table set for two, a white, fluffy bed and–what most caught her eye–shelves full of leather-bound books.
At first, Brilliante promised herself she would wait to eat until the owner of the house arrived. She took down a book and was delighted to find that it contained one of her favorite stories,
La Belle et La Bête
, beautifully illustrated. Several times as she read through the familiar tale, she thought she heard someone at the threshold, and looked up. Yet each time she saw only the white horse, peering though its long eyelashes into the room.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. Thinking that she should not let good supper go to waste, and more hungry than she had ever been, she served herself a small portion of the stew and ate.
Once she had finished, she found that she could not keep her eyes open. I’ll just take a quick nap as I wait for the person who lives here , she thought, and slipped under the heavy white eiderdown quilt beneath the protective gaze of the white mare. Before she had time to notice the smell of cedar and lavender in the pillow, she was fast asleep.
When she awoke, the sun had risen. Brilliante was stunned to find that the fire was still going and the smell of rich stew had given way to the scent of nutty porridge and honey. Again she was seized by hunger, and without considering the fact that she was taking a second meal without asking, Brilliante served out a healthy portion of the cereal and broke her fast.
In the window, two tapers stood in the candlesticks — once more, one red and one white, but now unlit, and full.
Once her belly too was full once more, the erstwhile bride weighed what she should do next. Thinking perhaps that her host must be working out in the barn, she opened the door.
She was stunned to find, not the beautiful white mare, but a woman. Like Brilliante herself, she was clad for a wedding — not in red, but the stark white traditional to the strange folk of the mountain north. Her hair was bronze, her eyes the blue of the winter sky, but her lashes were as long and elegant as a horse’s. Looking at her, Brilliante’s heart leapt with a flame as steady as midwinter candles.
White. And red.
“Good morning,” said Brilliante.
“Good morning,” said the beautiful young woman.
“Thank you for your wonderful hospitality,” said Brilliante.
“Thank you for gracing this farm with your presence,” said the woman, and Brilliante found herself blushing. Then the woman’s brow furrowed slightly. “You are dressed,” she said, “for a wedding. Are you married?”
“No,” replied Brilliante, and she quickly told the stranger her story. “Are
you
married?” she asked, when she was done.
The woman shook her head.
“Is this your home?” asked Brilliante.
The woman nodded.
“Are you awaiting your beloved?” asked Brilliante.
“No longer,” said the woman, and her eyes flashed so brightly that the flame in Brilliante’s heart flared up.
They stood in silence, the morning sunshine flashing off of motes of dust drifting through the yard.
“May I tell you a tale?” said the young woman.
Now it was Brilliante’s turn to nod.
“My name,” the woman said, “is Kerzen. I was born on this farm, and have lived here my whole life, but I may not possess it yet. Let me tell you why.
“My mother died when I was born. She lay her dying kiss here.” Very seriously, the woman touched a finger to her left check. “My father, wanting me to grow up in a woman’s care, looked for another wife, grief-stricken as he was. We are two days from the closest village here, unless we go through the Haunted Woods, and so his search went in vain for some years, and so he was shocked when, one day, a woman came and said that she wished to marry him. She was fair-seeming and soft-spoken, cooked well, and knew the ways of a farm, and so my father agreed. They were wed on the day they met, and she became my stepmother.
“You seem well-spoken and well-read
At first, Brilliante promised herself she would wait to eat until the owner of the house arrived. She took down a book and was delighted to find that it contained one of her favorite stories,
La Belle et La Bête
, beautifully illustrated. Several times as she read through the familiar tale, she thought she heard someone at the threshold, and looked up. Yet each time she saw only the white horse, peering though its long eyelashes into the room.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. Thinking that she should not let good supper go to waste, and more hungry than she had ever been, she served herself a small portion of the stew and ate.
Once she had finished, she found that she could not keep her eyes open. I’ll just take a quick nap as I wait for the person who lives here , she thought, and slipped under the heavy white eiderdown quilt beneath the protective gaze of the white mare. Before she had time to notice the smell of cedar and lavender in the pillow, she was fast asleep.
When she awoke, the sun had risen. Brilliante was stunned to find that the fire was still going and the smell of rich stew had given way to the scent of nutty porridge and honey. Again she was seized by hunger, and without considering the fact that she was taking a second meal without asking, Brilliante served out a healthy portion of the cereal and broke her fast.
In the window, two tapers stood in the candlesticks — once more, one red and one white, but now unlit, and full.
Once her belly too was full once more, the erstwhile bride weighed what she should do next. Thinking perhaps that her host must be working out in the barn, she opened the door.
She was stunned to find, not the beautiful white mare, but a woman. Like Brilliante herself, she was clad for a wedding — not in red, but the stark white traditional to the strange folk of the mountain north. Her hair was bronze, her eyes the blue of the winter sky, but her lashes were as long and elegant as a horse’s. Looking at her, Brilliante’s heart leapt with a flame as steady as midwinter candles.
White. And red.
“Good morning,” said Brilliante.
“Good morning,” said the beautiful young woman.
“Thank you for your wonderful hospitality,” said Brilliante.
“Thank you for gracing this farm with your presence,” said the woman, and Brilliante found herself blushing. Then the woman’s brow furrowed slightly. “You are dressed,” she said, “for a wedding. Are you married?”
“No,” replied Brilliante, and she quickly told the stranger her story. “Are
you
married?” she asked, when she was done.
The woman shook her head.
“Is this your home?” asked Brilliante.
The woman nodded.
“Are you awaiting your beloved?” asked Brilliante.
“No longer,” said the woman, and her eyes flashed so brightly that the flame in Brilliante’s heart flared up.
They stood in silence, the morning sunshine flashing off of motes of dust drifting through the yard.
“May I tell you a tale?” said the young woman.
Now it was Brilliante’s turn to nod.
“My name,” the woman said, “is Kerzen. I was born on this farm, and have lived here my whole life, but I may not possess it yet. Let me tell you why.
“My mother died when I was born. She lay her dying kiss here.” Very seriously, the woman touched a finger to her left check. “My father, wanting me to grow up in a woman’s care, looked for another wife, grief-stricken as he was. We are two days from the closest village here, unless we go through the Haunted Woods, and so his search went in vain for some years, and so he was shocked when, one day, a woman came and said that she wished to marry him. She was fair-seeming and soft-spoken, cooked well, and knew the ways of a farm, and so my father agreed. They were wed on the day they met, and she became my stepmother.
“You seem well-spoken and well-read
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