Once Upon a Winter's Night

25

Forty-two days altogether did Camille and Scruff spend in the company of the red coach, forty-two days and six twilight crossings to go from the village of Lis to the city of Les Iles. Two of those days had been lost because of broken wheels, and another day while waiting for a fresh team. An additional handful of days were lost owing to a daylong drenching downpour that had turned the road into a mire, and the horses had been hard-pressed to go but a mile or two to reach the very next town. There did Louis lay over until the road had dried out enough to press on.

All along the way-from Lis to Les Iles-Louis had often stopped to water and feed the horses and to allow the passengers and coachmen alike to stretch their legs and relieve themselves among the trees or within thickets or beyond rock outcroppings. At times on steep slopes to lighten the load and ease the haul, Louis had called for the passengers and footmen-Girard and Thoreau, both fourteen, both quite skinny, both madly smitten with Camille-to disembark and walk up the long hills, at other times to walk down; when this had occurred, Gautier, the obnoxious stout man-the one who had invited Camille to his bedchamber-complained that he had not spent good coin to slog all the way to Les Iles; and while the others had suffered his diatribes in silence, Scruff had chattered scoldingly, as if telling him to move along, and quietly, if you please.

They had passed through a succession of woodland hamlets and small towns, where they had taken meals and spent overnight in a variety of lodgings-from quaint to primitive to homelike. At each of the those stops, Gautier would imbibe entirely too much wine, and would then single out Camille and make quite lewd remarks; she had found ways to avoid him, though occasionally she was then afflicted with Eudes, the gaunt, pasty-faced man; he would find her and expound upon the evils besetting the world-mortal and Fey alike-and call for rigorous abstinence in all things, for surely that’s the way Mithras meant it to be, except, of course, for the purpose of bearing young, which no doubt Mithras desired. Much of the time in these various towns Camille had gone about and had spoken with the elders and others, but none knew of the place she sought, nor knew of the bard she named, and none had any maps whatsoever of Faery and in fact thought the notion quite odd. The red coach would leave next morn and press onward, and Camille’s spirits had fallen with each day, for nought would stay the withered blossom vanishing from the stave.

As to the other passengers, in general they had been pleasant, though at times they had complained of the jolting, or one or two had debated long and at times loudly with the pasty-faced disciple of Mithras over Truth and Devotion and the Meaning of Life.

Occasionally, Louis had told the passengers that there would be no town to stop in for a midday meal, and that he planned on pausing somewhere along the road for such, and he had bidden each of them to arrange for a small luncheon to carry on board. Gautier had always managed to acquire a bottle of wine to imbibe during these pauses, and then only the glares of all the passengers had quelled his lascivious remarks.

Along the route, some passengers had reached their destinations, and they had alighted and gone on their way with hardly a fare-thee-well. Occasionally new passengers had gotten on the red coach to travel the road to a village or town or sometimes just to a distant stead.

And so did passengers come and go, some pleasant, some silent, some quite loquacious.

During one part of the journey, they had come into a rather darkling forest, and Scruff had chirped and had grabbed a tress of Camille’s hair and had taken to the high vest pocket. There Louis had whipped up the horses, and they had flown through the region, jouncing and rattling bones, Gautier complaining loudly. Sometime later, although the horses yet sped, Scruff had emerged and had scrambled to his usual perch, and in but moments Louis had slowed the coach, allowing the lathered horses to plod. Shortly after, he had stopped for a while, allowing the passengers to stretch their legs, while he and Albert and Girard and Thoreau wiped the horses down and fed them a bit of grain, as well as bore buckets of water to them from a nearby stream. Of the woodland hindward, Louis had said nought, though the lads-Girard and Thoreau-kept eyeing the way aft.

It was during the very last leg of the journey that Camille and Scruff and stout Gautier had been alone in the coach, and Camille had had to forcefully rebuff more than one advance, Scruff chirping and pecking at the man’s fingers whenever a hand came near. At the very first rest stop, Camille had asked Louis if she and Scruff could ride on the seat beside him. Louis had taken one look at the stout man, and had called for one of the footmen to give over his seat to her. Girard and Thoreau had played some kind of finger game to see which would do so, and black-haired Girard had shouted in victory, and, even as he had helped Camille to a seat beside him, he beamed broadly at Thoreau, while fair-haired Thoreau had glumly climbed into the coach following after the stout man.

And so it was that Camille and Scruff were sitting high on a bench at the back of the red coach when Les Iles came into view.

