mixture of admiration and violence, and neither moved for a long moment. Then they raised their hand, and the battle was truly joined.

 

In my years I have never witnessed a struggle of such ferocity, such unfettered violence. The two combatants clashed like titans, inflicting incredible amounts of punishment on the other, and the receiving the same in kind. I watched in astonishment as they threw punch after mighty punch, sending the other reeling. The sun climbed steadily higher as the battle raged on, the witnesses horrified, the combatants focused only on the dance and each other.

 

By the end of it, each was hardly recognizable as the being who stepped inside the circle. Berywn’s lips were split like overriped fruit, red as pomegranates. The majority of the fingers on each hand were shattered from the impact of fist on skull, and he moved heavily, right leg dragging as a result of the russian’s boot heel slamming into his knee.

 

The russian, however, was worse - his face a mask of blood, eyes invisible from the great bruises that had rose up around them, his once impassive face mangled and eloquent in agony. Sympathetic tears trickled from the faces of the onlookers, faerie and human alike. The gladiator had nothing left in him, nothing remained to him except pain. He fell to his knees, mouth open, silent like an abandoned statue. I realized then that he was blind, that the horrendous toll of the battle had robbed him of his sight. Berwyn recognized this, too, and looked at the russian a long moment. For his part, the russian’s savaged head was weaving slightly, as if perhaps he tried to sense the air, to staunch any further assault. It was useless, I knew, and Berwyn seemed indecisve. Then he walked away, and picked up the russian’s sabre where he had laid it. He returned, standing before him, and drew the sword. The russian heard the steel’s promise, and spread his arms wide, as if to embrace it. Berwyn obliged him, and ran him through. As the bloodied steel sprouted from the russian’s back, I saw in his eyes a sort of release, an unshackling from a world of violence and misery, finally set free by the very thing which had imprisoned him. As he fell to the ground and Berwyn withdrew the sword, gently, I felt like beating my breast at the injustice of it. Berwyn went to his knees and wiped the blade clean, assiduous as an acolyte. Then he shut the russians eyes, and the humans watching cried out, as if his mere touch desecrated him. Berwyn stood, overcome with emotion, and cried out in the faerie tongue: “This man was worthy.”

 

The russians stared in horror, surely interpreting his cry as one of savage celebration. I did not translate, merely agreed with Berwyn.

 

He said it again - this time quietly, as if surprised. “He was worthy.”

 

The stunned campfolk came to collect their dead, placing his broken form on their shoulders and shuffling towards the buildings, a strange insect, many-legged and grief-stricken. Berwyn watched them leave, then turned and hobbled towards his own people, collapsing when he reached them from the weight of his injuries and exhaustions. Three of his compatriots caught his bulk and hurried off with him draped over their shoulders. I stood stock still and watched both leave, drained by the ceaseless violence of those few days. Morgana caught my eye and motioned me to follow. So, casting a last lingering glance at Anna’s home, I went after her.

 

The faerie were in a state of subdued elation, the young males particularly ambivalent. Clearly Berwyn had won a great victory, but at what price? I saw the big faerie myself, and he was a ruin, nearly insensate. Morgana hurried after her brother, concern obvious. Berwyn was carried to a bed of pine boughs, where he was laid down gentle as a babe.

 

The king arrived and looked down upon his son with a curiously impassive face.

 

“He’ll live?”

 

Morgana was examining him, running sensitive fingers over his face and knee, eliciting distant groans. “Yes,” she told him.

 

“Good. Robert, with me. We go to to the humans.”

 

So I found myself walking alongside the king and a few choice retainers, marching towards the logging camp. As we neared the treeline, I considered the danger of the situation, and the possibility of a misunderstanding. So I removed a once-white shirt and waved it over my head as we came into the open. Those still outside appeared rooted to where they stood during the duel, still gazing blankly at the neatly drawn circle and blood spatters within it. I motioned the king towards Anatoly’s house, but he shook his head firmly.

 

“I will not negotiate where the winds cannot hear me.”

I shrugged and went to fetch the big russian, who looked upon me as a traitor. He followed me outside, and the king and the leader met face to face. I stood between the two, serving as translator.

 

“You will honor the arrangement?” the king asked.

Anatoly nodded, lower lip jutting out. “I am a man of my word.”

“What will you do?” I asked of my own curiosity.

