She rose and drew on her clothes, wrapping a red silk shawl around her shoulders. Then she slipped out into the night.
Yuri sat by the embers of the fire, ostensibly keeping watch. But his head was bowed in half-slumber, and Marielle's footsteps were too swift and soft to rouse him. As she crept past the sleeping pit, the ancient yellow hound shifted and moaned. Marielle put a finger to her lips, and the dog sighed, then went silent. In three swift and fluid strides, she was free of them all. The forest closed in around her.
Beyond the tangle of birch and brush lay a deep stand of pines, an army of tall black sentries. The wind surged through the heavy, feathered branches, sighing. The scent of the pine was intoxicating, and she drank it in like wine. Her senses blurred. Yet, without question, she heard the trees whisper her name: "Marielle. ."
Swiftly she moved onward, bare feet padding across the dense carpet of needles. She knew the pines would not hold the treasures she sought; their fallen needles kept all other flora at bay.
Soon the pines gave way to oak, and the forest floor was cloaked with moss and rotting leaves. She scanned the ground for the precious herbs. For a moment, she felt someone watching her and paused to search the shadows for the source. Perhaps she merely hoped it was true. Both the herbs and the watcher eluded her.
She descended a slope into a low, damp valley where the wood thinned and was dotted with clearings. A warm mist filled the hollows, rising like steam from the soil. The vapors snaked round her ankles as she walked, swirling softly. Marielle paused to remove the shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it around her waist. Then she continued her search.
At last, she spied a patch of the rare plant she sought most: the moonflower. Each tiny white blossom formed a cup, bent upward to drink in the light. Marielle removed the shawl and spread it upon the ground, then tied the ends to form a pouch. Carefully, she began to gather her treasures. In all, there were fewer than ten.
Again, she felt the eyes upon her. Fear danced along her spine, mingled with anticipation. She rose slowly and turned.
The man from her vision was standing before her, but a few paces distant, his back against a tree. He was the embodiment of midnight. The white, chiseled face shone like the moon itself, framed by the wild mane of shiny blue-black hair. His clothing was fine and foreign in appearance — a white silk tunic billowing across the broad shoulders, a black sash at the narrow waist, black trousers tucked into shining black boots upon his long, slender limbs. Tendrils of mist floated around his body like faithful servants.
For an eternity, neither soul moved. Then Marielle dared to speak.
"Who are you?" she asked quietly, as if afraid another might overhear their conversation.
"I believe you already know," he replied. He smiled, revealing a glimmer of white teeth.
Inside Marielle, a spark flared. He was toying with her, a cat with a mouse, and she sensed she was no match.
"Damius," she whispered.
He nodded. Suddenly, he stood behind her left shoulder, his breath upon her ear.
"Yes — Damius," he whispered.
She froze, staring forward, not daring to turn. The space between them was palpable.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"What you want," he murmured. "I am your slave. Did you not summon me? "
"No," she replied.
Without warning, he had shifted. Now he stood to the other side. She did not move.
"No, then," he answered slyly. "As you would have it."
"You were in my dream. I did not invite you," Marielle protested gently.
"Nor did I invite you into mine," he whispered, words flowing as easily as the mist. "Yet here you are."
She started. The fog swirled around them. Was she really a part of his dream, or was he merely toying with her?
"Are you not real?" she asked.
His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. The softness of his touch was agony.
"What do you think?" he asked in turn.
"That you are danger itself."
"Perhaps to some. Never to you," he replied.
The distance between them narrowed. Only inches before, it was now no deeper than a layer of skin. Still, it felt like a chasm to Marielle. Pressure rose in the void.
"What do you want from me?" Marielle repeated.
"It is I who must ask that of you," he said.
Marielle paused. "And if I want you to leave me?" she asked.
"Then I would go. If that is truly your desire. "Again, his breath pulsed upon her neck. "But I think it is otherwise."
She did not, could not, answer. He moved closer, and she felt him against her. One arm came round her waist in a gentle caress. Involuntarily, she pressed herself back into his embrace.
"Shall I go then?" he asked, mocking her.
A voice within her struggled to say yes, but it was too distant, too faint. A storm had begun to rage through every tissue in Marielle's body, and its fury drowned all reason. Hot tears spilled from her eyes.
"No," she answered.
She felt her clothes slip to the ground, piece by piece, trailed by a tiny snowstorm of white blossoms. More than mere flesh had been exposed. But she did not care.
At dawn, Marielle was awakened by the cock's crow. She lay in her vardo. Her memory of the return was faint, clouded by the intensity with which she recalled the sensations that had preceded it. A ray of sun pierced the white window and fell upon her face. Instinctively, she rolled away from the light. Her legs and arms felt weak, her body heavy with exhaustion. She had no wish to rise anyway; her dreams held more interest than the day. In moments, she slept again. The dreams did not come.
When next she awoke, someone was rapping on the door. A woman called out.
"Marielle?"
It was Annelise. Without waiting for a response, the young woman opened the door and stepped inside.
Marielle groaned.
"Are you ill, Marielle?" Annelise asked, standing beside her. "It's well past midday. We assumed you were off wandering or gathering wood, but when you didn't reappear, I decided to check on you. Sergio will be wondering why you haven't risen."
Marielle drew the blanket over her head. "I'm fine."
"Then why not get up?" Annelise persisted, mildly annoyed.
"All right, because I'm ill," said Marielle. "Or I was. I'm better now. I'll be up in a moment."
"I'd help you dress," said Annelise," but I've got to get back to my baby. "She paused. "It looks like you did burn yourself last night, Marielle. Your leg has a mark."
Marielle opened one eye, following the gesture of Annelise's hand. Sure enough, a red streak lay upon her thigh.
"It's nothing," she said.
"Well, it's not bad, but you should be more careful," Annelise chided. "I don't suppose you will, though."
Marielle sighed. The woman was tedious. "No, I don't suppose I will."
Annelise did not hear her reply. She had already stepped through the door and closed it behind her.
Marielle rose and pulled on her clothes, then stepped out into the daylight, squinting. The sun was not bright, despite her reaction. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, promising a heavy rain. Three boys were playing with a stick and ball while a dog bounded beside them, yapping. The sound hammered through Marielle's head.
"You don't look well, Marielle. "It was Annelise, back again. This time, she held her baby to her breast. Her concern was genuine, if not deep.
"Perhaps I'm not," replied Marielle. She gazed around the camp. She could not bear the thought of remaining there through the day, and hungered for the night to return. "I think I'll go for a walk. It might refresh me."
"Now I know you're ill," said Annelise. "Can't you see a storm is coming? The weather is about to break. It'll hardly do you good to be soaked to the skin."