“A good choice, Madame,” said Borel. “Better than a limber foil, and I see that you have well wrapped the grip against slippage, and fashioned a small pommel as well.”
“I also shaped it for the Sprite’s grip,” said the widow, “and I fixed the bell in place with silver-wire collars and a bit of crucible-melted silver as solder.”
“Well done, Madame,” said Borel, inclining his head.
“And the belt…?” said Flic, smiling at the daughter Renee.
Renee refused to look directly at the Sprite, and instead cast a sidelong glance at him as she said, “Sieur Sprite, please note the silver-coil sheath has a keeper to secure the epee in place so that it won’t fall out as you, um, flit about. A simple flick of the thumb will set the epee free.”
“Superb, Demoiselle Renee,” said Borel.
Renee blushed before Borel’s penetrating, ice-blue gaze, but she said nought.
“Well, try it on, my lad,” said Borel.
Flic, a wicked grin on his face, said, “Demoiselle Renee, would you care to fasten my belt ’round me?”
“Non!” said the daughter as the widow choked back a laugh.
“Ah, me,” said the Sprite, and he took up the belt and buckled it about his waist. The fit was exact, though there were additional holes for expansion. Borel handed him the silver-bladed epee, and Flic flourished it about, and then slid it into its silver-coil scabbard. He frowned a moment, but then discovered how to slip the keeper in place.
“There, how do I look?” said Flic, strutting back and forth.
“Ah, tres bon! ” said the widow, glancing at Borel and winking. “The very picture of a gay blade.”
And even Renee looked, for she could not resist seeing just how well her handiwork suited the Sprite. Flic turned toward her and struck a full frontal pose, and Renee threw up her hands in exasperation, and Flic struck another stance. At this posture, Renee burst out in titters.
“What, ma cherie? Do you find me amusing?” said Flic.
Renee only giggled all the harder, though she did turn away.
Flic stepped toward Buzzer and said, “Well, Madame Buzzer, now we both have stings.”
Borel then said to the milliner, “My lady, we need a needle that will fit these.” He drew forth the three Pooka hairs. “We must weave these three into this rope.” Now he drew out a length of the Gnome-made line from another pocket.
Marie said, “Ah, in my daughter’s hands it will take but a trice.”
“Madame Marie, I think this is something Flic must do,” said Borel.
“But I could use instructions,” said Flic. “Perhaps Demoiselle Renee could guide the work while I actually perform it.”
A small smile graced the corner of Marie’s mouth, and she said, “Most certainly, for she has a finer hand than I. Renee, s’il-te-plait.”
“But, Mother, he is still naked!” protested Renee.
“No I’m not,” retorted Flic. “I’m wearing a belt.”
“Though to me it was rather like my epee, we used a silver needle,” said Flic, “once Marie discovered what it was to be used for. She said silver has wondrous properties for dealing with things of ill intent, and a Pooka is certainly that.”
“And how did you and Renee get along,” said Borel, grinning. “Did she, um, get a rise out of you?”
Flic smiled, but shook his head. “Oh, no. She’s a rather nice girl, once you get to know her. I think we became friends as she showed me how to slip the needle and the Pooka-hair ‘thread’ through the plait of the Gnome rope. When I told her we were depending on the power of three, she had me weave the three hairs in three separate spirals up and about the line, exactly three turns each, and always making certain to keep them an equal distance apart from one another, even though they twisted ’round the rope. It practically made me dizzy, but she said patterns are important, and if it made me dizzy, then think what it would do to the Pooka. We chatted about this and that while she guided and I worked.-Say, did you know that her father Renaud was in Lord Roulan’s manor when the black wind came?”
“Ah, then,” said Borel, “perhaps the Widow Marie isn’t a widow after all.”
Flic frowned. “Your meaning?”
“Just this: since Chelle is yet alive, then there is a chance that others within the manor are alive as well. Of course, that presupposes the vale was carried up and away by the wind, rather than being turned to stone.”
“Ah, even so,” said Flic, “if there is a chance the others survived… Perhaps I should fly back and tell-”
“Oh, Flic, I think it better to not get anyone’s hopes up in case I am wrong.”
“Very well, my lord,” said Flic.
They sat a moment without speaking, and then Flic said, “What about the constable? What did he say when you told him of the Pooka?”
“He was shocked, to say the least. He wanted to get an armed party together and run down the beast.”
“Did you tell him that anyone who killed a Pooka would be cursed forever, and that the entire area would be blighted?”
“Oui,” said Borel. “I also told him that I had a plan to rid the area of the Pooka, and he was most glad to hear it.”
“Well, my prince, let us hope your plan works, whatever it is.”
Two candlemarks before sunset, Borel and Buzzer and Flic set off upriver, the Widow Marie and Daughter Renee and Constable Moreau the only ones to see them off.
As Borel strolled along the trace of road paralleling the bank, Flic said, “Tell me, my lord, you say that you must court a woman and get to know her before you know whether she is really your truelove, right?”
“Oui,” said Borel.
“Well, then, what of love at first sight? Do humans not experience such?”
“Humans oft fall in love at first sight,” said Borel.
“What of courtship then, my lord?”
“Then, Flic, it is very swift,” said Borel.
“Ha! No different from Fey, eh?”
Borel laughed, but made no reply.
After a moment Flic said, “If you insist upon doing it, haven’t you been courting Chelle and she courting you in your dreams?”
“Although it appears that way, Flic, I think one cannot truly court in a dream unless both sleepers are aware they are dreaming, and even then I wonder. You see, dreams are ephemeral, and though in this case I am aware in the dream that it is such a thing, Chelle is not, and therefore is subject to its whims, both during the dream and afterward. Hence, when she wakes, just as with any dream, courtship or no, she might not remember it at all. She might also be an entirely different person awake from what she is asleep. As I said before, in dreams inhibitions are greatly muted, and one can profess love for a total stranger and believe it to be true, and yet upon awakening will know such a thing to be entirely false.
“And so, my friend, I think it is only in our waking life that we might know of true love… and even that is not certain, for true love seems to be rare, as wonderful as it is.”
Flic snorted and said, “Humans: the hoops you jump through to find a mate. Me, I’d rather be a Sprite. Besides, I’ve found my truelove, though I’ve only known Fleurette for a brief part of a single day.”
Borel strode on upriver, both he and Flic pondering the oddities of the other’s Kind, each knowing the “one best way” for trueloves to find one another.
And the farther Borel walked, the louder came the rumble of the raging water ahead, until at last-with the sun setting and twilight drawing across the land-they came to the long, steep slant of the White Rapids, where the river narrowed and roared between sloping stone banks to thunder over rounded boulders and great jagged crags and slabs of rock as it plunged down the perilous incline.
Above the thunder of water hurtling apace, Flic said, “There, by that big rock-yes, that one there-that’s where the Pooka submerged.”