Bridgette kept her head down and her shoulders hunched over, hoping her thin disguise would hide her unmistakable features from those that would betray her to the Scarlet Tempest. Bickle, however, walked as spryly and cheerfully as he ever did.

“Aren’t you afraid?” She asked him.

“People are used to seeing me take my leisurely strolls in the woods,” he answered. “So it’s unlikely that I’ll arouse any suspicion. Just act natural, and all will be well.”

Bickle stuck to his favorite footpath. At one point he shook his head. “See that?” He pointed with his stick. By the side of the road, Bridgette saw heavy footprints of dirt mucking up strands of grass.

“Are those Alain’s tracks?” Bridgette asked, her heart sinking.

Bickle snorted with amusement. “A blind man could follow that trail. Perhaps the Queen’s men have already captured him and we can have tea after all.” Bickle turned and follow the muddy impressions.

A short walk away, the trail ended abruptly, as if the owner of the footprints realized the trail he made could easily be followed, and dove into the underbrush. Not that Bridgette could tell from looking at the bushes. “Alain?” She called out, stepping forward.

“Wait!” Said Bickle, holding up his walking stick. Bridgette froze. Following Bickle’s outstretched finger, she saw a thin strand of rope stretched across the end of the footprint trail. Following the string up, she saw-

“Is that a net?” She whispered.

“Perhaps Alain does know some woodcraft,” said Bickle. “He set up an obvious trail for the Queen’s men. They follow the trail and trip over that wire, which gets them entangled by that net up there. Alain can run or interrogate them, or whatever he needs.”

“Not bad, old man,” said Alain, crawling out of a bush on his hands and knees. Dirt and bits of leaf fell from his body. “Looks like you saw my little surprise.”

“Strolling through the forest is my favorite pastime,” said Bickle. “It’s not that hard to notice when someone messes with the greenery.”

“I’m glad to see you both are safe,” said Alain. “Just as I missed the glory of your beauty, Lady Bridgette.”

A warm glow spread across Bridgette’s chest. Gracefully, she stepped over the tripwire of Alain’s boobytrap, and leapt into his arms. He caught her gracefully, and spun around with her in his arms. “There’s my darling!” He laughed. He kissed her soft lips with his own, and she felt sparks in her heart. “Did you face danger on your way out?”

“The Scarlet Tempest!” said Bridgette. “She came to Lewes!”

Alain’s hug tightened, as if in dread of losing her. “But you’re safe!” He said. “She didn’t find you.” He lowered her to the ground, and gazed into her eyes.

“No,” said Bridgette. “But the old woman betrayed us. She told her my description.”

“Then it’s good she’ll be looking in Lewes,” said Alain. “Because we’ll be miles away from there.”

“Blast these long and miserable treks!” Groaned Bickle. “We should have minded our own business the moment we saw you in the Windsong. Now we have to walk through the wilderness in all sorts of nasty climates, with biting wind and freezing rain, with only one change of clothes, and the same tasteless travel rations day in and day out. Sleeping on the ground when it’s crawling with bugs! The only thing worse than adventures is being the third wheel to a pair of beautiful young lovers!”

Bridgette laughed. Slipping out of Alain’s arms, she kissed the tiny old man on his temples. “I love you too in my own way, Bickle.”

Bickle’s cheeks flushed to a bright red. “Perhaps it’s not all bad,” he admitted.

Alain laughed. He hugged Bridgette again, and gave her another marvelous kiss. “Whether the trip will be as wretched as you fear, old man, we aren’t helping ourselves by standing around. Let’s make our small talk while our feet move.”

The three of them traveled through the forest, though Bridgette had no idea where their destination lay. Not that she much cared.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” said Alain. “Though I regret missing the chance to see the witch with my own eyes.” Touching his sword, he found his courage. “I should have stayed. To confront her and avenge my father and brother!”