“Oh my, Scruff, but look.”

The coach rumbled along the road high atop a riverside bluff, the river itself quite broad, five miles or so in width, a high, precipitous bluff opposite as well. And Camille saw spread out below them, there in the green flow of water, a city of red tile and white stone built on a series of sheer-walled, granite-sided islands all connected together by wooden spans and swaying rope-and-board bridges. Some of the islands were small, others quite large, yet about each were docks and piers, with boats of all manner moored in the stream or securely berthed in the slips; other boats as well could be seen plying the river. Wooden ladders and steps, or those carved in stone, rose some fifty to one hundred or so feet from the docks to the streets above, streets which bustled with commerce. Here and there, among the white stone buildings with their red-tile roofs, stands of trees grew; perhaps these were the parks Louis had spoken of, parks where minstrels sang and played.

“Oh, Girard, how many islands in all?” asked Camille, turning to the lad.

Girard, who had not spoken a word to her the full of the trip and who blushed madly whenever Camille had looked his way, with his voice breaking between that of a child and a youth, managed to say, “Nineteen, I think, or twenty, if you count that little one there.” He pointed downriver, and Camille saw a tiny isle set off quite a distance by itself with but a single dwelling thereon. No span connected it to the others, and Camille could see no ladders, no stairs, no dock along the facing sheer side.

Once more Camille looked directly at the lad. “Who lives there?”

Again Girard blushed. “Um, they say it’s the River Lady, though no one I know knows for certain.”

“River Lady?”

“Mm, hm. Eternally grieving, rumor tells, though I don’t know why.”

Camille frowned at the islet, then scanned for other isles. Across and upstream, a great cascade poured over the far-side bluff and down, its sound a distant roar. Farther upstream and along a curving-away turn, Camille could see a great notch in the near-side bluff, and there another river issued out into the main flow. Downstream the bluffs curved away beyond seeing, but just at the far bend, on the near side yet another river poured through a notch, though not a tributary as large as the ones upstream.

“Girard, I can only see three rivers; Louis said that the city was at the confluence of four.”

Red-faced, still Girard managed a sheepish grin. “Same mistake I made when I first saw this place, ma’amselle. The fourth river-”

“-Is the river itself,” said Camille, laughing. “How obtuse of me to not see it.”

“Then I suppose that makes me, um, obtuse, too,” said Girard glumly.

“Oh, forgive me, Girard,” said Camille, reaching out and taking his hand, which she found to be quite moist. “I did not mean to imply such.”

Releasing the lad’s hand, Camille turned her attention once again to the isles. “What are those great cages I see sitting along the docks?”

“Um, see the ropes leading up to those booms above? They winch cargo from the docks up to the city, or cargo from the city down to the docks. Sometimes people, too, those who can’t or won’t use the steps.”

“How clever,” said Camille. “But for me, I believe I’ll take the stairs.”

“You won’t have to if you don’t wish to, L-lady Camille,” said Girard, pointing ahead. “You can cross over on a bridge, if you wish. It’ll cost you a copper.”

In the near distance, a long rope-and-board bridge spanned from the bluff to the nearest isle.

“Of course, if you wish, you can take the ferry over instead,” Girard added, “though it’ll cost more, depending on which isle you’re ferried to.”

“I’ll take the bridge,” said Camille, “for I would walk the length of the city.”

“Bridge!” Girard called to Louis. Then he said to Camille, “Louis would stop there anyway, but I just wanted to make certain. And as for walking the length of the ville, it’ll take more than a day.”

“Know you of any good inns, somewhere near the midmost isle?”

“Well, there’s the Green Toad, but not for a lady like you. Then there’s-no wait, that’s quite bawdy, too.-Oh, I know, the Crown and Scepter, but it’s quite expensive and a bit out of the way. Still, a fine lady like yourself, ma’amselle, well, uh-”

Camille smiled as Girard stuttered to a halt. “Thank you, my friend,” said Camille, squeezing the red-faced lad’s still-damp hand. “The Crown and Scepter it is. Where might I find such?”

“Just stay on the main street across the isles, till you come to that big one yon. Then make your way along the road following the downstream bluff. It’ll be on your left midway along the rim.”

The red coach rumbled to a stop at the near end of the span. Like a flash, Thoreau slammed open the coach door and leapt out to hand Camille down, the fair-haired lad smirking at Girard, who was left to retrieve Camille’s goods from the roof and toss them to Thoreau, then clamber down from the footmen’s bench to deal with the stout man.

