Shy, sad for those saddened by whosoever death it was they mourned, she stood a long time watching, her present for Auberon held tight under her arm, listening to the iow sounds of their voices. Then one turned at the end of the table, and his black hat tilted up, and his white teeth grinned to see her. He raised a cup to her, and waved her forward. Gladder than she could have imagined to see him, she made her way through the throng to him, many eyes turning toward her, and hugged him, tears in her throat. “Hey,” she said. “Heeeey.”
“Hey,” George said. “Now everybody’s here.”
Holding him, she looked around at the crowded table, dozens present, smiling or weeping or draining cups, some crowned, some furred or feathered (a stork or somebody like one dipped her beak in a tall cup, eying with misgivings a grinning fox beside her) but Somehow room for all. “Who are all these people?” she said.
“Family,” George said.
“Who died?” Sylvie whispered.
“His father,” George said, and pointed out a man who sat, bent-backed, a handkerchief over his face, and a leaf stuck in his hair. The man turned, sighing deeply; the three women with him, looking up and smiling at Sylvie as though they knew her, turned him further to face her.
“Auberon,” Sylvie said.
Everyone watched as they met. Sylvie could say nothing, the tears of Auberon’s grief were still on his face, and he had nothing that he could say to her, so they only took hands. Aaaah, said all the guests. The music altered; Sylvie smiled, and they cheered her smile. Someone crowned her with odorous white blooms, and Auberon likewise, taking chaplets of locust-flower from the locust-tree which overhung the feast-table. Cups were raised, and toasts shouted; there was laughter. The music pealed. With her brown ringed hand, Sylvie brushed the tears from her prince’s face.
The moon sailed toward morning; the banquet turned from wake to wedding, and grew riotous; the people stood up to dance, and sat down to eat and drink.
“I knew you’d be here,” Sylvie said. “I knew it.”
A Real Gift
In his certainty that she was here now, the fact that Auberon had himself not known at all that she would be here dissolved. “I was sure too,” he said. “Sure.
“But,” he said, “why, a while ago—” he had no sense of how long ago it had been, hours, ages “— when I called your name, why didn’t you stop, and turn around?”
“Did you?” she said. “Did you call my name?”
“Yes. I saw you. You were going away. I called ‘Sylvie!’ ”
“Sylvie?” She looked at him in cheerful puzzlement. “Oh!” she said at length. “Oh! Sylvie! Well, see, I forgot. Because it’s been so long. Because they never call me that here. They never did.”
“What do they call you?”
“Another name,” she said. “A nickname I had when I was a kid.”
“What name?” he said.
She told him.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”
She laughed to see his face. She poured foaming drink into his cup and offered it to him. He drank. “So listen,” she said. “I want to hear all your adventures. All of them. Don’t you want to hear mine?”
All of them, all of them, he thought, the honeyed liquor he drank washing away any sense he might have had of what they could be, it was as though they were all yet to happen, and he would be in them. A prince and a princess: the Wild Wood. Had she then been there, in that kingdom, their kingdom, all along? Had he? What anyway had his adventures been? They vanished, crumpling into broken nothings even as he thought of them, they became as dim and unreal as a gloomy future, even as the future opened before him like a storied past.
“I should have known,” he said laughing. “I should have known.”
“Yes,” she said. “Just beginning. You’ll see.”
Not one story, no, not one story with one ending but a thousand stories, and so far from over as hardly to have begun. She was swept away from him then by laughing dancers, and he watched her go, there were many hands importuning her, many creatures at her quick feet, and her smile was frank for all of them. He drank, inflamed, his feet itching to learn the antic-hay. And could she, he thought watching her, still cause him pain, too? He touched the gift which in their revels she had placed on his brow, two handsome, broad, ridged and exquisitely recurving horns, heavy and brave as a crown, and thought about them. Love wasn’t kind, not always; a corrosive thing, it burned away kindness as it burned away grief. They were infants now in power, he and she, but they would grow; their quarrels would darken the moon and scatter the frightened wild things like autumn gales, would do so, had long done so, it didn’t matter.
Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Her aunt was a witch, but his sisters were queens of air and darkness; their gifts had once aided him, and would again. He was heir to his father’s bafflements, but he could touch his mother for strength… As though turning the pages of an endless compendium of romances, all read long ago, he saw the thousands of her children, generations of them, most of them his, he would lose track of them, meet them as strangers, love them, lie with them, fight them, forget them. Yes! They would blunt the pens of a dozen chroniclers with their story and the stories their story generated, tedious, hilarious, or sad; their feasts, their balls, their masques and quarrels, the old curse laid on him and her kiss that mitigated it, their long partings, her vanishings and disguises (crone, castle, bird, he foresaw or remembered many but not all), their reunions and couplings tender or lewd: it would be a spectacle for all, an endless and-then. He laughed a huge laugh, seeing that it would be so: for he had a gift for that, after all; a real gift.
“Y’see?” said the black locust-tree that overhung the feast-table, the locust from which the flowers that decked Auberon’s horned head had been taken. “Y’see? Jes’ oney the brave deserve the fair.
She’s Here
She’s Near
The dance whirled around the prince and princess, marking a wide circle in the dewy grass; the fireflies, toward dawn, turned in a great circle in obedience to the turning of Lilac’s finger, wheeling in the opulent darkness. Aaaah, said all the guests.
“Just the beginning,” Lilac said to her mother. “You see? Just like I told you.”
“Yes, but Lilac,” Sophie said. “You lied to me, you know. About the peace treaty. About meeting them face to face.”
Lilac, elbow on the littered table, rested her cheek in the cup of her hand, and smiled at her mother. “Did I?” she said, as though she couldn’t remember that.
“Face to face,” Sophie said, looking along the broad table. How many were the guests? She’d count them, but they moved around so, and diminished uncountably into the sparkling darkness; some were crashers, she thought, that fox, maybe that gloomy stork, certainly this clumsy stag-beetle that staggered amid the spilled cups flourishing its black antlers; anyway she didn’t need to count in order to know how many were here. Only—“Where’s Alice, though?” she said. “Alice should be here.”