“So you could hang from a tree instead of hiding behind one?” said Bickle. “You would have been powerless. Like I was,” he admitted in a soft voice. “You will never defeat her if you do not find a way to keep her from ensnaring you. Her sorcery is powerful, and she will use your emotions against you.”

“She didn’t bother me,” said Bridgette. “Everyone else seemed hypnotized, but I could have resisted if I chose. I only bowed because everyone else did…. I would have been caught if I didn’t.”

“How is that possible?” asked Alain.

“It is not unusual for Earthlings to be less susceptible to magic,” said Bickle. “Bridgette may win this war for you yet.”

“I hope you do,” Alain said to her. He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. She felt her heart flutter.

“Where are we going?” asked Bridgette.

“We now know that they’re searching for me in Lewes,” Alain said. “But I have friends in Harling Bay. They’ll help us, and we’ll find passage to Siram Port, not far from the Ruby Palace.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said. “To the throne room itself.”

Alain touched his hand to her chin and gently kissed her lips. Bridgette felt herself soar to the heavens. Joy passed from him to her, and she could not remember ever feeling so happy.

“Do you think we’ll be safe in Harling Bay?” asked Bickle. “That’s one rough town to hide in. The ruffians there will betray you to the Queen for a pair of boots.”

“I have friends everywhere,” said Alain. “There’s a man I know, Tristam, who has always been loyal to the Trueheart line. He’ll help us book passage across the Median Sea to Siram Port, and he’ll do it without the Queen being the wiser. We’ll sail undetected, reach the Ruby Palace, and overthrow the Scarlet Tempest with the Sword of Justice.”

“Sword of Justice?” asked Bridgette. “Is that a weapon of some sort?”

“A weapon?” said Alain. “Ah. Of course not. I meant it as a metaphor, nothing more.”

“A metaphor for a real weapon,” commented Bickle. “Is there more about this Tristam than we know? How was he able to resist the Queen’s charms?”

Alain lowered his head. “I can’t say,” he said. “It’s a secret, and he might be in great danger were the wrong people to learn of his abilities.”

“Is he a wizard?” Bridgette asked on a whim.

“How did you know?” said Alain. “I mean… he may have some knowledge of spellcraft. But you didn’t hear it from me!”

“Of course not,” said Bridgette, smiling.

“I can’t resist you when you do that,” said Alain. Pausing, he slid her into his arms and kissed her passionately. Bridgette’s hands explored his firm shoulders, elated from the contact. Bliss she thought. Absolute Bliss….

“Children, children,” said Bickle. “I’d look for a safer place to fall in love. I believe we’re making progress, but travelers are well advised to not find themselves in these woods past dark.

“I can light a fire,” said Alain.

“And then anyone can see where we are, especially if those soldiers are still hunting you.” Bickle shook his head. “If you really want to get to Harling Bay, we should cut north to the main road. There’s farmland there, too much for the Queen’s men to search thoroughly. We should be able to hide quick enough if they come calling. And who knows, if we befriend the farmers, we might even get a hot meal and a bed to sleep in. There’s a lot of kindness to be had from those folk who live close to the earth. And it beats living like a vagabond.”

“That sounds good,” said Bridgette. “I’ve never been terribly fond of camping.”

“Very well,” said Alain. “On my own, I would have traveled through the forest all the way to the harbor. But I would prefer my lady be comfortable and well.”

They pushed their way through the forest. Once they heard growling in the bushes, but Alain pulled his sword halfway from its sheath, and the noise stopped. Birds sang in the branches, which filled Bridgette’s heart with gladness. But Bickle listened closely to the chirping birds, as if deciphering a message.

“They’re telling us we’re going too far to the west. We must make sure to stay north, else we will miss the road.”

“You speak to birds, Bickle?” asked Bridgette, amazed.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Sometimes,” said the little man. “They tell you what you want to know if you listen, though oft time they repeat the same words again and again. It’s hard to get them to answer you if you’re not a bird yourself, but if you listen to them discuss territory, you might make out something interesting with a bird’s eye-view of the land.”