“Stupid boy,” Gautier snarled at Girard. “You don’t think I’m going to walk that, now do you?”

Girard sighed and closed the door; the man would be taken to the docks below to catch the ferry across to whichever isle he paid the ferrymen to take him, where, no doubt, he would ride a cage to the top.

Camille was relieved that she wouldn’t have to cross the bridge with Gautier, and she thanked Girard and Thoreau and Albert and Louis, and would have given each a bronze, but Louis pushed out a staying hand, saying, “Non, ma’amselle, the gold and two silvers paid it all.” Camille then bade adieu, and shouldered her bedroll and waterskin and rucksack, and took her stave in hand-one hundred twenty-three blossoms gone, the one-hundred and twenty-fourth blossom withering-and, as the red coach rolled on, with Girard and Thoreau on their high bench arear and looking back at her, she set out across the bridge, Scruff on her shoulder, the rope-and-board span jouncing a bit underfoot, the sparrow chirping that it was time to eat.

Never had Camille seen so many people bustling to and fro; to her eye the streets seemed utterly jammed; how anyone avoided collisions, she could not say, yet they managed to do so. People rushed thither and yon, bearing baskets, pushing carts, towing small wagons, all laden with goods. Others were there as well: shoppers, hawkers, a group of street urchins dodging in and out among the grown-ups, laughing, playing at some game. Merchants stood in doorways and invited passersby in. Playing a lyre and a lute and a drum and a fife, a quartet of strolling musicians winnowed among the mass. These and more did Camille see, and to her eye it was all quite confusing: much like a thousand motes of dust dancing in a beam of sunlight, and as with them, she couldn’t seem to pick out from the crowd any given mote.

“I feel quite like a minnow, Scruff, about to swim against a tide of spawning salmon.” Even so, she paid the bridge toll-keeper a copper penny, then plunged into the mass, trying to master the intricate ballet.

Camille made her way along the teeming street, foot traffic flowing about her, and though she did not know the dance, it seemed the others did, and so she progressed slowly along the way without crashing into anyone, or rather without them crashing into her. And as she went, instead of a faceless mob, she began to see individuals: tall, short, rotund, slim, breathless, sweating, rushing, casually ambling, standing still, elegantly dressed or wearing rags, some selling goods from carts or open-air stands.

“Oh, Scruff, that must be a Dwarf.” Camille paused and watched the bearded, short, broad-shouldered being cross athwart the street to disappear down a byway. “I think he was no taller than I am.”

Camille continued onward, and she came to a footbridge arching across to another island. Ahead, she saw a group of Dwarves-five or six-coming her way, and she stood aside to study them as they passed. Indeed, she was nearly a full head taller than any, each of them somewhere in the range of four-foot-six or so. Yet they were very broad of shoulder, and they all wore leather vests with small, overlapping plates of bronze affixed thereon. Oh, ’tis armor they wear. Is this a warband, or do all Dwarves go about accoutered so? At their belts they wore daggers, but no other weaponry did they bear. All were bearded, and all seemed to be male. And they spoke to one another in a rather guttural and harsh-seeming tongue.

After they passed, Camille continued onward, her gaze now on faces and forms. Most were Human- “Common salt,” Louis would say — while others were Fey. She saw someone child-size, three foot tall or so, brown and shaggy and quite ugly. Spriggan? Her heart gave a lurch. No, not a Spriggan, but what? Mayhap one of those Alain called Pwca, yet then again, mayhap not. Onward she went, making her way along the crowded street, passing across bridges, progressing toward the big island, where Girard had said the inn would be. As she came nigh the midmost isle, she encountered two bearers carrying a small, silk-curtained litter, and Camille heard high-pitched giggling coming from within, sounding much like the giggles she had heard in the Springwood an eternity past, or it seemed that long ago. Still, she did not see who or what made the laughter.

Finally, as the sun lipped the horizon, she came upon the Crown and Scepter, a rather modest but quiet inn sitting a bit back from the sheer drop to the water below. The clerk looked somewhat askance at Scruff riding on Camille’s shoulder, and he shook his head and grinned, saying, “We get all sorts here, ma’amselle.”

“Maps?”

Camille nodded.

“Of Faery?”

Again Camille nodded.

It was the next morn, and Camille had decided to start the day speaking with any mapmakers in the city. And so, after breaking fast, she had asked the serving maid, who referred her to Huges, the desk clerk.

