The silver gate winked at us across the meadows; we were beside it, it seemed, before I had my feet in the stirrups. But when I looked back, the castle was far away, the gardens only a memory outlined in delicate green. I pulled Greatheart to a halt for a moment, a strange and unexpectedly queasy moment for me; but I thought, Nonsense; I’ll be back in a week. We jogged through the gate, and it swung silently shut behind us.
I had no idea of direction, hadn’t thought to ask the Beast before I left, but Greatheart jogged steadily along the carriage-road as if he knew where he was going. I remembered that the road ran out within a few miles of the grey gates; but the dark afternoon shadows lengthened across the sand-coloured road, and it still showed no sign of ending. I had a queer, sixth-sense feeling that just beyond the first shadow up ahead that I couldn’t see through, the road ended, but had unrolled as far as the next shadow by the time we had reached the first. Great-heart trotted tirelessly; I knew that we still had a long way to go, and we should reserve our strength, but when I slackened the reins, the horse leaped forwards into a gallop. I let him run, the sun sparkling in his pale mane as it lifted and fell with the motion, the pale road unfolding just beyond the edge of sight.
We stopped once, and I slacked the girths and fed Greatheart pieces of bread and orange, but we were both eager to go on. I tried to make him walk, but he fretted so that I told myself that he was wasting more energy than if I let him jog; so we jogged.
The sun sank beyond our sight, and twilight crept out from behind the trees and spread across our way; the road glimmered faintly. Then something else, a golden glimmer, showed among the trees for a moment and was gone. Then it showed again. It might be lamplight from a house. I leaned forwards and Greatheart broke into a gallop again, and galloped till the reins were slippery with sweat; and then we burst through the border of the trees, and we were in the meadow behind the house, lamplight gleaming through the kitchen window, gold-edging the roses that hung near it, and laying down a little golden carpet on the grass verge between the back door and the kitchen garden. Greatheart plunged to a stop, then threw his head out and neighed like a war-horse. There was a moment of dreadful silence, then the back door flew open, and Hope said, “It is Greatheart!” and I slid out of the saddle and ran to the door. By the time I got there, everyone else had come outside, and we laughed and hugged one another, and Greatheart, who had followed me for his share of the attention, was petted and kissed, and most if not all of us were crying.
The babies, left alone in the kitchen, had made their way to the door and were looking curiously at the confusion outside. Mercy slid down the two steps to the ground and stood, precariously, clutching one of the posts of the chicken-wire fence that protected the garden from the little creatures that never came out of the enchanted forest. “Mercy,” said her grandfather, after the initial uproar had subsided, “do you remember Beauty?”
“No,” she replied, but when I walked over to her she smiled at me and held up her arms. I picked her up, while the more timid Richard made a dash from the door and wrapped himself in his mother’s skirts.
“Come in, come in/’ said Father. “You must tell us everything,”
“Wait, I have to put Greatheart away—is there space for him?”
“We’ll make space,” said Ger.
“I’ll set another place at the table,” said Grace. “We’re just sitting down to dinner.” All our voices sounded strange, breathless, and creaky; I found it difficult to think clearly. Grace and Hope and Richard went back inside the house while the rest of us went out to the stable. “Would Mercy like a ride?” I said, with laudable presence of mind; my own earliest memories were of wanting to sit on horses. “Try her,” said Ger, “She and Richard are old friends with Odysseus now.” Mercy was arranged on Greatheart’s saddle and held by the leg from both sides, and we safely navigated the few steps to the stable. Ger went inside to light a lantern. “Big” was Mercy’s comment when she was lifted down.
Besides Odysseus’s brown blazed face, there was a new chestnut face that looked over Greatheart’s old stall door. “Cider,” said Ger. “Five years old; a nice little mare. I hope they’ll get along. We can tie Greatheart in a corner, here. There’s plenty of hay.” I pulled off the saddle. My head was ringing.
“Hurry up, can’t you?” begged Father, who was holding Mercy. “I mustn’t ask you anything till we go back inside and join the girls and the suspense is killing me.” Just then Hope appeared in the doorway, “Are you going to stay here all night? We’ll die of suspense, and the food will get cold, in that order.” Ger took my saddle-bags, and we walked back, I with an arm each around Hope and my father. ‘-’I don’t believe it yet,” I said. “Neither do we,” said Hope, and hugged me again.
It wasn’t until we were inside the house and in the light that something that had been bothering me obscurely struck me with full force. I looked at Hope, who was still standing near me: “You’ve shrunk,” I squeaked. I was looking down at her, and seven months ago I had looked up, several inches. Hope laughed; “My dear, you’ve grown!” Grace, die taller of the two, came to stand next to me; I was even an inch or so taller than she. “There! We always told you you’d grow; you were just too impatient, and wouldn’t believe us,” she said, smiling.
“Seven inches in seven months isn’t bad,” said Ger. “I hope this trend will not continue too much longer.”
“Oh, stop it, spoilsport,” Hope said. “And look at the roses in your cheeks!” she said to me. “Enchantments agree with you. I’ve never seen you look prettier.”
I grinned. “That’s not saying much, little sister.”
“Now, children,” said Grace mock-seriously. “No fighting. Let’s eat.”
“Do we have to wait till after dinner to hear your story?” said Father plaintively. “At least tell us: Are you home for good and ever now?”
“No,” I said, as gently as I could. “I’m afraid not. It’s just a visit.” In the joy of coming home the real reason for my visit had been brushed aside and buried; now I recalled it, I cast a quick glance at Grace, who was smiling at me. “I’ll tell you all about it after dinner,” I said. “I’m hungry.... You could tell me about what’s been happening here since I’ve been gone. It seems like years, I half-expect to see the babies all grown up,”
“Not yet,” said Hope, rescuing Mercy’s cup just before she knocked it on the floor.
It had been a good year for them, happy—except for the loss of the youngest daughter—and certainly prosperous. Ger’s reputation had spread till he had more work than he could do. “I could just about keep abreast of it—I hate turning people away, particularly if they’ve come from a distance—but then, a month ago, Ferdy was called away. He’d become nearly indispensable to me in those six months; but an uncle in Goose Landing was badly hurt by a falling log, and they needed somebody to help look after the farm; their children are all very young. So Ferdy went, and I’m afraid we won’t be getting him back. I have Melinda’s oldest boy working for me now; he’s a little young, but he’s doing well. But it’ll take time for him to learn everything he needs—I need him—to know.”
“And what’s suffering for it worst is the extra room we’re trying to build on the house,” said Father. “We’d hoped to have it finished by winter, but we won’t now,” Father’s carpentry business had improved to the point where he could specialize in what he could build at home, in the shop. “I’m too old to crawl around on other people’s roofs,” he said, “and I like working at home. Beds and trunks and cradles, and chairs and tables, and the occasional wagon or cart, mostly. And some repairs. I seem to make a terrible lot of wheels. I get a little fancy work now and then—that’s what I like best—scrollwork on a desk, carved legs on a table.”