Dragonfield by Jane Yolen Page B

share?”
    “Share a dream?” The old woman laughed. “It is the best way. Of course you can share. Are you … “she hesitated, then guessed, “sisters?”
    “How can she tell?” whispered the youngest.
    “Hush,” cautioned the middle child. “Manners!”
    The oldest ignored them. On the edge of womanhood, she was aware of urges in herself she could not yet name. She gathered her skirts and her courage, and squatted down by the weaver. “Could you,” she began tentatively, “could you put true love in it?”
    The Dream Weaver smiled. She had heard such requests many times over. But she would never have convinced the girl of that. Better to let the child think she was the only one with such a dream.
    “Oh, true love!” said the middle child. “That’s all you ever think about — now. You used to be fun.”
    The youngest girl lisped. “A cat, please, granny. Please let there be a cat in it.”
    “A cat! True love! I only want it to be fun. For the penny we should have a good laugh,” the middle child said.
    The Dream Weaver smiled again as she pulled the threads from her basket. “Well, we shall see, little ones. A cat and true love and a laugh. I have had stranger demands. But one never knows about a dream until it is done. Still, I will try. And since it is your dream, you each must try as well.”
    “Try?” the three exclaimed as one. And the youngest added, “How shall we try, granny?”
    “Hold hands, and I shall weave. And as I weave, you must believe.”
    “Oh, we will,” said the youngest breathlessly. The other two laughed at her, but they held hands. The warp was strung. The weaver began.
The Cat Bride
    There was once a noddy old woman who had only two things in the world that she loved—her son and a marmalade cat. She loved them both the same, which seemed strange to her neighbors but not to her son, Tom.
    “I bring home food, and the cat keeps it safe. Why should we not share equally in her affections?” he asked sensibly. Then he added, “Though I am not the best provider in the land, the cat is surely the best mouser. Ergo, it follows.”
    But of course it did not follow for the neighbors. To them such sense was nonsense. However, as it was none of their business, the old woman ignored their mischievous tongues and loved boy and cat the same.
    One day the old woman caught a chill, grew sicker, and likened to die. She called Tom and the cat to her bed. The village elders came, too, for they went to deathbeds as cats to mackerel; the smell, it was said, drew them in.
    “Promise me, Tom,” said the old woman in a voice as soft as down.
    “Anything, Mother,” said Tom as he sat by her bed and held on to her hand.
    “Promise me you will marry the marmalade cat, for that way she will remain in our family forever. You are a good boy, Tom, but she is the best mouser in the land.”
    At her words, the elders cried out to one another in horror.
    “Never,” cried one.
    “Unheard of,” cried the second.
    “It is against the law,” declared the third.
    “What law?” asked the old woman, looking over at them. “Where is it written that a boy cannot marry a cat?”
    The elders looked at one another. They twisted their mouths around, but no answer came out, for she was right.
    “I promise, Mother,” said Tom, “for I love the marmalade cat as much as you do. I will keep her safe and in our family forever.”
    As soon as Tom had finished speaking, the cat jumped onto the bed and, as if to seal its part of the bargain, licked the old woman’s face, first one cheek and then the other, with its rough-ribbed tongue. Then it bit her softly on the nose and jumped down.
    At the cat’s touch, the elders left the room in disgust. But the old woman sat up in bed. Color sprang into her faded cheeks, and she let out a high sweet laugh.
    Tom’s heart sang out a silent hallelujah. He rose to shut the door. When he turned back again, there was an orange-haired girl with green eyes standing