“Well, now,” said Huges, “I’m not certain there is such a thing, the way Faery keeps changing, and all.”

Even as Camille’s heart sank at this news, a second man, sitting at a desk behind the counter, quill in hand, looked up from his ledger sums. “Huges, that’s an old wives’ tale. Faery doesn’t shift about like a tassel in the wind.”

Huges raised an admonishing finger. “I only repeat what I hear, Robert.”

“Well, then, let me ask you this: how long have you lived here in Les Iles?”

Huges turned up his hands. “Why, I’ve been here almost as long as has the Crown and Scepter.”

“Ah, then, a good long while, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed.”

Robert smiled. “We agree. Now answer me this: how often has this part of Faery changed in all that time?”

Huges frowned. “Why, not at all.”

Robert touched his temple with the feathered plume. “And what would you conclude from that? — I mean about Faery changing and all.”

Huges’s jaw jutted out stubbornly, and he snapped, “Perhaps the ’scape of Faery doesn’t change much around here, but elsewhere, now.. well that may be a different story altogether.”

Robert sighed, then looked across at Camille. “Ma’amselle, I suggest you visit the docks, for perhaps they know of mapmakers and chartsmen and other such.”

“Merci, sieur. I shall do so.”

A fortnight later, her legs weary from climbing up and down ladders and stairs on the sheer-sided steeps of the isles, Camille had located many folk who had charts-boatsmen; traders; merchants, three of whom did sell maps-yet none knew of the place she sought.

Then she began seeking out minstrels and bards, visiting the parks where some played or orated, stopping on street corners to talk to others, walking alongside strolling musicians, and haunting taverns and theaters and music halls to speak with any she found. And she asked if they knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, and she also asked after Rondalo.

And all those she queried shook their heads or turned up their hands, though one had heard of the Elven bard, but had never met him.

She continued to visit the docks, for every day boats and travellers came and went, but it seemed a hopeless cause, for none knew of such a place, nor of a bard so named.

And another moon elapsed, and more blossoms withered away.

Oh, my Alain, one hundred ninety-nine blossoms remain; one hundred sixty-seven gone. Will I find you ere all are faded away?

In the lanternlight, Camille, having taken a late meal, trudged up the steps to her chamber. But at the top of the stairs, she heard Scruff chirping frantically even though it was night and he should have been well asleep. Fearing fire or some such, Camille rushed to her door and inside. Light from the hallway lantern shone dimly into the darkened room. “ Chp! — chp! — chp!.. ”-Camille could hear Scruff chattering from the direction of the bed, and in the dimness she could faintly see his wee form fluttering and flopping about on the covers. Swiftly, Camille lit a lantern and then quickly stepped to the agitated bird. “What is it, Scruff?” Camille knelt at the side of the bed, eye level with the sparrow, and she held out a finger, but Scruff ignored the offer and, fluttering awkwardly, he hopped to the floor and toward an open window, where a faint breeze stirred the curtains.

Camille frowned. I do not remember leaving the sash ajar.

Now she looked about the room. Oh, no! The chifforobe stood open, the drawers pulled out, the contents of her rucksack were strewn about, her cloak lying on the floor. As Scruff chattered up at the open window, Camille rushed to the scattered goods. The rucksack was empty, the secret pocket lay open, all the contents gone. She turned to her cloak; the lining was slitted; the jewelry and coin that had been therein was gone as well. And her money belt no longer lay in the bottommost drawer.

“Oh, Scruff, we have been robbed.”

The clerk called the city watch, and two men showed up, but there was little they could do, except take a description of the stolen goods-coin, jewelry, money belt. They did, however, tsk-tsk and admonish her for not taking better care of her valuables; and when she replied she thought the inn quite safe from thieves and such, they smiled and told her she was nought but a gullible girl.

When Camille suggested it might be Spriggans at work, they both denied that such were in the city. “We keep watch at the bridges and throw the buggers into the river below.”

After the watchmen had gone, the clerk cleared his throat. “Ahem, ma’amselle, but does this mean you cannot settle your debt to the Crown and Scepter?”

Camille burst into tears.

“Ma’amselle,” said Robert the very next morn, “you can work in my kitchen, though it will take some while to pay off what you owe.”

“How long, sieur?”

“Three moons, mayhap a bit more.”

Camille’s heart sank. “Oh, but that’s nearly one hundred days in all, one hundred blossoms withered.”

“Eh?” Robert cocked an eyebrow.