They adjusted their course, and soon made their way out of the forest. They stumbled back on the road, which stretched off into the distance, empty in both directions as far as they could see.

Following the road north, they passed by a field of corn, healthy and green, growing in a field about the size of a football gridiron. A wooden farmhouse crested the top of a nearby hill. Alain nodded.

“There you are, Mr. Bickle,” Alain said. “If you want to spend the night with a farmer, that’s the door to knock on. Are you sure we should do this, Bridgette?”

The sun was already changing the skies from blue to a luscious, pink sunset. “If we don’t now, we’ll have to sleep on the road,” she said.

“I could make a decent camp for us in the woods,” said Alain. “I’ve learned plenty of ranger lore during my travels. But as you say, they may give us a bed. Or the stables, though I’ve always had trouble sleeping in the stall next to a whinnying horse. If we’re unlucky, they’ll send us out in the dark, but I hope it won’t come to that.”

They reached the front door a half hour later. Bridgette’s legs were deliciously tired from the exertion. But she didn’t mind; it felt like satisfying exercise. She knocked on the door, quite curious as to the type of people who lived here.

The door opened, and Bridgette found herself eye to eye with a young woman. She had brown hair tied back in a ponytail which could have been pretty with better maintenance. She had delicate cheekbones and a perky nose, yet in spite of her attractiveness, she beheld the world from a pair of eyes with more lines than were warranted by young age. These eyes glared with hard suspicion. “Who are you?” she said bluntly.

“My name’s Bridgette. And these are my friends. This here is Bickle Wa. And this is Alain.”

“Charmed, my lady,” said Alain, bowing gallantly to her.

The woman looked at them coldly. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“We travelled far,” said Bridgette. “We were hoping to ask for shelter for the night, and-“

The woman paid no more attention “Max!” she shouted. “Max! People!” And with that, she slammed the door in their faces.

The three of them took a step back, astounded. “Do people usually do that?” asked Bridgette.

“Very rarely,” said Bickle Wa, a little stunned. “I’ve been turned down for hospitality before, but never like that.”

Alain could scarcely speak. He stared with amazement at the closed door. “What the-” he muttered, angrily.

But soon they heard approaching footsteps, and the door opened again. Now it was held by a handsome farmer. He had a short, neatly kept beard only a half inch long, and slightly shaggy brown hair that was bleached by labor in the Sun. “Howdy,” he said brightly, with a neighborly friendliness in his voice. “What can I do for you?”

“We were hoping for shelter for the night,” said Bridgette. “We travelled a long way and-“

“Say no more,” said the farmer, opening the door wide. “I love visitors. Come on in. We were just about to start the fire for dinner, and it will be no trouble to make some extra.”

They stepped inside, grateful for the change in mood. It was a handsome farmhouse, with a pleasant living room complete with a fireplace, couch, and chairs for guests. The dining area was set around a long wooden table. The cooking area had its own hearth, and they could smell roasted meat.

“It smells delicious,” said Bridgette. “What are you cooking?”

“Chicken,” said the farmer. “And it’s no problem to prepare another bird.”

“Thank you,” said Alain with a bow.

Bridgette hesitated a moment. She found herself full of curiosity, but wasn’t sure whether to give her name, or ask for her hosts’. She exchanged a look with Bickle, and the little man understood at once. With a nod, he stepped forward. “Etiquette,” he said. “It seems some introductions are in order.”

The farmer smiled. “I’m Maxwell Goodplow… and this is my wife, Rosie.”

Rosie was adding another chicken to the spit. She looked through the doorway to the guests and gave a cold nod.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Goodplow,” said Bickle.

“Oh come on,” said the farmer. “Call me Max. I’m not the Lord of Lewes or any such nonsense. I rule corn, chickens, and not much else.” he said.

Bridgette smiled.

“Well if you’ve been to Lewes,” said Bickle…

“I haven’t,” said the farmer.

“Then you would know I am Bickle Wa,” continued the little man. “Storyteller, shoemaker, friend to all good people.”

