As she followed the mare's hoofprints, the dark began to come down so she thought she must lose the trail soon. She studied the darkening hills for a white form. But even if she saw one, it could be Gillie's goats and not the mare at all.
But Gillie would not have them out so late. He would be at the palace watching the ball from some dark place where the servants were allowed to peek out. What would he think when he did not see her dancing in the gown he had given her?
Once she saw a bit of white and ran over the hills to it, but it was only a rock. Soon it was so dark she could no longer find the hoofprints.
Then the moon began to send up its light before itself, a pale gleam behind the hills, that grew slowly. It threw shadows across the hills, then made their round faces grow lighter. Now she could see the mare's trail a little, and she hurried faster.
Then the moon itself came, a sliver. Then it was more than a sliver, and the hoofprints were etched sharply upon the whitened road. Then the moon pulled itself up on top the last hill, tore away and hung suspended, and the hills themselves were bathed in its icy light. Thursey searched the landscape, but she was entirely alone.
Now on her left was a copse of dark trees, and she thought of robbers. She tried to think, instead, how the carriages would look arriving at the ball. They would be lined along the drive, and from each would step down gentlemen with lace at their cuffs and swords hanging at their sides and ladies in lovely gowns. Were there footmen to take the horses' heads? But of course there would be. A shadow on her left seemed to have moved. Now it was still, though, and she went on, listening. Nothing stirred behind her. On her right was the swamp now, the moon caught the shallow water and the mud flats into a silver lake. What was that, far out on the swamp path? It was white, and surely it was moving. Thursey turned onto the narrow path and called to the mare. Her voice sounded strange. What would hear her besides the mare in this eerie place? The white shape seemed to grow smaller.
She hurried faster and the shape moved away from her. It must be the mare. "Oh, wait for me!" Thursey cried. But the mare moved on annoyingly. The water around Thursey was like liquid metal, the moon reflected in it.
The swamp path wound and lost itself among copses of stunted trees, and always just ahead the white shape moved away. Only once did Thursey get a little closer, and then her directions were confused entirely—but surely it was the mare.
Then the shape left the swamp path and plunged into the swamp itself and Thursey, thoroughly frightened, plunged after it, running.
The mud was icy cold, and slimy round her ankles. She called to the mare, and her voice did not seem so lost now because the noise of her splashing accompanied it. The shape ahead took no notice of her. Then by a lonely tree the mare looked back and threw her head in stubborn defiance. Thursey could see her plainly now. She sighed with relief. "Come on, old mare," she cried. "Can't you wait for me?"
The mare flicked her tail and went on.
"Oh please, I need you so," Thursey cried. She was almost in tears.
The mare stopped.
She was knee deep in mud when Thursey got to her and looking very pleased with herself. She drew back her old lips, showed her huge yellow teeth, and nipped Thursey on the arm.
"Oh!" Thursey cried and put the rope on her. "Oh, how horrid you can be!" And then she collapsed against the mare, crying in spite of herself. She told the mare about the dress and about how cruelly the sisters had acted. She cried and cried against the mare's warm neck, and the mare stood patiently in the mud and did not nip again. Clouds covered the moon so the swamp darkened, and the water grew colder around their feet. But it didn't matter, they were together.
When the mare started back of her own accord toward the swamp path, Thursey was so exhausted she could only follow dumbly, hanging onto the halter. The mare seemed in some haste now to be out of the mud, and soon it was all Thursey could do to trot beside her in the knee-deep muck and to climb up the slick bank toward the swamp path. From slimy water they squelched onto clinging mud—then suddenly ahead of them a second white shape loomed. If the mare had not been beside her, Thursey would surely have followed it. She trembled so her heart seemed to stop and tried to force the mare in another direction, but the stubborn old creature kept on, looking with little interest at the pale shape.
Thursey jerked the halter but it did little good. It's nothing! she thought. It's nothing but a tree. But she wasn't sure.
Then she caught the scent of roses.
"It's roses," she said aloud, wondering. "It's the enchanted rosebush. But it can't be, there's no such thing as enchantment. It's just a plain rosebush. There's no such thing as haunts either," she added sharply and approached the bush straight on.
When she reached it, she was trembling, perhaps with fear, perhaps from anticipation. And overcome with curiosity. How could such a bush grow in these quantities of mud? She stared at the heavily budded branches —the bush was a tall as she was—then leaned against the mare's warm side, thinking. The mare, bored, began to nose among the runners for grass.
An ordinary rosebush. Healthy and rank with growth and crowded with tiny pink blooms. They were clustered, small and perfect, along each supple branch. Thursey took a runner in her hands and not a thorn was there to scratch her. She pulled it free of the bush and held it up in the moonlight. The little roses were scented delicately and finely made as lace.
I might, she thought. Could I? She stared at the roses and felt excitement take her.
Soon she had pulled away an armload of long creepers and laid them across the mare's back. Elated, she gathered more until the pile towered, sweet and heavy. The mare stood head down, nibbling disinterestedly.
Thursey scrambled up behind her burden, trying not to crush a single rose, and dug in her heels. The mare was tired now and unwilling, but Thursey, stubborn too, kept at her. She dared not think about what she intended to do. She dared not wonder if she could do it. She crouched over the scented bundle numb with cold as the mare splashed through the mud toward the road, then started home.
And when they came at last through their own gate, there was Anwin's little donkey standing in the stable yard.
Thursey piled off the mare with her burden almost toppling her and was about to fly into the kitchen to greet Anwin when the little monk stepped out of the shadows by the water trough and took the mare's halter. He eyed the roses but said nothing, though he looked perplexed. Gathering roses in the middle of the night? This night?
"I saw the torn dress," he said at last. "I came back thinking ..." He looked at the roses again, then at Thursey. Then slowly something began to dawn on him. He began to smile. Then he grinned. Then he laughed out loud. "Well hurry up, child, the night is getting on! I'll see to this old mare."
She flew to the kitchen wondering if Anwin really had guessed what she was about. She could not even look at the poor torn dress. She dumped the roses on the table, opened the cupboard, and from behind some crocks drew out the hastily sewn cotton model she had made.
She stirred up the fire and put the iron to heat, then drew the kettle from the hob, poured out some lukewarm water, and began to wash the mud and grime from herself, scrubbing until she was pink. Next she ironed the rough cotton model, found her needle and thread, and commenced to put proper stitching into the basted seams.
It seemed hours that Thursey stitched, hurrying as fast as she could, and all the time thinking, I'll never be done. And even if I am, no one can go to the king's ball dressed practically in her nightdress. It's not even bound around the sleeves and neck. Why am I sewing like this in the middle of the night?
But still she sewed faster and could not seem to help herself. All the stubborness in Thursey had risen like a tide, and she would not give in even to good sense.