“There is another way,” said Huges, “one where you’ll erase your debt much quicker, mayhap in two fortnights or less.”

“Huges…” said Robert, a note of warning in his voice.

“Oh, sieur, I would be most grateful,” said Camille. “Where is this job?”

“At the Red Garter,” replied Huges.

“Red Garter?”

“A brothel,” growled Robert.

“And what would I have to do?” asked Camille in all innocence.

“You really don’t know, do you?” said Robert.

As Camille shook her head, Robert glared at Huges and said, “It’s just as well you don’t, for the Red Garter is no place for the likes of a young fille as you.”

“Robert, it is hers to decide, not yours,” said Huges.

“What would I have to do?” repeated Camille.

“Have you lain with a man?” asked Huges.

Camille reddened, but nevertheless replied, “With Alain, my beloved, he whom I do now seek.”

“That’s what you would have to do with the clientele of the ’Garter. And given your face and form and golden hair, men will gladly pay good coin to couple with you-”

Shocked, Camille blurted, “You want me to lie abed with strangers and do that?”

Huges nodded. “Many a lonely boatman and merchant and trader comes to Les Iles, and I would think one such as you would be in great demand; as I say, your debt would be wholly discharged within two fortnights, perhaps in but one.” Huges glanced at Robert, who stood in grim-lipped silence. “Much less than the three moons Robert offers.”

A fortnight compared to three moons. Yet to couple with strangers, any and all who can pay? But what if on the morrow, someone comes to the city who can tell me where to find my Alain? And if I work here at the Crown and Scepter, how will I even get about to ask, given that I am tied down by having to do kitchen labor? Yet if I work at the Red Garter, a place frequented by travellers and merchants and boatmen, could I not find one who knows whereof I seek? But to lie with strange men, would my heart remain pure? Would Thale ever bear me again? Would I ever-?

“Of course, my uncle would have to approve,” added Huges, breaking into her thoughts. “Perhaps even try you himself.”

“Your uncle?”

“He owns the Red Garter”-Huges smiled-“it is a play on his name: Gautier.”

Camille shuddered and turned to Robert. “Sieur, may I work in your kitchen while I consider what to do?”

Robert smiled. “Indeed, ma’amselle.”

That evening, Camille and Scruff were moved into cramped quarters in the attic, and the following day, Camille began washing dishes and aiding the cook and bearing out garbage to cast into the waters below. It was the best Robert could offer, for, though he sympathized with Camille, her manual skills were those of a crofter, and there were no farms in Les Iles for her to earn her keep while working off her obligation.

Even so, Camille struggled with her dilemma: one hundred days versus as few as fourteen; her virtue versus mayhap finding Alain. She spoke to no one about her quandary, though she did tell of her loss.

Many of the kitchen staff did commiserate with her, telling of cutpurses and robbers and muggers and such, some blaming the burglary on a shadowy thieves’ guild, while others declared that it must have been those wretched urchins who had stolen her wealth, while yet others blamed it on Bogles in the night, or Knockers or River Selkies, or even mayhap-Mithras forbid-creatures of the Unseelie.

The cook did ask how she could have been so innocent as to leave her valuables unwarded, and at this Lisane’s words echoed in Camille’s mind: “… you are quite guileless and trusting, which is both to your good and ill…” Even as tears brimmed in her eyes, Camille answered the cook as she had Lisane. “I am who I am, sieur. If that means I am an innocent, then so it is I am.”

Some four days after, as she was washing dishes she began singing to make the work go swifter, a habit from her days in the cottage of her pere. And as she sang, the cook stopped what he was doing and stood rapt, listening, along with the kitchen help and serving girls, and the common-room staff as well. And soon Robert came to the door of the scullery, drawn thereto by her voice, and, as did the others, he, too, stood spellbound. As Camille turned to take up another dish: “Oh!”-she abruptly stopped-“M’sieur, I did not-Is my singing disturb-I’ll be quiet.”

“No, no, Camille,” protested Robert. “I would have you sing. Why did you not tell me you have the voice of an angel?”

“But, m’sieur, I-”

“How many songs do you know? And have you sung before an audience?”

“Oh, sieur, sing for others? I am no bard nor minstrel.”

Robert snorted. “Minstrels, bards, what would they know of how an angel sings?”

In moments, Robert had taken Camille’s apron from her and had given her a towel to dry her hands. And he drew her into the common room and quietly spoke of her working off her debt much swifter if she would sing therein-two times each eve, and for a candlemark or so each time.

