Roses by G. R. Mannering Page A

but she could barely understand the talk at the table, which was lilting and deep. She was relieved when they began to sing songs.
    Winds of blight that tear the earth,
Rain that spills the rights of birth.
Gods that weave our spells divine,
Protect these ancient hills of mine.
    Keep your people safe and strong,
Save us from the tempt of wrong.
Use us to defend your lore,
When we must fight for you once more.
    She joined in, her voice mingling with the lulling harmony that seeped through the walls of the barn and into the oncoming dusk. They sang until their voices grew hoarse, a sleepy enchantment having fallen over all.
    “I thank yur for this feast, Cousin,” said Owaine after they had sung one more song. “And I thank yur also for caring for my Isole in my absence. Yur’ve made her a fine daughter for me.”
    Isole beamed.
    “Say nothing of it,” replied Hally, slapping him on the back. “I’ve become prosperous with the generous sticks yur sent from the capital. I owe yur this meal. Besides, it is time to fatten up before the winters—yur have not forgot our white winters here, have yur, Cousin?”
    Owaine laughed and Beauty wondered what Hally meant.
    “Thank the gods!” cried Hally, signing with his fingers.
    “Yes, thank them for bringing me and my child home,” added Owaine, and everyone turned to look at Beauty, having forgotten that the silvery creature was among them.
    “Thank the gods,” they all murmured.
    When the last drop of the ale was gone, the villagers took the travelers to see their new home. A long procession of women in white headdresses and men in jerkins wound their way across the valley in the fading light. The travelers’ scanty possessions were carried by the lads and the children scampered all about, silly from their first sips of cider at the table. Beauty followed in the shadows.
    “It’s not much, Papa,” Isole was saying. “At such short notice, we did what we could.”
    They made their way to a cottage apart from all the others, perched on the hillside nearest the forest.
    “It were that widower’s cottage, do yur remember, Papa? I cleaned it all myself, scrubbing it from top to bottom.” She wrung her hands in the white apron about her waist.
    “It’s perfect,” said Owaine. “Thank yur, my child.”
    But his eyes wandered to the forest—a black block in the evening light—and Beauty noticed him shiver.
    “Go and look inside!” said one woman, her tall lace headdress bobbing on her head as she spoke. “Isole’s done it all up real nice.”
    Taking her father’s arm, Isole led him into the cottage, and Beauty meekly followed. It had only two rooms: the downstairs and the attic. On the far wall were three pens with various livestock in them and a wooden table set before a fireplace in the corner. A ladder near the door led to the attic and there were two large chests with fasten doors.
    “I been saving the sticks yur sent me,” said Isole. “And I bought them animals myself. I hoped yur’d come home.”
    Owaine clumsily embraced her.
    “Thank yur, my child. I can’t thank yur enough.”
    Beauty stared at the goat, calf, and chickens in horror. Owaine noticed and hid a wry smile.
    “Winters are hard here, Beauty,” he said quietly. “And we live simple lives. Yur’ll learn to love Imwane, yur will.”
    Isole frowned. “These be the best animals about. I got Hally to buy them from town.”
    “They’re just right, my child. But this’s a different life for Beauty. . . . And speaking of, there’s only two sleeping chests.”
    “Well I didn’t know yur were bringing a . . . child.”
    “Mayhap I could buy another? But I scarce have sticks left after the journey.”
    Beauty did not like the idea of sleeping locked in such a thing.
    “No, I can sleep on a bedroll.” She glanced at the pens. “In the attic,” she added.
    “I’ll do that, child. Yur can sleep in my closet.”
    “No. I insist.”
    “Yur sure?”
    Beauty nodded and Isole