worthy of this Sprite.”
At Borel’s assent, she selected several of her scarfpins and held each up next to the Sprite, finally selecting the one that best fit his stature.
“He will need a baldric,” said Borel.
“A matter of a few strokes of needle and thread and a ribbon,” said the milliner. “Step here, Sprite; my daughter will take your measure.” She turned to the demoiselle. “Renee, s’il-te-plait.”
Even as the mother passed through an archway to a back room, “But, Mere, he’s naked,” said the daughter.
“Demoiselle Renee, it’s not as if I am going to ravish you,” said Flic.
Though she reddened, the demoiselle laughed and said, “Wee little thing as you are, I do not feel threatened.”
“Ah, ma cherie, I might surprise you, for I am Fey.”
“Oh!” Renee exclaimed in startlement and backed away.
With an eyebrow raised, Borel looked at Flic, and the Sprite laid a finger alongside his nose and gave Borel a slow wink.
“Fear not, Demoiselle,” said Borel, grinning. “I will protect you.”
Somewhat assured, the young lady stepped to the counter once more and, reddening again, began to measure the Sprite for a baldric.
“Will this interfere with my wings?” asked Flic. “I do need to fly, you know.”
“Perhaps a belt would be better,” said Borel.
“A sash about the waist,” called the mother from the room beyond. “We can fashion a scabbard as well.”
Blushing furiously, the daughter wrapped a thread as a gauge about Flic’s tiny waist, trying to see what she was doing while at the same time trying not to look at Flic’s maleness. Despite their manifest disparity in size, under the blushing demoiselle’s gaze, Flic, grinning, began to respond.
“Oh, my,” blurted Renee, and quickly she pinched the thread at the right length and pulled it free and turned her back to the Sprite.
In that moment the mother stepped in through the arch, the scarfpin free of its bauble and with a pierced silver sequin affixed as a bell.
Flic’s response vanished.
“Though it is not quite ready, let me see how this fits,” she said, and handed the miniature epee to the Sprite.
Flic took the tiny foil in hand and, eyeing the silver shaft, said, “It has no edge.”
“It is meant to stick, to impale, not to cut,” said the Widow Marie.
“Ah, like a bee sting, then,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer. “I like that.”
To judge its fitness to his size, Marie had Flic strike several poses. She closely looked at the grip and Flic’s grasp of it, then held out her hand for the weapon and said, “It seems to suit you well enough. Come back in the morning. It will be ready by then.”
As he gave over the foil to her, “My belt, too?” asked Flic.
Glancing only sideways at the Sprite, the daughter nodded.
“I need to get a mate,” said Flic, as they emerged from the millinery. “I mean, after all, she was fifty times my height.”
“More like twenty-seven or — eight,” said Borel, grinning, “and much too young for you.”
Flic laughed.
“What?” asked Borel.
“Never let it be said that I don’t like tall girls,” replied Flic. They both laughed, but Flic sobered and said, “I repeat, I need to find a mate.”
“Someone to love?” asked Borel, a smile yet on his face.
“That would be fine, but at least someone eager for passion,” said Flic.
“Ah,” said the prince.
As Borel strode on toward the inn, Flic said, “You know, since neither of us will be properly armed until the morning, I think I’ll just fly out to the fields and flit about the flowers for a while.”
Borel broke out in a guffaw, and said, “Luck, my little man.”
Flic and Buzzer took to wing and gained altitude, then shot away, following the river upstream. Borel watched until they were out of sight, then turned and continued on his way to the inn. Once inside, he settled in to a dinner of roast beef and scallions and bread, all washed down with a hearty dark beer. After all, if I fail with the Pooka, this just might be my last good meal.
Borel sat out on the veranda and sipped an unpretentious after-dinner brandy and watched a number of people on the street hurrying home or running errands or strolling leisurely to somewhere. Nearby, the Meander River flowed past, and when the air got still Borel could hear a distant rumble, as of water hurtling apace. The White Rapids, no doubt. As the sun set and twilight drew down, Flic and Buzzer had not yet returned. Borel raised his glass to the deepening lavender sky and said, “May you have found what you seek, Flic, my friend, be it a lasting love or nought but a brief liaison.”
He watched as a horse-drawn wain trundled past and over the bridge and away. All fell quiet after, but for the faint grumble upstream. Borel downed the last of his drink and stood and trudged into the inn and up to his chamber, where he opened a window for Flic to use, should the Sprite come flying back, though since Buzzer was with him it was not likely he would return till morning, for the bee fell dormant when night drew its spangled dark cloak across the sky.
Borel shed his garments and settled down to sleep, his thoughts meandering much the same as the river flowing past.
Tomorrow… Tomorrow… Tomorrow we shall seek a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed and I shall try to triumph o’er him. If I fail- Borel jerked awake, his heart hammering. Nay! I will not even consider failing, for Chelle’s life depends upon me.
Slowly Borel gained calmness, and he turned on his side and watched through the window as the night darkened and stars appeared one by one.
Chelle, my Chelle, where are you now?
And then Borel slid into sleep.
29
“Oh, Chelle, my love, I am so happy to find you here,” said Borel.
“Trapped in this turret?” said Chelle, frowning and gazing about in spite of the shadowy band across her eyes. “How can you be happy over that?”
“Oh, Cherie, I am not happy to find you trapped; it’s just that when last I saw you it was in another place, one that I left abruptly, and I was afraid you might be lost, and I would never find you again.”
Once more Chelle frowned, this time in concentration. “I do not recall where last I-Were we in water?”
Borel took a deep breath and let it out. “It was at a lake. We were going for a row, but you went swimming instead.”
“Ah, yes. Then suddenly I was here and you were gone, Borel. What happened?”
“Would you like to take that boat ride now?” asked Borel, steering away from that specific dream and the talk of dreams in general. “There is an isle I would take you to.”
“Oh, yes. A row to an isle would be splendid.”
Borel frowned in concentration and then offered his arm to Chelle, and together through the door they stepped, to find themselves high on a grassy slope leading down to the shores of a lake. Above, the moon-just under half full and waning-shone in the starry sky. A small pier jutted out into the water, a skiff afloat at its end. As
