All was black drifting into the dreamtime, but the Wanderer knew he wasn’t heading for the terrors of the past.
He knew because of the heat, and warm always meant safe.
Then he came to the massive hearth, and sobbed when he saw the silhouette in front of the fire.
Before he could speak, the Bard waved him closer.
Sweat beaded his skin as soon as he sat down beside his grandfather, but he didn’t care.
The old man felt strong when they embraced, just like he did when the Wanderer was a child needing comfort after a nightmare.
He wanted to hold on forever, but the Bard pulled away and gripped him by the shoulders. He saw his grandfather’s eyes had changed, his gaze more penetrating now that he saw from another world.
When he spoke, his voice rang as clear and resonant as the Wanderer remembered.
“Kid, there are some folks I want you to meet.”
The Bard waved his hand through the fire, yet remained unscathed.
Then he pushed the Wanderer in, where he tumbled through the flames.
Yet he suffered no pain.
When he fell out on the other side, he found himself in the night.
The bitter cold gave him violent shivers.
Wherever he was, he assumed a storm must have just passed from the snow piled high on the ground.
The sky was black and dotted with stars, but he found the villa from the lamps illuminating the way up stairs carved from green slate.
The steps were clear of snow and two servants in furs stood on either side, puffs of air smoking from their mouths. Candles glowed from the windows, and the Wanderer heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from inside.
He knew that it must be some kind of celebration when a carriage drawn by a quartet of horses made its way up the path, and the footmen stood taller.
The noble crest on the door of the carriage seemed familiar, but the Wanderer couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before one of the servants opened the door.
“Happy Solstice, Patron,” the footman said. “Your uncle is eager to see you.”
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since I last came,” the visitor said, stepping outside.
Although he smiled and his manner was pleasant, the Wanderer sensed he didn’t want to be there.
His suspicions were confirmed when the nobleman looked at the sky and grimaced.
“I loathe cotillions.”
The Wanderer smiled at his muttering.
This was the youngest Patron he’d ever seen, only a few years older than he. The Patron was tall and powerfully built with long arms and broad shoulders.
He must have forgotten his gloves, or perhaps he didn’t care to wear them. His bare hands were as muscular and calloused as a farmer’s.
This Patron was rugged, lacking the fleshiness that usually contorted the features of noblemen.
When he went up the steps, the Wanderer knew he should follow.
Getting out of the cold was a relief, but he was overwhelmed as soon as they entered the villa.
The Wanderer caught the scents of cinnamon and clove burning from the lamps.
He’d never been to a masquerade before, except through the Bard’s stories. Staring down the cascade of creamy stone steps, this Solstice Ball surpassed anything he had ever imagined.
Gentlemen covered their hair with silver wigs, wearing stark white shirts with dress breeches and coats in somber black. They faded next to the women.
The ladies pranced in gowns of deep jewel tones, moving with sluggish ease, holding their skirts with hands in white gloves.
The swell of breasts rose from the mounds of silk and velvet, yet they were ghostly from the powder dusting their décolletage, their necks, and their faces.
Their lips were stained red, their hair piled high on their heads.
The musicians strung the first notes of the song to prepare the guests for the next dance.
The Wanderer was amused when several women discovered the handsome young Patron at the top of the stairs. They were slow to look away, their lashes fluttering to invite him to ask for the honor of a dance.
But he glanced at the Patron and saw from the expression on his face that he was blind to them.
The Wanderer followed his gaze and immediately understood why.
He had known many women in his travels around the world.
All of them were lovely in their own right. All of them had a grace and allure that was unique to women.
He admired most he had known and loved a few. But this was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
The Wanderer almost wondered if she was human.
Her face implied a world beyond the mists into shadows and dreams.
Her bones were elongated, the angle of her cheeks stark beneath her tilted blue eyes, in line with her jaw slanted from her ears to the point of her chin.
Her high forehead teased with the arched brows of a coquette, her nose was long and upturned at the tip, her lips curving in the smirk of an imp.
Her skin was luminous, naked of powder. Her pale blond hair gathered in lace where her neck rose from her shoulders.
Her gown was airy, bringing to mind the springtime courtship between sun and water. In the shimmers of blue and green and flashes of quicksilver, the Wanderer saw a creek reflecting grasses and hints of morning light.
The girl seemed to glide across the floor when she hurried to her place in line, her skirts slithering around her hips and legs.
Even her dancing was liquid grace.
When the music started, her arms arced from the sway of her body and her gown made eddies around her waist before swirling away.
There was deliverance in her eyes, betraying the ecstasy of a woman deep inside herself.
The Wanderer followed the Patron to the hall and they edged the mass of twirling couples.
It was difficult to breathe from the ladies holding their skirts high and fanning their perfumes around them.
But the Patron never lost sight of that face.
The Wanderer noticed a pink flush across her cheeks.
The girl sensed she was being watched.
At first, she didn’t seem troubled by that, occupied with keeping her feet safe from the oafish dancing of her partner.
But the Patron kept up his vigilance, and the blush deepened and her features grew tight.
Finally, the dance ended and the girl curtseyed to her partner.
Then she spun around, her gown a swirling cascade as she turned on the stranger who had been staring at her for the last quarter hour.
The Wanderer flinched in the face of her fury and braced himself for the onslaught of scorn.
Instead, he was relieved to see her wrath dissipate when she saw her admirer. Her color returned to its porcelain glow and she smiled.
But the Patron stood paralyzed, his mouth open then closing when words didn’t come.
The girl smiled even wider. There was challenge gleaming in her pale blue eyes, a challenge she expected her suitor to meet.
“Come on, Friend,” the Wanderer murmured. “You can do this.”
As if he could hear him, the Patron pulled upright, proving his instinct to conquer was stronger than fear.
He walked tall when he approached that beautiful girl, his gait at leisure.