“Do not speak unless there is something to translate, englishman.” His eyes were dead, lifeless as Dmitri’s and the cossack’s and Alexander’s. A great deal of death hovered about the place that had fostered the king.

“Ask him this, englishman - was it worth it?”

I translated, and the king looked terribly old for a moment. “No,” he said. It needed no translation. Anatoly nodded, grimly satisfied, and the meeting was finished. The king returned to the woods, and I went to pay a farewell to Anna.

 

I found her knitting a shroud in the front room, and sat down uninvited.

 

“What shall you do?” I asked her.

 

She thought about it, the clacking of the needles the only noise. “What can I do? I shall stay here.”

“There is nothing left here,” I said to her, kind as I knew how.

“He is here,” she said, voice close to breaking.

 

I shook my head sadly, and heard a scratching at the door, as if a dog sought entry. Anna glanced up briefly, and I went to answer it. Morgana stood without, peering inside the house the moment the door allowed her. Anna returned her curiosity with a frozen glare, and I asked her why she was here.

 

“I was sent to tell you you will be collected shortly.”

“There is no need,” I told her. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

 

She nodded at this, not needing to tell me the price of any incompliance. I remembered.

 

“And you knock on doors - like this.” I showed her, and she displayed that naive delight that made me forget for a moment the recent past. She nodded and made her leave, and I returned my attention to Anna.

 

“And what are you to do?” she asked me. I wondered at what lay within that question, if it was perhaps an invitation.

“I must leave with the faerie. I am not free,” I told her, coming to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You are. Farewell.”

 

The frenzied clacking of needles followed me as I left her behind.

 

Berwyn’s convalescence was an arduous affair, with Morgana presiding as chief nursemaid, plying the sullen prince with potions of strange origin and the same sorts of poultices she healed my hand with. I was ordered to spend my days at his side. At first he seemed uninterested in my presence, but at Morgana’s coaxing, he began to ask me about human life.

 

“Why do you want to know?” I inquired, genuinely curious.

 

“Do I need a reason, human?” he snarled. I shrugged and told him all he wished to know. He received the information with a blend of contempt and amusement, chortling to himself at our strange customs. During one of the long nights where his pain kept sleep at bay, I noticed he had the cossack’s sword close to hand.

 

“I have never witnessed such a thing before,” I said. Berwyn nodded, caressing the worn leather hilt.

“And you shall never see its like again. He was good, that human.”

“Better than that, I should think - I thought you were overmatched.”

He laughed, broken ribs restraining him to a low wheeze. “You would have liked to have seen that giant defeat me, wouldn’t you, human?”

I shook my head. “I’d rather it never happened. Senseless violence.”

“Senseless?” Berywn said. He struggled into a more upright position, wincing at the pain. “You dare call our combat senseless?”

I calmly met his gaze. “Yes.”

“Did it not end the war?”

“Oh, I’ll grant it ended that particular chapter. But the larger battle still rages - you only held one front, and only for a moment.” Berwyn’s eyes glowed dully as he stared at me. I continued, heedless. “No, this war between my people and your people is not a war to be settled with clubs and axes. It is not even something to be settled - its course was preordained long ago.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not, and you know full well I’m not. The faerie cannot win - this is not human arrogance, merely statement of fact: you are bound to the land, restrained by custom and the past. We… we are ever growing, ever hungry, ever expanding.”

 

“Voracious,” he said, voice low.

“Yes. So even if you buried that cossack, and even if that logging camp goes away, the final result will be the same. Your kind will be rooted out, your homes will be destroyed, and your race will fade to memory, so only the trees will speak your names.”

 

“You lie, human!” His hand seized me with sudden strength, and as he wrenched at my arm, still powerful in his convalescence, I saw the invincible soul of faith in his eyes. “This war is not determined - it is a war, not fate. Wars can be won with strong arms and strong hearts, no matter the odds!”

 

“What, then? You will continue to fight?”

 

“What else can I do? I shall fight until I cannot, and then I shall be dead and I will die knowing I did my part.”

“It is futile. Your father, he realizes the way of things.”

“My father is old and he is tired, human - it may be easy and it may be comfortable to surrender yourself to the tide of the times, but I cannot abide by it. I will not be swept away.”

 

I admit, I respected him. I shook my head, and patted at his shoulder. “We are all swept away, sooner or later.”

 

We lapsed into silence, watched over by the eternal trees.