“And I am Alain Trueheart,” said Alain, stepping forward in the middle of Bickle’s talk. “Heir to the throne, in exile, and-“

“His name is Alain, and he’s a woodcutter with a fevered imagination,” said Bickle, giving Alain a look and a wink.

Max was halfway to kneeling before Bickle made his correction. “I see,” he laughed. “And who is this maiden?”

Bickle leaned forward. “Her name is Bridgette Mitterson,” he said. “And she,” his voice dropped dramatically, “is an earthling.”

Max took a step back, gazing at Bridgette with astonishment on his face. He bowed fully from the waist. “I’ve been doubly honored,” he said reverently, as if Bridgette was some sort of goddess.

Rosie took a few steps towards the living room. She looked at Bridgette with a strange, inscrutable glare. “Earth?” said Rosie. “You’re from Earth?”

Bridgette nodded, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Rosie studied her, her eyes passing across Bridgette’s cheeks, her eyes, her figure. “I suppose this Alain thinks you’re a very pretty girl, doesn’t he?” She said. “You’re covering up an awful lot.”

“Excuse me?” said Bridgette.

“Maxwell,” said Bickle, sensing tension. “Perhaps you could give us a little tour of your farm?”

“With pleasure,” said Max. He led them out the back of the house to the yard. “Come along,”

“Why don’t I help with the cooking?” said Alain, trailing behind.

“Come along Alain,” said Bickle.

The three of them followed the farmer outside. Maxwell showed them his property with great pleasure. “The chicken coop is over there. We haven’t had much trouble with the foxes, but every once in a while one makes a nuisance of itself. The corn does well. My father and I used to cart it to market, but now there’s a young man making a name for himself. He buys the corn straight from me and transports it to Lewes himself. Saves me a lot of travelling costs.”

“Your wife doesn’t seem very social,” said Alain.

“Rosie is a good woman,” said Maxwell. “I love her dearly, yet sometimes I wonder.”

“Wonder what?” asked Bridgette.

“I wonder if she isn’t bored out here,” said Max. “There’s a lot of work on the farm, and it’s a peaceful life. At first she loved it. Before we met, her life was a mess. Her mother worked day and night and never gave her the time of day, and her father was a drunk who never helped her, even on the rare days he was sober. She ran away from home, and I found her sleeping in the stables one morning. She wanted to run, but we started chatting, and she’s a nice enough girl. She agreed to help me with the chores in exchange for food and a bed. And we married a couple months later. That’s all there is to it.”

“I’d imagine she’d be grateful,” said Alain.

“Gratitude is like a flower,” said Bickle. “You plant it, and it grows and blooms for a while. You can pick it, and it’s beautiful… for a time. Gradually, it withers and turns to dust.”

Max sighed. “I want her to be happy,” he admitted. “I thought maybe children would help. But she says she isn’t ready for that step.”

And with as handsome a man as Maxwell, thought Bridgette. She would have felt more sorry for Rosie, but something about her cold eyes gave her an uneasy feeling.

“Do you need any work done?” asked Alain. “As payment for your hospitality?”

“Think nothing of it,” said Max. “But be careful if you ask me that once morning comes. By then, I might have something for you to do.”

By the time they were done with their tour of the farm, the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. Stars stretched across the night sky. Rosie had prepared a wonderful meal for them in the house. Each had a helping of the chicken waiting for them along the long, wooden table. The meal was lit with two white candles that bathed the room in a soft radiance, creating swiftly shifting shadows which played against the wall.

“This is really good,” Bridgette said appreciatively.

Rosie gave a slight nod, and said nothing.

Bickle and Maxwell chatted amiably about the season, and the effects of the weather on the crop. Every time Alain opened his mouth, he seemed to want to say something about being the exiled prince of Shard, but would kick himself when he remembered he was supposed to be an itinerant woodcutter. Consequently, he spent most of the meal about to speak, and clearing his throat as he swallowed his words. Rosie ate without tasting her food, giving no one more than a passing glance at anyone, except for Bridgette. She stared at Bridgette with eyes like diamond cutters, like there was a secret deep she meant to uncover. Bridgette ate as much as she could, but in spite of her appetite, Rosie made her anxious. She ate half her chicken, and couldn’t stomach another bite.