It took less than a fortnight for the word to spread across Les Iles: a golden-haired girl with a golden voice was singing at the Crown and Scepter, and ’twas said she sometimes sings to a wee little bird.

And every night the common room was crowded, come to see and hear the beautiful maiden who sings to a sparrow. They had come for the novelty, but they stayed for the voice. Accompanied by nought but a flute and a drum and a fife and a harp-four musicians she had met in her search-she held the crowd enthralled; and her songs were such that one moment they were laughing, and the next they were in tears.

And every night, after every performance, ere she and the musicians took up the coins cast upon the stage, she would ask the audience if any knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, or of an Elven Bard named Rondalo.

The answer was always Non.

Camille’s debt vanished virtually overnight, much sooner than the fortnight or two offered by Huges, and Robert moved her into a suite of rooms. Seamstresses came and fashioned gowns, and from the music halls came managers who offered her unheard-of sums if she would but sing for them.

Camille politely declined, for she yet felt beholden to Robert.

But Robert now knew of her quest, and he bade her to sing in the largest hall-Le Magestreux-at least three nights of each seven, “… for the Crown and Scepter can still highly profit from the other four.”

And so she did.

And there, too, in the grand music hall did she ask the overflowing audiences did they know of the place she sought as well as where might be the bard? And still no answers came.

Days passed, and blossoms withered and vanished-two hundred ten, two hundred twenty, and more-and each day Camille’s desperation grew, and she felt as if she needed to be doing something, anything, other than remaining there in Les Iles… yet what? She had no answer, and there came times in the depths of the night, her despair so deep, she fell asleep while weeping.

Camille continued to trek to the docks and through the city seeking strangers. Too, she hired a group of urchins to be her eyes and ears, and to ask her two questions of strangers as well. But all the queries-hers and theirs-were met by shrugs, though many of those asked did now seem to know of Camille and her continuing quest.

But then came one night…

Camille took up Scruff and reached high to set him on the branch of a potted tree there upon the brightly lit stage. She stood silent for a moment, and a hush fell over the audience, and then came a run of tweeting notes from the fife, and Camille turned as if just discovering the wee brown bird, and she began to sing:

“Tiny brown sparrow, sitting in the tree,

Scruffy little soul, just like me,

Would you be an eagle, would you be a hawk,

Or would you wish instead to sing like a lark?

Or would you have plumage bright and gay,

Or would you wish…”

As Camille came to the second verse, the drum softly took up the rhythm, adding its beat to the chirping fife. At the third verse, the flute joined in, and at the fourth, the harp, and still Camille sang verse upon verse, chorus after chorus, her song telling the well-known tale of the maiden who found comfort in the familiar, yet who wished somehow to experience something new and unpredictable, a maiden who would finally discover love, which would set her free to fly as the transformed sparrow she then was. And in singing this song, Camille’s voice soared to heights that caused the audience to gasp, and it dropped to depths but a whisper, her tones pure and clear and true.

And as the song came toward an end, a clear tenor voice from the audience joined with hers, and Camille nearly faltered- Alain? — and she looked to see who caroled in flawless harmony in melodic counterpoint to her soaring soprano. In the shadows beyond the footlights she could just make out a tall, fair-haired stranger standing midway up the right-hand aisle, someone she had never before seen, yet someone somehow familiar. The audience broke into spontaneous applause, quickly quelled, for they would not miss even a single note or word, as the stranger sang of the sparrow, and the golden-haired maiden sang of the girl.

And the harp and fife, and flute and drum fell silent, for here was perfection needing no accompaniment.

And as he caroled, the stranger walked forward to sing up to Camille, and she to sing down to him.

At last the song came to an end, and both Camille and the stranger fell silent, as did the entire hall, some in the audience weeping quietly in joy, others sitting wholly stunned.

But then Scruff emitted a loud “ Chp! ” and as if that were a signal, the hall erupted in great glad shouts and thunderous applause and calls of “ Bravo! Bis! Plus! ” and “ Camille!”

The stranger leapt onto the stage, and he took Camille’s hand and bowed to the audience as she curtseyed. As they stepped back from the footlights he smiled at her, the sapphire gaze of his tilted eyes sparkling within his narrow but handsome face, his alabaster skin somehow glowing as of a hint of gold. Tall and lean, he stepped forward with her again, and bowed as she curtseyed, and as he did so he glanced sideways at her and said, “My Lady Camille, I am Rondalo, and I hear you have been looking for me.”