As Camille stepped across the threshold and into a parlor, she said, “You are…?”
“Vivette,” said the damsel, just as another beautiful, dark-haired, and buxom maiden entered, her eyes blue as well.
“Oh, but I was expecting someone, er…”
The sisters looked at one another, somewhat bewildered. “Someone..?” said Vivette, pausing, waiting on Camille.
“Well, older,” blurted Camille.
Again the sisters looked questioningly at one another, and Romy said, “Well, there isn’t anyone older in Ardon than us.”
“But you’re not, um…”
Enlightenment filled Vivette’s eyes. “Ah, I see. Wrinkled, you mean. Age-bent.”
Camille shrugged and grinned apologetically.
“Oh, la!” said Romy. “It’s just that we’ve never been in the mortal lands, where I understand time does terrible things.”
Only in Faery, thought Camille, and smiled as Vivette said, “Sit. I’ll put on a kettle. Romy has some wonderful petit fours. And perhaps we can fetch up something for that cute little sparrow of yours.”
On Camille’s shoulder, Scruff emitted a chp! as if to say, Cute?
Camille spent an afternoon at tea with them, and though the sisters did have much lore, neither did know of a land or district or town or building or aught else that fit what Camille sought. They did, however, bid her to seek the aid of the Lady of the Bower. “She lives somewhere across the twilight boundary down the road,” said Vivette. “Just where, I cannot say.”
Camille looked at Romy, but she shook her head and shrugged.
“This Lady of the Bower…” said Camille.
“A wisewoman,” said Vivette.
“With knowledge arcane,” added Romy.
“And you know not where she lives?”
The sisters looked at one another and then to Camille and shook their heads. “But she’s somewhere beyond the marge,” said Vivette.
“It’s just that we don’t go there,” said Romy. “The Spriggans, you know.”
“I do not care for ghosts,” said Camille. “Especially the ghosts of Redcaps, but any ghost of anyone or thing, I would rather avoid.”
Vivette frowned. “Ghosts?”
“The Spriggans,” replied Camille. “Jolie at the inn said that Spriggans are the ghosts of Giants.”
“Oh, la, Camille, that is but an old wives’ tale,” said Vivette. “They are not ghosts at all, but rather ugly little things who can inflate themselves to enormous size to make you think they are Giants; yet instead they are quite cowardly.”
“Thieves, they are,” added Romy. “They’ll steal you blind and flee to hidden caves, where they ward their ill-gotten gains.”
“Though cowards all, some say they are quite dangerous,” said Vivette, “able to call up great winds and storms.”
“If you have any valuables,” said Romy, “I would advise avoiding their realm. Either that, or you could wait for a knight-errant to escort you through.”
“Knight-errant?”
“Yes,” said Romy. “Travelling sellswords, they are. Now and then one comes through. They are quite gallant and brave, and would make splendid travelling companions across perilous realms.”
“When might one come by?” asked Camille.
“Perhaps in a moon or two,” said Vivette. She glanced at her sister and then leaned forward and whispered, “We usually entertain them.”
Romy giggled and twirled a finger in her dark hair. “It seems they tell one another about us.”
“In a moon or so,” said Vivette. “Perhaps more than one will come. Then you can have a brave companion to escort you beyond the twilight. Of course, they tend to stay here awhile, and so it might be a fortnight or two ere they’ll be ready to take to the road again.”
“I think I cannot wait,” said Camille, “for I must find my Alain, and if the Lady of the Bower can aid me, knight or no, I have no choice but to go on.”
The sisters looked at one another and tsk-tsk ed, and Romy said, “Well, then, you must go.”
Once again that evening, Camille examined the walking stave. As before, the bottommost flower looked withered. “Ah, Scruff, how can this be? At break of day it was quite healthy. But now… Besides, the flower is wooden, carved. How can such wither?” Scruff answered not, for he was quite sound asleep, tucked away in the shadows of the bed canopy. Once more she counted the tiny dints on the carved vine. Sixty-one: the same as this morning. Again she counted them. Sixty-one. She set the staff aside, and disrobed, making ready for bed. As she was washing her face, she glanced across at the stave. I wonder how many flowers? Swiftly she finished her ablutions, and then took up the stave again, but this time she counted the blossoms, including the withered one. Hmm… Three hundred and five. Once more she counted them, and then again; the tally remained the same. An elusive thought tugged at her mind, yet she could not quite grasp it. This night as well, she tied a thread about, just below the last blossom. Then she blew out the lantern and crawled under the covers. “Lady Sorciere, what does this mean?” she asked aloud in the dark. But no answer came.
Sixty-two and three hundred and four; one blossom less, one dint more. “Did you know that, Scruff? One blossom less, one dint more.”
“ Chp-chp-chp-chp…! ” Scruff chattered, yet it seemed more likely he complained of being hungry, rather than responding to her question.
“All right, all right, you demanding little beggar, it’s off to break our fast we go.”
Down the stairs she went, and out into the arbor. She set Scruff to the ground and then took a seat at the table. And though her gaze was upon Scruff chasing insects, it was plain she did not see him, for she was deep in thought: A blossom withers each day, sixty-two altogether. What can it-? Oh, sweet Mithras! Swiftly Camille tallied up how many days she had been on her quest. Two days and a half it took to go from the Lady of the Mere to the twilight border along the grassland; seven days on the grass; some nine days in the foothills gathering food; ah, three days trapped by rain; a day walking up to the col; thirty days across the Endless Mountains; and two full days in Ardon, not counting today, which has just begun. That sums to, um.. fifty-five days altogether. Fifty-nine if I add in the time I searched for the Seer by the Mere… Lady Sorciere. That doesn’t tally to sixty-two. Oh, then there is this: sixty-two dints and three hundred and four blossoms, that sums to three hundred and sixty-six; that’s how many blossoms the staff must have started wi “Your break fast, Camille,” someone called.
Her concentration broken, Camille glanced up to see Jolie coming out to the arbor, a laden tray in hand. As Jolie set the tray to the table and began parceling out the dishes and such thereon, she asked, “Have you had any luck with your query? The whole village wants to know.”
Camille sighed. “Non, Jolie. It seems no one in Ardon knows the-” Suddenly Camille’s eyes widened in revelation, and she snatched up the stave. “Three hundred and sixty-six! A year and a day!”
“What, my lady?” asked Jolie, taken somewhat aback by Camille’s outburst.
“Don’t you see, Jolie? Alain disappeared sixty-two days ago, the same number as are dints on the stave, the same number as the flowers that have withered. If I add up all the dints and the remaining blossoms, it comes to three hundred and sixty-six: a year and a day. ‘A year and a day and a whole moon beyond,’ that’s what Lady Sorciere said. The withering blossoms are-But wait. What about…?”
Jolie, entirely confused, watched as Camille again carefully examined the staff. A moment later, Camille pointed to the dark disk at the top of the garland. “That must be the moon, Jolie.-Oh, my, this is a calendar, a marking stick, keeping track of the days.”
“I remember calendars from when I lived in the mortal lands,” said Jolie, yet bewildered, for she had no idea whatsoever what three hundred and sixty-six had to do with Camille, nor a whole moon beyond, for that matter. Jolie shook her head. “But there are no calendars here. Not in Faery. Time touches not this place.”