like the gallants I had been lining up with, she was masked. It was an odd mask, glittery and shaped like the beak of a bird. Though golden and studded with green stones, it was eerie looking and, in other colors, would have been quite sinister. She was pale and blond, but since that went for the entire non-goblin population of this land, it was hardly informative. She wore her hair in golden ringlets which broke around her shoulders and the lacy enticement of her neckline. Her dress was of a rose-colored silk adorned with frills and some small amethysts. Her necklace looked like silver and tiger’s eye or some similar semiprecious stones. And, strangely enough-for in other circumstances I would have thought her way too good for the likes of me-I was a little bit disappointed.
In my old Cresdon haunt, the Eagle, a woman like this would have turned heads like hands on a clock. Had she walked up to the bar where I sat, cheating some poor idiot out of his meager wages, I would have gaped, stared and, quite possibly, drooled. But I was getting used to beauty, elegance, finery, and riches; I was not quite so easy to impress these days. Before, I would have turned on my best performance for the chance of an hour alone with any woman distinguished by a lack of contagious skin afflictions and a fair limb count, but now I expected radiant perfection. The girl, under her mask and silk, might well be it, but her jewelry clearly wasn’t, and this, strangely, bothered me. She would not have passed muster in the king’s palace thus attired, and there would have been snickerings and knowing glances at her amethysts and tiger’s eye. Perhaps there were the makings of a courtier in me yet.
“You are very quiet, Mr. Hawthorne,” she said. Her voice, as I had noticed when she first spoke, had that rich and breathy character that spoke of both naivete and knowledge, of coyness and sensuality. I caught my breath, began to answer, and had to pause, swallow, and try again.
“I am not sure where to begin,” I said, beginning. “You know my name, but I do not know yours, nor do I think I have seen you at court.”
She smiled. That much I could see, since the mask left the lower part of her face uncovered. She had good, even, white teeth, but I was struck not by them but by how few times I had seen courtiers produce anything so genuine. Their smiles were controlled wrinkles of their lips, as if someone had threaded a fishing line through the corners of their mouths and then tugged it gently upward. Such smiles were amused or sardonic, but always restrained, and no one showed their teeth.
“My name is not important,” she said, “and I am surprised you ask it.”
“Is it not normal to introduce oneself before”-I faltered, realizing I had dug myself a hole-“er. . before, driving somewhere together?”
She giggled at my clumsiness. It was, again, both endearing and uncourtly, perhaps endearing
“So do you read many plays?” I said.
This stopped her smile like I had smacked it with a large fish. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice losing a little of the refined politeness it had managed thus far.
“You made reference to a play in your letter,” I clarified. “Have you read many?”
“The odd one,” she said, with no real effort to conceal the lie. She beamed again.
“You’re not from round here, are you?” she said, and a little more of that aristocratic hauteur fell away from her accent.
“Not exactly, no,” I answered warily.
“You’re so tense!” she exclaimed. “I won’t bite, you know. What do you go by, Will or Bill?”
“Either,” I said, cautiously. “Usually Will.”
“Right then, Will,” she announced. “Turn round and let me rub your shoulders.”
She moved suddenly, leaning across the carriage and pulling my upper body toward her. Usually this would be a promising step, but now I flinched like I’d taken an arrow in the gut.
“You’re very highly strung, aren’t you Will?” she said, as I recoiled slightly from her touch. “Your muscles are all knotted up like bits o’ rope.”
I pulled myself back abruptly and caught her wrist. “So that’s the fashionable courtly speech, is it?” I demanded.
“Yes, I did,” she said, lying playfully again.
“No chance. You don’t sound like a courtier, you don’t dress like one, and I’ll bet my last farthing that you can’t write like one.”
“What does it matter who wrote the letter?” she answered.
“So you didn’t?” I pressed.
“No,” she replied, a trifle sulkily.
I released her hands, waiting for more information. She folded her arms and sat in silence for a minute or so. Then, in what I took to be her own voice-it was devoid of courtly affectation and touched with some regional accent that was round and earthy-she said, “And you don’t think I look like a courtier?”
Her tone was hurt, and this seemed so completely genuine that my suspicion momentarily evaporated and I had nothing but a kind of pity for her.
“Well, I haven’t really seen you yet,” I said, as kindly as I could in the circumstances.
“There!” she said, snatching the mask from her face. “Now you can see me.”
She was quite beautiful. Her face was fuller than was the fashion at court and she held a slight rosiness in her cheeks which would have seemed too countrified for the city, but she looked real as few of the women in the palace had looked. I was caught by surprise.
“Well?” she demanded, pouting slightly. Even in the dull light I could see that her eyes were hazel, deep and darker than any I had seen in the city.
“You look wonderful,” I said, honestly.
“But not like a court lady.”
“Better than a court lady.”
She looked at me quizzically, a childlike skepticism passing over her face. Then she smiled broadly again. “Good,” she concluded. “Look, we are nearly there.”
She moved the curtain and the light fell on her face. We had been traveling for some time and were now far from the city. Trees grew out of darkening fields and, in the distance, isolated stone cottages showed lights at the windows.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Nearly there.”
“Yes, but. .”
She reached across and laid her finger on my lips. I fell silent and then decided that this would be a good time to kiss her. I had no idea who she was or what she had in mind for me when the coach stopped, but I could not believe she meant me harm. Well, I preferred not to. It was conceivable that she would slip a stiletto in my ribs or hand me over to someone else who would, but she was no goblin, even if she wasn’t a courtier either. I contrived to get closer to her on the pretext of looking out of the window and then made the move. As my cheek brushed against hers she backed away: a small but decisive gesture.
“Wait till later,” she said.
But there was something in her glance, or the way she averted it and stared fixedly out of the window, that told me beyond any doubt that there would be no “later.” It was my turn to sulk. I suppose I should have been more concerned for my safety, but I was too busy being disappointed in that petty, self-involved fashion that I’ve cultivated so expertly over the years.
It was quite dark when the carriage drew to a creaking halt. I had long since lost track of which direction we were heading in. I was thus rather alarmed when I looked out and found the dark, irregular silhouettes of trees hanging over the road. We were on the edge of that vile forest.
“Where the hell are we going? I demanded, petulance muffling my growing fear.
“We are at an inn,” said my companion. “Climb down and go inside. I have to pay the driver. When you go in,