As the candles burned down, and the guests finished their meals, Maxwell brought the light conversation to a close. “In town, the inns are open all night,” he said. “But here at the farm, we don’t have many candles, and there’s a lot of work to do once the rooster crows. I fear it’s time to turn in. We have an extra bed for the young lady, assuming you two gentlemen are alright bedding down on some straw with the horses.”

“Sleeping in the stables?” grumbled Alain. “I’d rather sleep in the woods.”

“Etiquette!” hissed Bickle, elbowing Alain painfully in the shins.

“I mean… you are too generous, Maxwell,” Alain corrected himself.

Bridgette’s room was a small one in the corner, on a bed that squeaked with loud springs. But the mattress was soft enough, except for one part that was squarely on top of a rigid coil of metal. The blanket was a knitted linen that reminded her of her grandmother. Lying on her back, Bridgette felt the fatigue of the day’s events and fell asleep quickly.

As she drifted into sleep, she felt like she was floating up from the old mattress, drifting above the ceiling like a ghost. Gliding on the wind, she could see Alain and Bickle, bedding down in the stables, each on a pile of straw in stalls as far from the horses as they could manage. Bickle fell asleep, but not before much fidgeting and complaining on how much he missed his comfortable house in Lewes. Alain feigned sleep, until Bickle’s snores were quiet and regular. Slowly, the exiled prince sat up on his pile of straw. He climbed to his feet and opened the stable door, which miraculously flooded the stable with bright sunlight.

Outside, the farm was replaced by a meadow of flowers. Alain gathered crimson roses, adding one and then another to his hand, before he turned and gave the bouquet to her. Bridgette gasped in delight as the sweet scents tickled her nose. Laughing, Alain took her hand, and the two of them ran barefoot through the meadows, feeling the moist green grass beneath their feet, dancing through flowers of blue, orange and yellow--

Two hands shook her awake. Opening her eyes, she came out of the dream. “What?” she said. “Alain-“

“Shhhhh,” said the voice.

A candle flickered in the air above her. Bridgette’s eyes followed the candle to the fingers that held it. “Rosie?” She said. Scooting away, Bridgette covered herself with the grandmother blanket. “What do you want?” she hissed, annoyed.

Rosie licked her lips, nervous. “You’re not staying long, are you?” she said.

Bridgette shook her head. “No, we’re travelling.”

“When you go,” said Rosie, “I’d like to come with you.”

“Why?” said Bridgette. “You want to leave your husband?”

Rosie didn’t answer. She looked at Bridgette with pleading eyes.

Bridgette sat up. “Is it Maxwell?” she asked. “Is he cruel? Does he beat you?”

Rosie shook her head. “Max is the kindest man who ever lived,” she said.

“You don’t love him?” Bridgette asked.

“I do,” said Rosie. “I love him very much.”

“Then why do you want to leave?”

Rosie went quiet, her eyes full of conflict. “Please,” she whispered. “Take me with you.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going.” said Bridgette.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Rosie. “North, South, East, West. Anywhere away from here.”

Bridgette hesitated. “I’ll ask Bickle and Alain,” she said. “That’s okay with you, right?”

Rosie tilted her head. “Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

“Why ask them?”

“Because they’re my friends,” said Bridgette. “I can’t make decisions for them. They have to agree.”

“Haven’t you figured it out?” said Rosie. “They’ll do whatever you want them to.”

“You don’t know that,” said Bridgette.

Rosie studied Bridgette again. She started to speak again, but stopped herself. “Thank you,” she finally said.

She walked out, taking the candle with her. Once again surrounded by darkness, Bridgette sat awake for a long time. Before too long, she wondered if the whole thing was a dream.