 

We left the logging camp behind, sawmill dormant, houses shrunk with sorrow. We moved on foot, in no particular hurry - Berwyn was borne along on a litter, which he positively chafed at - days passed, and his injuries still lingered. During the long hours of marching, he drugged himself senseless on one of Morgana’s brews, the inevitable jouncing of the litter travel proving too much pain to bear for any duration. When he was conscious, he was surly and vicious, barking orders at his lackeys who hurried to satiate his every desire. I strolled alongside him, ignoring his frequent diatribes. At night, when the agony of the litter ceased, we sat at some distance from the main body of the camp, and talked. He expressed an interest in learning a human tongue, and so I taught him english. He was a slow study, but stubborn enough that when I word fell into his grasp, he refused to let go, and so slowly accrued a respectable vocabulary. He lacked the facility his sister displayed for languages, as well as her pleasantness, but he proved an apt enough pupil in the end. One night, as we both grew tired of my lectures on syntax, he said to me: “Human, help me up.”

 

“Whatever for?”

“So I may stand.”

I laughed, and obliged, hauling him awkwardly from his position of repose. I set him on his feet and watched as he tried to keep his equilibrium, tottering like a newborn calf.

 

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to be going about like this - should I ask Morgana?”

“No!” he flared. “Tell no one. My state cannot be known by anyone.”

“Why the devil not?”

“Because followers are apt to become leaders when they sense weakness,” he said, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder. “Loyalty is their greatest trait, until ambition becomes a more useful one.”

 

It became clear to me just how devastated the duel had left him. His knee in particular seemed to be most troublesome, and he only managed a single step on it before he collapsed in a heap. I went to him, and he waved off my attention, cursing all the while. Breath jagged, he struggled to his feet, eyes shut tight in silent agony as he restored his weight to both feet. This time I ignored his wishes, and stood close enough to catch him when he fell again. He accepted my assistance, leaning heavily against me. He was in shambles, it was plain to see. But he grunted, “let us walk a bit, human”, and so we did, shuffling slowly about, perhaps performing some ugly dance. Sweat beaded his brow, and I shepharded him back to his pallet. He griped, but was in the end too weak to stop me, and so I man-handled him back into a resting position. He breathed heavily, exhausted.

 

“This stays between us.”

 

I nodded, and he shut his eyes. Sleep claimed him quickly, and I stood for a moment watching him sleep. I could not make anything of it, and so resolved to consider the matter later. At that moment, I needed to speak with Morgana.

 

She was sleeping when I found her, but awoke the instant my foot brushed against a leaf - she slept lightly as a cat. Her eyes slid open and she watched me approach, not moving, only blinking slowly. As I knelt beside her, she yawned luxuriously, and finally moved.

 

“How is my dear brother?” she asked.

 

Berwyn’s last words echoed in my head, and I hastily said, “He’s quite well - on the mend, I should say. Chap is as strong as an ox, no mistake about it.” Her huge golden eyes absorbed this information carefully, weighing it. It occurred to me at that moment that her claim to their father’s throne was just as strong as his, and she was quite well-loved in the camp. I put the thought out of my head.

 

“What is it that you wanted, Robert?”

 

I opened and shut my mouth, suddenly unsure. “Nothing, I suppose. Sorry to disturb your sleep.” I rose to leave, but she laid a hand on my knee.

 

“What is her name?”

 

“Whose?”

 

“The human you stayed with.”

 

“Anna.”

 

“Why does she raise her children alone?”

 

I blinked. “Her husband died.”

 

Morgana nodded at this. “She is as free as one of us, then - no lord or master.”

 

I did not respond, thinking of Anna sitting in the last remant of her husband’s existence on earth, knitting a shroud.

 

“Is it common practice, for strangers to share a bed?”

 

“You saw…”

 

“Yes,” she said, eyes perhaps wounded.

 

“She was lonely, Morgana - it was nothing more than that.”

 

Morgana laughed. “Why do you defend yourself to me, Robert?”

 

I saw then that I had misread her. “No reason. And no, it’s not particularly common practice.”

 

She nodded, secreting away this new bit of knowledge, stoking her inexhaustible curiosity for our kind.

 

“Is she attractive, for a human?”

 

“Beautiful,” I breathed, not thinking of the lonely widow at the moment. This satisfied her, and she bid me goodnight. I left to lay down upon my solitary bed of grass.